A is for Asylum

Those of you who have been following me for a while (and by that I mean all three of you), will know that I have a tumultuous history with my neighbors. Jesus said to love your neighbor as yourself, but since my idea of loving myself does not exclude wary observation of my own behavior, I figure wary observation of my neighbors’ behavior is totally legit. And trust me, their behavior warrants all manner of wariness.

In years past, I have written here and here about the hijinks of the co-inhabitants of our apartment building in Paris’s 15th arrondissement, and here about the hijinks of the co-inhabitants of our first apartment complex in the leafy western suburb of Maisons-Laffitte. But despite the very high bar of outlandishness set by these previous co-inhabitants, the co-inhabitants of our current residence have managed to outperform them all. How? I’m glad you asked.

Our condo is calm, quiet (except for us), and even leafier than the last place. When we first moved in, we were by far the youngest people there, as well as the only family. Over my many years of life in France, I have made multiple moves from apartment to apartment, and with each move I have gotten closer and closer to the ground floor. Thus, my original 86-step walk-up is now a 0-step garden-level, wheelchair-accessible walk in the park. Literally.

By the time we moved in, our new neighbors already had a vendetta against us owing to the four months of renovations we had to have done prior to our arrival. I say “had to,” because the former occupants, while charming, had decorative tastes strongly evocative of World Market, and by that I mean the entire store: we’re talking ornately carved Aztec-style framed mirrors and multi-colored Moroccan wall hangings, disco ball facets covering vast swaths of bathroom wall space and a giant golden Buddha head reigning over the living room. The whole kitchen was painted silver, which made for quite a contrast with the coral lacquer of the cabinetry. Then there was the garden: a soggy jungle of disintegrating wooden boards, fake plants (your guess is as good as mine), former Christmas trees well on their way to becoming a forest, and a yucca so large and so spiky that its purpose was surely more defensive than it was decorative. Anyway, the place needed work.

So after many months of dust and demolition, we moved in. No one knocked on our door with a plate of cookies (not that anyone does that anymore, even if they SHOULD), but at least no one yelled at us about our improperly-folded cardboard boxes or our inordinately loud soup machine, which was something of a victory compared to the dubious welcome we received at our last place. The first few months went by, and I gradually came to “know” the people sharing our condo. Allow me to introduce them:

The lady who’s in charge of everything: I don’t know who went and put the lady who’s in charge of everything in charge of everything, but it must have been someone for whom money was no object because her passion seems to be making unilateral decisions on behalf of the entire residence with various third-party service providers (gardeners, plumbers, renovators, public lighting specialists), which all of us other residents then get to pay for. My husband became so fed up with the whole “outrageous expense” thing that he went and got himself elected president of the co-owners’ association so now technically he’s in charge of everything, which means my title is now technically “the lady married to the guy who’s in charge of everything,” which is pretty decent as far as titles go. I mean I’d rather be “Madame la Duchesse” but this will have to do for now.

The lady who’s friends with the mayor: do you have neighbors you try to avoid because you know that if they catch you they’ll talk and talk and talk and talk and you’ll be late to whatever you were intending to go do, even if it was just meander around the park? The lady who’s friends with the mayor is super nice, so this is not a criticism per se. Plus she’s supposedly friends with the mayor. But man does she talk. In France (and probably everywhere else), if you hear someone in the hallway whom you’d just as soon not run into, you wait behind your door until you hear them go away, and only THEN do you venture out (quickly). I do this with the lady who’s friends with the mayor. I mean unless I have unlimited time on my hands, which is rare because meandering around parks is more time-consuming than you might imagine.

The paranoid guy: this dude is super scared that our residence is going to be attacked by Saracen pirates or marauding bands of brigands from the less desirable parts of the Paris region like Saint Denis or that sketchy town on the other side of the bridge. He went and had a surveillance system installed at every access point of the property, including a metal perimeter gate that can only be opened with a swipe card. However, no sooner had the system been installed than some ne’er-do-well actually succeeded in breaching it, only to be deterred by the double doors of either building. In response, the paranoid guy decided that we need more cameras, and maybe a few drones (preferably the flame-throwing kind). Surely that will do the trick. I’d like to suggest we dig an alligator moat and install a portcullis, but so far only my kids are on board.

The friendly entrepreneur: we should have known something was up when he began talking to us like we were actually people worth befriending or some similarly absurd notion. One amiable chit-chat led to another, and soon he was pausing to say hi over the fence on his way past, or coming over for drinks with his girlfriend. He even invited us to pay him a visit some time at his vacation home in Avignon. His job seemed a bit out of the ordinary; he ran a medical magazine from his studio apartment, but as a fellow freelancer who am I to judge? Then one day we came home at midnight after a long road trip and found a moving van parked across from his garden. We later learned that he had not so much moved precipitously in the middle of the night as he had been evicted for being an occupant sans titre, in other words a squatter. Something tells me he doesn’t have a vacation home in Avignon. Or maybe he does, only it technically isn’t his.

The “sack guy”: I like to shop—or used to before I had kids—but the sack guy doesn’t just like shopping; he has made it his raison d’être. Every day, and I mean every day, I see him leave the property armed with sacks of various sizes, and every day I see him return laden with merchandise of various kinds. Food, six-packs of bottled water, electronics, shoes, you name it. Sometimes he turns around and heads out again the same day. At worst, he waits for the next day. We haven’t exchanged many words, but the few we have exchanged have been pleasant. However, we haven’t quite reached the point in our relationship where I can nonchalantly say, “So, what’s with the sacks? Are you a hoarder? Are you housing illegal immigrants in your basement? Where’s your wife whom no one has seen in over a year? Why don’t you ever open your shutters?” It’s all the more bizarre considering his apartment really isn’t that big. Where does he stock all the stuff? Does he eat it? He has been accused quite vocally by our next-door neighbor of making a lot of noise at night. Could he be holding midnight feasts? If the police ever show up, my only question will be what took them so long. Normal people don’t go shopping every day. Not for six-packs of bottled water anyway. Plus it’s Cristaline. I mean come on. 

The Mexican expats: these folks are a mystery. I only know one other Mexican in France, and the fact that I’m Californian makes me want to be friends with this family except they seem to be kind of scared of me, possibly because my kids got into a fight with their kids one summer and now when they see each other they stick their tongues out. Thanks, guys. Way to make it easier for mom to drink margaritas with people who actually know how to make them. The fact that they seem to have mistaken their front yard for a playground has made them rather unpopular among the other residents, in particular the angry guy who lives just above them. Their yard measures about 500 square feet but that has not stopped them from constructing a full-scale tower-slide-swing set, nor from importing an adult olive tree in a gargantuan pot, which had to be driven into the residence (a BIG no-no) and unloaded by two men with a hand trolley. I think my favorite moment was when they threw a birthday party and rented a ginormous inflatable bouncy castle with a dragon’s head that reached the first-floor balcony. The angry guy above them was STOKED, believe me.

The angry guy above the Mexican expats: I think the name says it all. Anger issues. Probably related to a lack of bouncy castles in his youth.

