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!”

Material girl

Summer in Paris is not only about the possibility of meteorological extremes and the certainty of pricey sorbet. Summer is also about unchained, triumphant materialism. Sales, in other words. Big sales. Sales on everything.

The warmer months hail the arrival of France’s annual soldes d’été, five weeks during which stores great and small slash their prices in order to make way for the arrival of the autumn/winter collections. As hideously depressing as it is to think at summer’s zenith, OMG-winter-will-be-back-before-we-know-it, the soldes also represent a glittering opportunity for consumers to gleefully and exuberantly indulge in the very same conspicuous consumption that is supposedly so disdained by the infamously discreet French. In other words, who’s depressed? Pas moi! For during the soldes, all bets are off; consumers from all walks of life, French and foreign alike, are openly encouraged to engage in a veritable orgy of frenzied hunting and gathering until their feet and wallets cry overdose and they collapse in a dizzy haze, feeling exhausted and vaguely guilty ... yet somehow strangely fulfilled. Or is that just me?

It never fails. Every year I tell myself, “Self, you have MORE than enough clothing. So no soldes for you! True spiritual fulfillment must be sought within, not without.” But then my Self comes up with something like, “That’s true; I DO have enough clothing ... for now. But not nearly enough shoes/jewelry/books/electronics/housewares/kitchen gear/potted plants...!” And, realizing the futility of attempting to counter such watertight logic, off I run to get my next material fix.

Now, such behavior could be considered as both totally selfish and fiscally irresponsible, except that I’m one step ahead of such petty accusations. As G. and I inhabit a typically space-challenged Parisian abode, without so much as a basement in which to store any excess, I can’t just go on acquiring without end. Therefore, I frequently donate my no-longer-desired clothing to such benevolent organizations as the Children of Madagascar, and thus clear the way for NEW clothing while at the same time placating my conscience. Why, thanks to me, Madagascar’s youth are sporting some sweet attire—even if some of my contributions may be less appreciated than others (that floor-length black wool coat I disposed of last month comes to mind).

G. surely senses that my addiction to zestfully accumulating what can only be referred to as “stuff”—which is to say miscellaneous material items that soothe, flatter and reassure—is as American as macaroni and cheese, and as such, looks upon it with bemusement. Indeed, rather than attempt to find an appropriate French translation for the word “stuff” (there isn’t one), G. has gone and adopted it just as it is, interjecting it into otherwise entirely French sentences and applying it to everything from the pile of magazines sitting on the coffee table to the forgotten sock by the front door. He has even developed a new grammatical form for it, wherein the partitive “du” becomes the singular indefinite “un.” Thus, “un stuff.” (Ex: “Il y a un stuff coincé dans la cafétière !” – “There’s something stuck in the coffee machine!”)

Considering the success of this small-scale experiment, I think I have reason to hope that “le stuff” will eventually spread among the greater French population, and perhaps one day even join the ranks of such widely accepted, originally English words as “cool,” “fun,” “geek,” and my personal favorite, “funky.” It could happen! And if ever it does, I fully expect to be granted the honorary title of Stuff Ambassador to France.

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.

 

The eyes have it

It is 2011 and therefore time to once more resolve to become a better version of myself: kinder, gentler, more spiritual and less materialistic, more punctual and better-rested. I want to take up jewelry-making and give up meat and dairy products. I also fully intend to cease all procrastination with respect to seeing the doctor. For example, I’m waaaaay overdue on multiple vaccination boosters, meaning if, God forbid, my ankle were actually to be bitten by one of Paris’ myriad ankle biters, I’d probably be foaming at the mouth in no time at all.



But I’ll take care of the shots, um, later. Today, I’m going to begin by paying a visit to the ophthalmologist, so that she can tell me just how blind I’ve become from the insane amount of time I’ve spent staring at computer screens since my last visit five years ago. The reading glasses I currently wear know their days are numbered (which would account for their constant trembling), and will undoubtedly have been replaced by bifocals by this time tomorrow. 



Actually, I’m kind of excited. New glasses will give me a new style, which somehow seems appropriate to accompany the new, on-time, anti-meat industry, enlightened yoga master I shall soon become. That me should ALSO have better-looking reading glasses. 



I’ve often complained about the difficulty one faces in Paris when trying to purchase perfectly practical, everyday items; stuff like weather stripping, flower vases and miniature table top tennis kits can be maddeningly difficult to come by. On the other hand, anyone looking for perfectly impractical, postmodern, designer decorative objects priced at 700% of their value is ALL SET.



Yes, but does it come in blue?

Luckily for me, one notable exception to this rule is eyewear, a practical item that the French see no reason to render difficult to find (ease of purchase is another matter, as they all seem to employ a specific, “you must be joking” price structure). For if there is one commerce more omnipresent on Paris streets than pharmacies, it’s glasses shops. One has but to look for the flashing pair of red spectacles, as opposed to the