The illegal photographer: co-ownership rules clearly forbid the exercise of any professional activity involving receiving the public, but that does not stop our photographer neighbor from operating a photography business dedicated to recently married couples and/or young families practicing a fairly conservative form of Islam. I’m pretty sure she has a corner on the market here, and since she remains perhaps the most discrete of anyone living in the residence (the exact opposite of us), the non-legality of her business doesn’t seem to pose a threat. I mean why would it, compared to the sack guy? That dude is up to something.

The lady who won’t say hello: any well-meaning tourist to France knows that even if you can’t speak the language, you still HAVE to master basic etiquette if you expect any kind of respect whatsoever. This means at least saying “bonjour” and “au revoir” when you enter and exit shops (although it applies to most other forms of human interaction as well). If someone says “bonjour” to you, you say “bonjour” back. That is the bare minimum of all bare minimums. Thus, if you say “bonjour” to someone—for example, your neighbor—and they say NOTHING in return, that’s potentially bad but also potentially explainable especially if said neighbor is elderly. However, if you say “bonjour” to that same someone repeatedly, and they STILL say nothing, that’s not potentially bad but actually bad. It probably means they hate you, which is a bummer.

The guy who won’t say used to not say hello: while initially wobbly, my relationship with the guy who USED to not say hello (no relation to the lady who still won’t say hello) has evolved to the point where when I run into him in the hallway and say “bonjour,” he actually says “bonjour” back. That’s a solid win in my book. He managed to install his own private sprinkler system in order to water his miniscule front yard, which part of me kind of admires. I mean it’s totally against the rules, but that’s the subversive French mindset for you. “Give me a rule so I can break it!” Ride on, brother. Ride on.

So those are the all-stars of our current neighbors. I’ve left out the dude next door, who is straight-up schizophrenic and tends to ring our doorbell at odd times of the day to see whether my husband can come do some random repair job (my husband is a banker), but he may pop up in a future post. I was telling one of my brothers-in-law about these colorful characters the other day, and when I’d finished, he looked at me and said, “I think your condo might actually be an unregistered asylum.”

He may be on to something.

Gone viral: part IV

Congratulations—you’ve made it to part IV of my lockdown diaries. Parts I, II, and III are available here, here, and here, respectively. Thanks so much for your support, comments, shares, and likes. We will make it through this together! Maybe!

April 15

As previously mentioned, I have developed a rather unhealthy relationship with my vacuum cleaner; i.e. it has become the channel by which I rid myself of my (considerable) pent-up frustrations. But as I have discovered, one can only hate-clean so often before one’s thumb begins to develop tendinitis from activating the button of one’s turbo brush. So I decide to move on to the garden. Lots of possibilities there. I start with our leafless, flowerless Clematis, which seems to have gone dormant. I have had it with putting every last thing on hold and I REFUSE to wait for next spring to see if this lazy plant comes back to life. I am not the captain of much these days, but by God, I am the captain of this. Out comes the trowel. Goodbye, Clematis. May your successor flower abundantly OR ELSE.

April 16

I need soil. Like normal potting soil. The kind that one can procure whenever one wishes when one is not locked inside one’s home indefinitely. I also need mulch, preferably of the coastal pine variety. I turn to my most loyal lockdown ally: the internet. But alas! After toilet paper, then flour, now it appears soil is all the rage. I lose about two hours hunting for it on many, many websites, each with its own lame excuse. One is delivery-only, except for what I want. One offers in-store pick-up, but not at any store within a 50-km radius of our home. One is under maintenance. One offers pick-up near us, but doesn’t know its own inventory. One knows its inventory and offers pick-up near us, but doesn’t have any openings available. AARRRRRRGGGH!

I would turn to trusty ol’ Amazon, except Amazon France is under attack by the French government for catering to needs other than “essential” ones (which during lockdown is illegal, except when it’s not). Someone needs to explain to me how it is possible that things like WOOD and DIRT, which are the VERY STUFF OF LIFE, are somehow not essential enough to be sold on Amazon. What’s next, water? Sunlight? TOILET PAPER? And that’s without taking into consideration how bloody essential it is to my wellbeing that I find something other than compulsive vacuuming to release my anger. Is hate-gardening a thing? Shall I try to make it one? OH WAIT, I CAN’T BECAUSE NO ONE WILL SELL ME ANY #@*$% DIRT.

April 17

Speaking of being out of stuff, the subject of masks is becoming quite préoccupant. Like, how come we don’t have any? My parents in California and my brother in NYC have been sporting masks for weeks, while France remains maddeningly ambivalent. First we were told that masks were only for medical professionals. Then we were told that masks could be worn by the public, but only the sick public. Then we were told that masks should in fact be worn by everyone, but that only medical grade ones were effective. Then we were told that ALL masks had merit, but that there weren’t enough for everybody. Now we’re being told that masks will be an obligatory part of post-lockdown French society, and that handmade ones are better than nothing, but there are no details on how, when, or where we can get our hands on any. Overall, I am left with the impression that nobody knows anything about anything, and a distinct desire to engage in a vigorous round of vacuuming.

April 18

Today I am suspending all sense of reality and am doing my bi-annual wardrobe transition. Out with autumn/winter and in with spring/summer! Hooray! I have too many clothes. Some are over five years old and still have their tags on them. Some went out of fashion so long ago that they’re back in fashion now. I should do the “sparking joy” thing and triage the hell out of this closet to decide what gets saved and what does not. But with everything closed, where would I put all the insufficiently joy-procuring items? Guess I’d better wait. My daughter is almost four and is already about half my height, so hey if I wait long enough, maybe I can just give it all to her!

April 19

We are out of coffee. My husband informs me darkly that coffee is probably going to be next on the “aggravating nation-wide shortages” list. Considering that my mental and emotional stability at this point is 100% dependent upon wine, coffee, and the grace of God, any of these things being added to “the list” is out of the question. DO NOT PANIC. I may have to suck it up and hit the supermarket in town, dressed in a garbage bag, dishwashing gloves, and my son’s diving mask. 

April 20
Spring vacation is officially over, but all the schools are still closed, and that means returning to my state-enforced alternate profession of 1st grade/preschool teacher. President Macron recently stated that schools would be reopening on May 11, but in light of the widespread skepticism that greeted this optimistic announcement, the government is now back-pedaling and retroactively asterisking like mad and my hopes of a return to normalcy in the semi-near future have pretty much evaporated. I’m getting used to disappointment, however, and am handling this one admirably. *sob*

April 21

For those of you not in the know, Andrew Lloyd Webber has been offering free 48h broadcasts of his greatest hits, with a new one available each weekend, on the YouTube channel The Shows Must Go On! I watched The Phantom of the Opera with the kids last weekend, and have been humming most of the score non-stop ever since. Incidentally, teenage me was a Phantom FREAK; I once travelled from San Diego to Los Angeles with my piano teacher and her friend in the middle of the night in order to camp out in front of the Ahmanson Theatre in the desperate hope of catching Michael Crawford as the Phantom prior to his imminent retirement. We made it in on cancellation tickets for three seats in row H, dead center (i.e. right underneath THE chandelier), literally five minutes before the performance began and yes—the experience absolutely blew my mind. It’s ironic that the Phantom would be streaming now, because if there’s one dude who would never ever have allowed a nation-wide mask shortage, it’s him.

April 22

What day is it? What year is it? What does anything even mean? I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. But even my astral body does not have a mask because THERE AREN’T ANY.

April 23

The talking heads on TV all seem to agree that not much is going to change in May, and think we shouldn’t get too excited. Cross-regional travel is likely to be banned until at least June. We are advised to lower our expectations regarding summer vacation. Still no masks in sight. Also no printer paper, maybe because my kids’ teachers keep asking us to print roughly a gazillion pages of classwork every week.

April 24

Things we’re out of: flour, yeast, dirt, wood, paper, masks, patience, and potentially our minds.

BUT HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL!

To be continued...

The plight of the working SAHM

Here it is September. And I am not writing this from a jail cell or a psychiatric ward, meaning that I have officially survived my son’s first grandes vacances (summer break). Hooray! The French public school system can now resume its life-saving role of civilizing him encouraging his deep sense of right vs. wrong to win out over his possibly deeper urge to wreak havoc on his mother’s fragile sense of self-worth. 

I will let you in on a little-uttered secret among us working SAHMs (Stay At Home Moms): YOU HAVE TO BE CRAZY TO DO THIS. Seriously, who does this? Kinda no one. Why? Because it’s absurdly difficult! Working from home while trying to be a passably decent mother means that your brain is on constant overdrive and yet you never seem to actually accomplish anything. You pour your whole heart into making sure that your kids are rested, fed, safe, clean, and entertained; that your clients are satisfied and faithful; that your husband is … like your clients; and that your house is cozy and relatively free of clutter. Without forgetting your own appearance of course (because c’mon now—French women manage to drop their kids off at school at 8:20 am looking bloody perfect in their 10-piece outfits and sexy-yet-somehow-bicycle-friendly heels).

And yet, despite making what feels like a constant, gargantuan amount of effort, despite multitasking in your sleep (which you get precious little of, incidentally), at the end of the day your kids are dirty and whiney, your clients are requesting last-minute changes, your house is a wreck, you haven’t so much as glanced in the mirror, and your husband, arriving home to pure chaos, surely wonders what in tarnation you’ve been doing for the past 11 hours (other than tweeting insults at Donald Trump, which is a given). Come to think of it, what have I been doing?

I’ve been coaxing little eyes to open, little ears to listen, and little mouths to eat; I’ve been picking out little clothes, wrestling little clothes onto squirming little bodies, washing little clothes, folding little clothes, and putting little clothes away; I’ve been trying to prevent little feet from sliding down the stairs, little hands from getting pinched, little heads from getting bumped, and little fingers from going where they shouldn’t; I’ve been reprimanding for hitting, for not sharing, for drawing on the table for the 50th time, for being rude or crude or mean; I’ve been searching for a lost teddy bear, a lost pacifier, a lost toy car, and a lot of lost marbles (mostly mine); I’ve been taking temperatures, making doctor appointments, going to doctor appointments, picking up medicine, and administering medicine; I’ve been cleaning the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and everything in between with sponges, antibacterial wipes, brooms, and my friend the Magic Eraser; I’ve been changing diapers, changing undies, and explaining how peeing INTO the toilet is preferable to peeing NEXT TO it; I’ve been giving baths, brushing teeth, reading stories, singing lullabies, and promising that witches don’t exist; I’ve been hugging, kissing, swinging, dancing, laughing, and crying too. I’ve been feeling guilty for not seeing my friends more, for not calling my parents more, for not reading more, for not running more, for not doing more, and for not doing it better.

And somewhere in there, I’ve also been managing a business.

The mental, physical, and emotional exhaustion of being a stay-at-home-yet-working mother is impossible to put into words. Normal people know better. Normal people either stay at home with their kids and don’t work, or arrange some form of daycare for their kids and then work. Trying to do both simultaneously is insane. However, my answer to seemingly impossible situations has always been “Yes I Can,” or more accurately, “Don’t Tell Me I Can’t.” And so here I am, with a 4-year-old, a 1-year-old, a writing business, and a new home that we just finished renovating because hey, at this point who’s counting? Add to that the fact that we (still) have no reliable babysitter, no nearby family, and that I promised myself I would only put my kids into daycare after their first birthday, and there you have it: it’s, as the French would say, compliqué (translation: IT’S A COMPLETE SHIT SHOW, BUT I CAN’T VERY WELL GO AND ADMIT THAT NOW CAN I?).

But, and this brings me back to my initial point, I have made it through the summer, i.e. full-time two-kid management while trying to work. Little g is now back in school and Baby c has just begun daycare two full days a week, meaning 18-odd hours of potential concentration time for yours truly. NETFLIX BINGE! Perhaps not, but the next best thing—real, honest-to-God, uninterrupted intellectual work. I don’t much care for the adjective “amazing,” but this calm? This silence? This ability to finish a thought and complete a sentence? It’s amazing. My Bitch-O-Meter is slowly descending from “molten lava” to “somewhat pleasant,” which is a solid win. I’m finally getting stuff done, after what feels like an eternity of bicycling through sauerkraut (pédaler dans la choucroute—a great French expression).

I know that one day I will think back on this period with great fondness and nostalgia—assuming I survive—but I would be lying if I said that it’s anything this side of “stupefyingly hard.” But this is where the little voice in my head pipes up to quote the well-loved line that Tom Hanks’ character delivers in the movie “A League of Their Own,” and it instantly makes me feel somehow lighter: “Of course it’s hard. It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.” I’m not saying that the comparison is entirely spot-on, but the message is: who the hell ever said that playing two full-time roles, that of Super Mom and that of Super Entrepreneur, would be easy? Jean-Philippe NOBODY, that’s who.

The truth is, I’ve never been one to shrink from a challenge; I actually sort of thrive on them (even if I bitch and moan the entire way). So yeah, this is tough—but maybe that’s the whole point. It may kick my ass today, and it may keep on kicking my ass until my kids move out (undoubtedly to go live in the U.S., because karma), but it’s also doing what challenges are supposed to do: improve us. And I am becoming a better person. For one, I’m a lot more compassionate. I laugh at myself more freely. I laugh at a lot of things more freely. My ability to relativize has greatly improved. I may be gaining more gray hair by the day, but each twinkle of silver has significance: a lesson learned, a ray of wisdom received, a jagged edge polished smooth.

The bottom line? My kids are doing great; my business is thriving; my new home is almost fully decorated. In other words, maybe it’ll all be okay after all. 

NO PROMISES THOUGH.

Photo by Jeff Holt

Road rage III

Big news: I passed the written portion of the French driving exam! Champagne!!! I’m so relieved to be done; it was very anxiety-inducing, and who needs that? Not me; I have a toddler and a business and that’s all the anxiety I need, thank you very much.

Oh, but wait—the written exam is not an end in itself, but rather, a means to an end (quite possibly my own). Thus, for the past month, I have been putting my officially solid grasp of driving theory into practice behind the wheel of my very own test car, a Citroën C3, which I have so far not crashed and have only stalled 50 times or so.

Now, as I have mentioned before, despite my owning a California driver’s license, there are basically two factors that have deterred my ever bothering to attain a French one: 1.) the stick shift 2.) la priorité à droite (priority to the right). Why? Read on.

The stick shift

Remember that scene from Big, where Tom Hanks keeps putting his hand in the air during a board meeting and saying, “I don’t get it”? That’s like me with the whole clutch thing. Try as they might, no one has ever managed to get that particular notion through my otherwise fairly well-screwed-on head. The bicycle gear metaphor is no use. YouTube videos of mechanics presenting a real clutch are no use, either (they actually make things worse by adding all kinds of insane vocabulary—flywheel? Pressure plate? Whaaa?). I don’t get it. I also don’t get why everyone keeps going on about how automatic is so boooring, while manual is so exciting! Personally, I think the “excitement” factor is simply adrenaline rushing into the bloodstream at the possibility of imminent death.

La priorité à droite

I’ve been bitching and moaning for eons about France’s priorité à droite. But now, having finally experienced its heinousness from the driver’s seat, I realize I haven’t been bitching or moaning nearly loudly enough. Just look:

I actually made this. It’s a slow day, OK?

See the orange car arriving from the right? Logic would say that he should stop instead of just careening onto the main road. That may be, but this is driving in Europe, land of roundabouts and sidewalk parking; logic has no place here. Because he is arriving from the right, the orange guy can just GO. No pause, no yield, no stop; nothing. Just go. The blue guy, on the other hand, who was driving along on the main road minding his own business, has to slam on the brakes and let that jerk gentleman on the right get through. Imagine the consequences if the blue guy’s view of the intersection were to be obstructed by foliage or who knows what. Just put up a damn stop sign, people! Stupefying.

Do you know what la priorité a droite really is? Think about it. The cars driving on the bigger, wider, faster, obviously superior road have to yield to the cars arriving from the smaller, narrower, slower, obviously crappier road ... why, it’s a microcosm of Socialism! Making life difficult for the big guys so that the little guys, however undeserving, can get ahead. It’s like formalized cutting in line. No wonder it doesn’t exist in the US.

Other than that, my lessons are going fairly well. So far, I’ve driven with two instructors: the first one is an economics fan who talks a kilometer a minute (does that expression even exist?) and is convinced that France’s economy is going to implode at any moment, that Russia, China and the US are headed for war with one another, and that those paranoid survivalists whom everyone takes for crazy are actually the only ones with any sense; the second one is a laid-back musician-looking type with a diamond-studded double piercing who keeps telling me that I seem tense.

I am supposed to take the practical portion of the driving exam after 20 hours of lessons, which seems pretty optimistic considering I still don’t actually understand what I’m doing. But no matter! I don’t have to understand something to do it right. Take parallel parking. I went to “the Google,” typed in “parallel parking,” and came across a perfectly wonderful explanation of how to do it. No theory, no opinions, just clear, concise steps to follow. As the author says, “You do not need to practice, you just need to fucking follow the directions.” Very refreshing. Now if only that kind of pragmatism could get me through the exam!

Champignons de Paris

Those of you who have been following me have probably figured out by now that I most emphatically do not have a green thumb (but even if I did, it would still have no prints). That used to be a source of deep personal anxiety, as I had once heard somewhere that if you can keep from killing your houseplants, then you can move on to domestic animals; if you can keep from killing them, then you can go ahead and procreate. Well, in the big Pass/Fail that is gardening, I have so far scored a big fat F. I’ve owned all manner of plants, and have managed to over or under water/heat/love virtually all of them into oblivion, but that certainly did not stop me from having a baby and HE is perfect, thank you very much (crazy parents notwithstanding).

So about those plants. After the death of our cactus, we decided to replace it with a Pachira Aquatica, which Wikipedia says is a “tropical wetland tree native to Central and South America, where it grows in swamps.” What it was doing at our local Ikea is beyond me, but we bought it—primarily because it’s fun-looking, which is as good a reason as any.

See? Fun.

I somehow managed to knock a good third of its foliage off between the store and the car, but we got it home in one piece (sort of) and it seemed to be happy enough in our living room for a few weeks. But then it started to look a bit sad, so I gave it extra water and put it out on the balcony to get some sunlight (just like a South American swamp! Right? Right?). However, that turned out to be too much for it, so I took it back inside and figured to hell with the sunlight—I’d just stick to watering. Then, the other day, I was bending over to pick something off the floor next to the tree, when I noticed that an entire colony of mushrooms had spontaneously sprouted out of its pot. Beyond what that says about my ability to care for plant life, it begs the question: why do mushrooms seem to follow me from one apartment to the next?

Like this, only way less cute.

Because they do follow me, you know. My first Paris apartment, which was a 1-bedroom dive (albeit a “big” 1-bedroom dive) in the northern 18ème arrondissement, had this funky bathroom that I painted yellow. And repainted yellow. And repainted yellow again—all in a vain attempt to cover up the scary black mold spots that kept materializing on the walls every few months. One day I went into the yellow bathroom to take a shower and found a full-sized mushroom growing straight out of the caulking around the shower door. I took a photo and sent it to my parents—you know, to reassure them about my life abroad. Then there were our infamous ceiling fungus issues in the 15ème arrondissement, which I shant get into here, namely because I’ve moved on with my life, but in case you’re interested, I wrote all about it here and here.

And now this family of ‘shrooms in an otherwise hot, dry environment. Maybe they’re a desert subspecies. Interestingly, they are different from my old shower mushrooms, which indicates that interior fungi are surprisingly diverse here! But in all seriousness, what’s the deal with the mushrooms in Paris, or rather, in my Paris? Is this a karmic thing? Is it metaphorical? And if so, what does it mean that I have champignons growing in what is otherwise known as a “Money Tree”? Maybe it’s the universe telling me to leave gardening to the bees and embrace the wide world of fake plants (thereby saving mucho Euro-dollars by not having to replace them all every six months).

Come to think of it, why stop at fake plants?

The timing is actually pretty good, as this weekend I was intending to go buy a bunch of spring flowers for the balcony. Do you suppose fake geraniums exist? Actually, about the only plant of ours that seems to be thriving IS a geranium—a real one—that was lobbed at our balcony in the middle of the night about a month after we moved in (no doubt a token of friendship from our new neighbors). In an illustration of the well-known adage, “When life chucks a geranium at you, plant it,” we did, and now it’s blooming away. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.

Climate change

I spent the better part of my young adult years living in drafty apartments. The drafts didn’t matter much when I was in college, mainly because my college was in Texas and the winters didn’t last that long to begin with. Then I moved to Paris, where draftiness is a way of life, so I sucked it up and shivered along with everybody else. Winter after winter I would turn on my crappy electric wall heaters, complain about their inefficiency, then get that first electric bill of the season and decide that I’d rather just freeze. At some point I went and bought a portable space heater, which I would aim at my feet while hunkering over a bowl of coffee in the morning and then cuddle up with on the couch in the evening. Then I met G., who is a sort of human radiator, which helped (somewhat). But hey, winter in Paris only lasts what, six months? Eight at the most?

But who’s counting?

Then we moved to the suburbs and discovered collective heating. Gone are the hefty electric bills, as it’s simply factored into our rent, and the day it was turned on my memories of being even remotely cold indoors instantly vanished. Why? Because our floorboards kick out so much heat that we could pretty much dress in swimwear all winter long and be just fine. Our jar of Nutella has melted for Pete’s sake. I don’t know who exactly decides what temperature our apartment is heated to, but I suspect our neighbors across the landing. They’ve had it in for us ever since that first week when my husband pounded one little nail into a piece of Ikea furniture at midnight. Look, we’re sorry we woke up your daughter, OK? No need to try to slowly roast us into moving. Besides, it won’t work; I LIKE the heat. I think it’s exotic living in a subtropical microclimate while freezing rain pelts the windows. Seriously, we could grow palm trees in here.

Heatwave! This is our island in the sun...

Which is why I was surprised when our pet cactus up and died on us. One would think the constant dry heat would be ideal for desert plants. Alas, no. We felt bad disposing of it, as it was our first living purchase since moving into our new home and all. But much like a Christmas tree in February, its time had come. And much like a Christmas tree in February, getting rid of it was no easy task. You can’t just throw out a giant cactus, at least not around this town. We have a neighbor who actually refers to herself, with pride, as La Responsable Poubelles (“Trashcan Manager”). She rang our doorbell at 9:00 am two days after our arrival, just to point out that we newcomers obviously didn’t know how to handle our trash properly (our empty cardboard boxes were soi-disant taking up too much room in the recycling bin). Our own real-life Oscar the Grouch. Neat.

What did you expect, a fruit basket?

Anyway, so not wanting to elicit the wrath of Madame Trashcan, we didn’t dare just chuck the cactus into the communal bin. Luckily, we didn’t have to: in a flash of insight, I recalled an incident from days long ago, when I had had to resort to hacking the limbs off a long-dead Christmas tree using a pair of desk scissors in order to fit it down the trash chute. I thus decided that pocket-sawing the cactus into smaller pieces and then bagging them Dexter-style could be a possibility. It was a gruesome task, what with the dull saw, frothy cactus juice spatters and my conscience, but it’s been a week and no knock on the door, so I dare say we got away with it. Besides, does she really want to go head to head with a scantily-clad American chick who has no fingerprints (read: who could be a professional assassin if she were more discreet)? I didn’t think so.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part II

As some of you may recall, I have already discussed my beloved neighbors and their eccentricities, but such is the magnitude reached by said eccentricities over the past several years—nay, over the past several weeks—that I feel the subject warrants revisiting.

Like I mentioned in January, I am now officially self-employed, working from home, a free agent, etc., and am (mostly) loving it. The new boss in particular is one cool chick. The office, on the other hand, could use some work. Let me explain:

Prior to being self-employed, I worked long days far from home, meaning I missed out on exactly what goes on in my apartment building between the hours of 8:30 am–8:00 pm. In my blissful naïveté, I always assumed that nothing much went on at all, aside from the occasional delivery (mainly for me). But since merging home and office, I have realized that no such peace reigns in my apartment building. Quite the contrary, actually.

First off, nobody works. I don’t know what my neighbors are all up to, but they are definitely up to it at home. Victims of France’s 11% unemployment rate? Fellow freelancers? Rentiers? Whatever the case, they’re all here, all the time. I am thus treated to a smörgåsbord of weirdness all day long.

Undoubtedly lives in my building.

Let’s begin with my certifiably insane next-door neighbors and the 1-inch partition separating them from me. Crazy Neighbor #1 is an elderly Japanese gentleman, who judging by the noises coming through the wall is a true connoisseur of gay pornography. He is also the victim of some form of extortion by an old lady to whom he refers as “ma pauvre dame,” and who regularly calls him demanding money. Their conversations go something like this: “WHAT? No, ma pauvre dame, I will NOT send you any more! Pardon? Forty euros? OK, but this is the LAST TIME!”

As if that weren’t entertaining enough, last week Crazy Neighbor #2, a.k.a. Crazy Neighbor #1’s 20-something Brazilian alcoholic boy toy, returned from wherever he had been for the last few months (not rehab in any case), and the pornography fest ceased..., only to be replaced by drunken shouting matches, slamming doors and gangsta rap. The novelty wore off within the first 24 hours since, let us not forget, the aim of my being home all day is actually to work. And I don’t know about you, but I need some modicum of calm in order to succeed.

At one point, I actually resorted to an online white noise generator in a vain attempt to block out the insane loudness of all that vodka-soaked screaming. Sad, I know. And ineffectual. So I took it up a notch. As I was working on a project involving the Middle Ages, the idea came to me to crank up some nice loud medieval music. And as it turns out, nothing combats the sound of two drunken, shouting men like a bunch of chanting monks. So that is my new secret weapon. When things get out of hand next door, I release the holy brethren.

You want a piece of me?

So that was last week. THIS week has been a whole new adventure. Monday I came home from having tea with a friend only to find a baby carriage, baby included, sitting in the apartment entryway unattended. I wouldn’t dare leave a piece of luggage unattended in the entryway, let alone a baby, but then I’m not insane. My conscience told me to stick around, so I kept the forsaken child company until, some 15 minutes later, his (clearly incompetent) mother, a.k.a. Crazy Neighbor #3, came strolling nonchalantly down from the 6th floor singing to herself.

Me: It seems you have forgotten someone here.
Crazy Neighbor #3: Oh! I was just upstairs getting some diapers!
Me (seeing no such diapers): Mmm hmm.

On Tuesday, a plumber showed up at 10 am to break apart our shower tiles. I’ve oft mentioned the disastrous state of our ceiling, so one would naturally assume that any work done on our place would involve first and foremost the ceiling. Not so (our landlord is evidently also crazy). Monsieur le plombier was nice enough, although I can definitely confirm that “plumber’s crack” is an international phenomenon. Is there a specialty clothing store for plumbers, where all the pants have ridiculously large waistlines and no belt loops? Anyway, so we now have some new, entirely unasked-for tiling (in the wrong shade of white, but who’s keeping track?). Meanwhile, our ceiling is getting to the point where the sound of pieces of it breaking off and exploding on the floor no longer makes me jump. It’s become a sort of familiar background noise, not unlike the cheerful humming of the refrigerator.

Wednesday was pretty uneventful, aside from our upstairs Crazy Neighbors #4 and #5 spending a good part of the night dragging heavy objects across their 19th century wooden floors. Judging from the sound, and the guests, I can only assume they were having a nocturnal furniture-rearrangement free-for-all. They do that sometimes.

We’re not crazy, we just enjoy doing this at midnight.

And then on Thursday came the crescendo. I arrived home with my husband, laden with sacs of groceries, only to find that our entire block had been sealed off with yellow crime scene tape, flashing lights, stationed police agents, the whole thing. They let us pass, but upon reaching our building, we saw the reason for all the hubbub: a body. As in, a dead body. There it was, just lying on the sidewalk, hidden under the gold foil that the French use to cover dead bodies, shock victims, and the homeless during winter. No explanation, nothing on the news, zip. I called my mom:

Me: So there’s a dead body outside our front door covered in gold foil.
Mom: Gold foil? The French gift wrap their dead?
Me: I told you it’s an elegant culture.
Mom: Did they put a bow on it?

I figure that the day one’s own mother no longer seems surprised by the theater of the absurd that has become one’s life, one needs to perhaps consider making a change. So as fun as this all has been, I think it’s about time we looked to greener, saner pastures. I was reluctant to leave our “nice” neighborhood, but you know what? I think I can handle it after all.

Eye of the tiger

I have become a Parisian runner. As some of you may recall, sports aren’t really my thing—and by sports I mean competitive, sweaty, potentially violent activities; I’m not counting any namby-pamby New Age ones (those I obviously engage in, like any self-respecting Californian). The very word “sports” for me conjures up images of junior high gym class: donning a pair of ridiculous knee-length fleece shorts and being forced to engage in competitive group activities, demonstrating—regrettably—that the age-old stereotype of “girls suck at sports” is actually kind of true (I mean as it pertains to me, so save your righteous indignation). Messing up my painstakingly sculpted teenage hair by pulling that stupid gym shirt over it was enough alone to leave psychological scars, but repeatedly ending up last to be chosen for the softball team, dog-paddling my way through aquatic relay races and never managing to execute even one sorry chin-up ultimately created a profound distaste in me for “real” sports.

This is why I put off learning to run for years; I figured I’d be bad at it. I was tempted to seize the proverbial bull by his proverbial horns and release my inner Olympian when I began college—as a stress reducer if nothing else—except that at the time, I wanted something more original, more impressive (I was 18; give me a break). So I joined a Kung-Fu class in North Dallas, run by a guy who, fitfully enough, looked like a younger, greasier version of David Carradine. He made us call him “Master,” loved to spout random bits of wisdom from the Tao Te Ching and taught us animal-inspired stances so bizarre that if ever we had found ourselves actually needing to use any of them for self-defense, the attacker probably would have fallen over laughing—which would technically get the job done, so I’m not knocking it.

Don't make me use this.

In the grand tradition of B-grade martial arts movies, our “Master” firmly believed in the “no pain, no gain” approach to apprenticeship; he imposed bare knuckle push-ups on any misbehavers and took obvious pleasure in humiliating his advanced students by flat-out kicking their asses at the end of every class. I hung in there until the day he claimed to have cured his mother of cancer over the phone, at which point I realized with fortune cookie clarity that a mad teacher teaches only madness. And since I’ve never been lacking in that department, I decided to move on.

When I first arrived in France, I spent a lot of time in parks. I like parks; they’re green, peaceful, bucolic. They make for fantastic lunch spots if you can manage to snag one of the perpetually-occupied benches. While hanging out in such parks, I often noted a fair number of presumably French joggers. Nothing strange about that per se, except their clothing, which looked as though they’d initially come to the park just to relax, but were suddenly seized with an irrepressible urge to break into a jog: khaki shorts, polo shirts, canvas shoes.... Odd. Where, pray tell, was their sports gear? Now, G. has mentioned on multiple occasions that we Americans are totally hung up on sports equipment; even the average American housewife who wants to go out for a stroll around the neighborhood somehow feels she must put on a visor, headset, spandex shorts, sports bra and cross-trainers beforehand (with or without ski poles). OK, he has a point; it is a well-known fact that my fellow countrymen and I appreciate le stuff. But hey, at least we don’t go and try to exercise dressed like we just stepped out of a Lacoste casting call.

French jogger, ca. 1999.

In any case, it’s a moot point because over the past decade I have noticed a clear evolution in French sports apparel and now, when I go running (I’ll get to that in a minute), I see the same kind of Nike-clad, iPod-adorned, aspiring marathoners that I had expected to see all along.

So, after reading the hundredth women’s magazine article about how anybody can learn to run, I figured I’d Just Do It already. And in the end, it wasn’t so hard. Unsurprisingly, the first step was buying the appropriate gear, which actually played a major motivational role and clearly demonstrates the advantages of dressing like you mean it. I got through the requisite side stitches, the huffing and puffing, a brief episode of runner’s knee (also a question of proper outfitting), and today am a confirmed runner! My live-in “coach” and I run every week, come rain, snow or shine (mainly because he will not tolerate any whining what-so-ever).

Our territory of predilection is the Champs de Mars, a big green semi-park encircling the Eiffel Tower—I know, poor us. Running there is always an adventure, mainly because of the constantly changing obstacles. On any given day, we may have to outmaneuver masses of gaping tourists, unsupervised children, pétanque competitions, copulating dogs, marauding gypsy families, bridal photography sessions, homeless wanderers, rallying Copts, Segway enthusiasts, African immigrants hawking cheap Eiffel Tower replicas, and much, much more. Sometimes we’re treated to live music; other times we leave with free lettuce. Not wanting to trip over/crash into any of the afore-mentioned, we’ve learned to practice preternaturally aware running.

Today, thanks to my new-found recreation, I no longer fear sports. I’m not exactly what one could call a sports fan, mind you, but when I go in for my annual check-up and my doctor asks me whether or not I engage in any regular physical activity, I am proud to say that I can now reply with a triumphant “HELL YES!”

An ode to acrylics

Ten days before my wedding, which is to say toward the end of April, I marched into an empty nail salon in Southern California and requested a full set of acrylic “French tip” nails. I’d been toying with the idea for months, as “What am I going to do about my NAILS?” is a question that every self-respecting bride-to-be asks herself at some point. I’d begun early: interrogating my loved ones, scouring the web, consulting my inner child.... Most opinions were negative, acrylic nails being notoriously rough on one’s natural nails (really? You mean cementing prosthetics to one’s hands and then covering them with three layers of foul-smelling resin is harmful?). But there is no such thing as natural beauty—at least not in the world of nail art—so I paid no heed to the naysayers. Besides, I wanted gorgeous hands for those wedding photos and no way was I going to settle for a basic manicure. I wanted to go whole hog. I wanted my Steel Magnolias moment.

Thus, on a sunny Wednesday, in I strolled into my chosen nail salon and within minutes was seated comfortably facing my nail technician, a portly Vietnamese lady wearing a gaping, washed-out tank top that left little to the imagination and kind of made me feel overdressed. One other client was there —a 40-something character named Linda, the kind of woman who just hangs out in nail salons: big hair, loud makeup, ocher skin and a smoker’s voice. She wasted no time in announcing that she had a blind date in an hour, and had come over to get ready. She also fully intended to choose an outfit while at the salon, and thus had brought along several possibilities to model for us. This initially struck me as surreal, but a few blinks of incomprehension and I was over it. Besides, the surreal seems to follow me wherever I go—so why not here? Otherwise, the salon was fairly classic: rows of reclining pedicure chairs, little tables adorned with manicure lamps, displays of brightly-colored nail polish and a big flat-screen TV. In this case, the channel was set on Disney. I figured there must be a small child hiding in the room somewhere—a daughter perhaps?—but no, my nail technician just had a thing for Hannah Montana. Who doesn’t?

That and gambling. As it turned out, acrylic nails are actually quite labor-intensive, which left us plenty of time for light-hearted banter. So as she proceeded to glue 8-inch-long appendages to my nail bed (step #1), I lent a polite ear to sordid tales of gambling away her livelihood at the big casino over on the nearby Indian reservation. Not that I had any choice in the matter—I couldn’t very well get up and walk out looking like Edward Scissorhands, plus I really needed her to do a good job. So I shut up and listened.

Apparently, she had begun hitting the game tables ages ago, not long after arriving in the US as a Vietnamese refugee(?!).

“I used to play all the time. Sometimes I lose. Sometimes I lose a lot. My husband, he no like it when I lose. You know, hundreds I lose, sometimes thousands (laughs). He get real angry when I do that.”

“You don’t say,” I answered.

“It used to be real bad but now is better. Now I play, but not all the time. Sometimes I win. But also I lose (laughs).”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Do these pants make me look fat?” interrupted Linda.

Three and a half hours later, I felt as though a certain level of intimacy had been established between us. Upon leaving, I almost wanted to give her a hug and encourage her to stay away from the casino. But instead I gave her a nice tip, hoping it wouldn’t end up where I was imagining it would.

And in the end, I didn’t regret my choice. My nails were impeccable for the wedding and remained so for the honeymoon. In fact, I grew so fond of them that I had them “refilled” upon my return to Paris, which was almost as amusing as the initial operation. Nail salons here tend to double as erotic message parlors, which kind of makes sense. I mean, men have to do something while the ladies have their nails done—thumbing through magazines is just so prosaic. Incidentally, women can also get massages at these fine establishments, but the cost for men is always significantly higher. Now why would THAT be...?

But dubious salons aside, I’m still loving the fake nails. Why? Because they’re flawless! I mean sure, they do make a hell of a lot of noise when I type, but otherwise it’s pure pleasure wearing them. They’re unbreakable, unsplittable, unsulliable; I haven’t so much as caused one tiny run in my stockings since I had the nails put on and that alone is well worth the cost. Plus they’re still relatively rare in France, which is a nice boost for my ego.

The ONE downside is that they’re ... um ... flammable. I found that out the hard way while lighting a candle the other evening. Suddenly it was my thumbnail that was twinkling away and not the wick. “What’s that smell?” G. asked. “Nothing!” I said, trying to hide my singed nail. Oh, it was fine. I filed it down a bit and it was good as new. Mostly.

So in conclusion, I give two singed thumbs up to acrylic nails. Sure they’re somewhat dangerous. But in the end ... aren’t we all (philosophical pause)?

The revery alone will do

The daughter of two Self Realization Fellowship devotees, I try to avoid hating any living thing. Surely some good can be found in everyone; surely the divine spark is always there, even if buried far, far within. Actually, that’s not true; I openly detest entire categories of living things, most of which fall into the insect family. Namely spiders, mosquitoes and my arch nemesis: the yellowjacket.

Imagine yourself, on a sunny summer’s day, out to enjoy a delicious picnic on a lush green lawn. You roll out your blanket and arrange the succulent contents of your lovingly prepared picnic basket about you, marveling at the simple goodness of life. Only, no sooner have you begun to savor your joyous summer fare than a yellowjacket comes buzzing angrily into your face, desiring to steal a bite of your meal and threatening you with the prospect of a painful sting/bite/whatever. Then, another shows up. And another. Swatting at them does no good; it only seems to make them angrier. Ugh! Your moment of peaceful enjoyment has been ruined by an unwelcome horde of dangerous, ugly insects. How désagréable.

Let me be clear: I DESPISE yellowjackets. I see one, and my inner “irritation-o-meter” instantaneously rockets from “zen” to “apoplectic.” If I could, I would have every last one of the beastly creatures eliminated, and deal with the karma in my next life (no doubt as a yellowjacket).

I don’t understand those who blithely say, “Oh, just ignore them. They’re harmless.” Harmless?! Seriously? These people obviously have not entirely exited childhood and still think that insects are our friends. Sorry folks; yellowjackets—alias meat bees—are out to kill. They and their horrible little chewing mandibles are the very face of evil. The number of barbecues, picnics, outdoor cocktails and miscellaneous happy moments around the world that have been ruined because of these devilish fiends defies the imagination.

To those who still require convincing, allow me to offer an anecdote. At the tender age of 9, I took part, as I did every year, in that great American institution, summer camp. I always loved summer camp and dearly hope that I can find its equivalent in France for my future Franco-American children; without it, I fear that their personal development will suffer from the absence of kumbayas, handmade crafts and morning chapel that I so cherished throughout my youth.

So there I was at Special Buddy Camp on a fine summer afternoon, engaged in a game of water balloon toss with a group of my fellow campers. The brightly colored balloons glistened in the sunlight, droplets of water bounced to and fro, our innocent laughter rang in the air.... And then, pain. Excruciating, red-hot pain shooting through my inner thigh. OWWWW! I had been savagely stung by a rogue yellowjacket that had landed on me unannounced and uninvited. No good reason was to be had, either: we had no food nearby, nor was I wearing any kind of potentially tasty-smelling sunscreen. No, the wretched beast had landed on my delicate skin with the sole purpose of inflicting wanton suffering.

To make matters worse, my mother’s resolutely holistic approach to healing resulted in her rapid arrival armed with a giant red onion, which she proceeded to cut into round slices and tape—tape!—to my thigh. I was suddenly not only the girl who had gotten stung, but the girl who smelled like onions AND had a crazy mother. In a camp half composed of handicapped children, I had somehow managed to become the “special” one.

Little did I realize this was only the beginning; the damn things being an international source of misery, France has plenty of them as well. Why, only yesterday I was sitting on a bench in a park near my job, enjoying my take-away lunch in the late October sun while nourishing my soul with a book by Thich Nhat Hanh. It was a perfect moment of zenitude:

Breathing in, I calm my body. 
Breathing out, I smile. 
Dwelling in the present moment, 
I know this is a wonderful mo— AGGHHH!

Out of nowhere came an enormous yellowjacket, buzzing not at my food but at my person. Tossing my short-lived moment of zen out the proverbial window, I leapt to my feet and proceeded to do the exact opposite of what Thich Nhat Hanh would have done, flailing purse and book wildly about and unleashing a virulent stream of profanity that did not go unnoticed by my bemused fellow park-goers. I’d say that my journey toward enlightenment is far from finished.

If France has yellowjackets, then it must also have those wonderful gooey traps with which to kill them. I know what I’m doing this weekend. Enlightenment can wait.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part I

Parisian apartments have thin walls. In the case of older dwellings, this often stems from the division at some point over the last century of what were once large bourgeois family apartments into multiple smaller, separate ones, which Parisian landlords today rent out for a small fortune each. Sound insulation between the now separate residences was—and has remained—virtually nonexistent. Thus, what goes on in the apartments on either side of one’s own is generally perfectly audible, and more or less easy to live with depending on who the neighbors are, what kinds of noises they tend to make and what time they tend to make them.

But the walls aren’t all; Parisian apartments also have thin ceilings. Coupled with the frequent presence of hardwood floors, what goes on above one’s apartment is almost as difficult to ignore as what goes on on either side of it. This all adds up to the average apartment dweller being exceedingly well aware of the most intimate details of the personal lives and habits of those who live all around him, while not actually knowing any of them. A kind of box, if you will, of uninvited intimacy with people who are just this side of strangers.

In Paris, apartment neighbors tend to not know each other from Adam, which is perfectly fine by them. I mean, why bother? You will NEVER see a Parisian knocking on a neighbor’s door to request a spare egg or a cup of sugar, or to pop in for a spontaneous chat. Instead, it’s the opposite: they pretty much avoid each other like the plague. Stairwell encounters are particularly undesirable. Thus, if you are getting ready to go out, and you hear a neighbor’s door opening, you wait. Once the coast is clear, and the risk of having to make pesky, time-consuming small talk is gone, then you can venture out. Not before. 

G. and I live in just such an apartment. We don’t know many of the other people in the building, despite its relatively small size, but this is obviously normal. Besides, the lack of intimacy between ourselves and 85% of our neighbors is more than accounted for by the extreme intimacy we cannot help but share with the remaining 15%. Take the couple living above us, for example: their lives are an open book of sound that never fails to draw our attention because really, what choice is there?

At 7:00 am, they(?) are in the bathtub splashing water about and brushing their teeth. We can actually hear the brushing. At around 9:00 am, clomp clomp clomp! The perpetually high-heel-shod girlfriend comes tramping down the wooden stairwell. At 7:00 pm, she comes tramping home, jangles her keys into the door, opens and slams it shut behind her, tromps over to what I assume is the bed, removes her heels, which she lets drop—BAM! BAM!—to the floor, and then, all is relatively silent. Until after dinner, that is, when either she puts the latest Mika single on perpetual repeat, or she and her boyfriend get into a shouting match. They tend to intersperse their shouting with what sounds like rearranging their living room furniture.

Then there’s our next-door neighbor, whose noises are almost as bizarre. He is an elegant Japanese man in his late 40s, very well-dressed and polite. But once inside his apartment, things get very weird. He has this answering machine whose volume must be set on “hearing impaired” because when the thing picks up, we hear the entire message as though it were being screamed through our wall. Then, the machine starts beeping at 5-second intervals to notify our neighbor that he has a message. In the beginning, when we had just moved in and hadn’t grasped that beep = answering machine, he left on vacation for an entire week. Lots of people called him during that time: BEEP BEEP BEEP, all week long. I thought he had installed some kind of heavy-duty medical equipment or an industrial security alarm. This neighbor is also in a “complicated” relationship ... with a 20-something Brazilian male fashion model, who spends his days drinking and slamming the front door. Sometimes I run into him in the stairwell as he staggers down, hiccuping. I really need to work on my neighbor avoidance skills.

Anyway, not to JUDGE or anything, but this is the reality of Parisian apartment life. And yeah, we certainly contribute our share of noise as well. I’d even be willing to bet that we’ve irritated the hell out of our neighbors on countless occasions with our tromping around, vacuuming, vibrating laundry machine, long phone calls in English and noisy dinner parties. Plus I’m a bit clumsy and have been known to drop heavy objects on the floor, sometimes in the middle of the night. This is why there is never any open conflict in the building: we all accept that being auditory witnesses to each other’s daily goings-on is normal. And in the face of the cold anonymity of city life, maybe it does us all some good to be somewhat in touch with other people, however bizarrely.

Who let the dogs out?

I had another dog dream last night. Or to specify, I dreamed in a perfectly surreal fashion of obtaining a puppy, which has been a goal of mine for quite some time now. Searching for meaning, I typed “dog” into an online dream analyzer and discovered that dogs in the dream world symbolize “intuition, loyalty, generosity, protection and fidelity.” Further, dreaming of them “suggests that your strong values and good intentions will enable you to go forward in the world and bring you success.” Right on. But between us, I think it means that I just really want a dog.

Paris today counts some 200,000 chiens for some 2.2 million Parisians, which is actually only 11%. Why, then, does the pitter-patter of little paws feel so omnipresent in this city? Perhaps due to the canine calling cards for which Parisian streets are so well known, which, in addition to the sight of people strolling the perpetrators, accounts for the resolutely “top of mind” position enjoyed by the French pooch. In any case, I want one: preferably small and fluffy, with a gentle disposition and minimal amount of shedding. I have several models in mind: Shih Tzu, Tibetan Spaniel, Chihuahua....

But realistically speaking, it probably isn’t going to happen; my innocent desire to own an adorable, adoring little ball of fluff is counterbalanced by my overactive conscience, which knows better. One, both G. and I work full-time. Two, having grown up in the country, I am keenly aware that there are places far better suited for dogs, children and other small, innocent beings than la jungle urbaine. Were we to actually go out and buy a dog, the poor dear would be left all alone in our Paris-size (read: teeny) apartment from dawn till dusk, pining away for its masters while more fortunate dogs romp and frolic in the great outdoors as nature intended. There is of course a park nearby, but dogs generally don’t walk themselves, and we naturally have no back yard—only a typical Parisian balcony with lacy iron railings that may be a delightful place for humans, but would by no means provide our would-be dog with an acceptable, safe alternative to the great outdoors. Hélas!

Never having been one to accept seeing my desires rebuffed, I remain hopeful that there is a solution out there. But unfortunately, no matter what privileges Parisian dogs enjoy, accompanying their masters to work on a daily basis is not one of them. So for the moment, I see no answer … although I do have an idea: the arrival a few years ago of the now well-known, DIY bike rental service known as Vélib’ (a fusion of the words vélo or “bike,” and libre or “free”) got me thinking that this approach could possibly be applied to other public-use domains. With Vélib’ one can rent a bike for a paltry €1 from any of the hundreds of open air bike stations scattered across the city and enjoy it for up to 30 minutes, at which point the bike must simply be returned to the closest station in exchange for a fresh one, and so on and so forth.

Now, call me crazy (everyone else does), but why not develop a system of short-term dog rentals based on the same concept as Vélib’? Imagine a series of small pet stores offering 1-hour, half-day or full-day dog rentals. You’d show up, select the dog and leash of your choice, and off the two of you would go! When your time was up, you would simply return the dog to the closest pet store and take out another one. This would allow busy Parisians to enjoy such dog-owning pleasures as weekend romps, evening strolls and games of catch in the park, while effectively eliminating the less pleasant aspects, such as trips to the vet, workday dog-abandonment guilt and the dubious pleasure of removing fur from the couch with rolled-up Scotch tape.

Problem solved! I will pen a letter to Sarkozy tomorrow; I imagine that putting Chienlib’ into effect will provide him with a nice change from juggling retirement reform, campaign contribution scandals and that whole soccer thing.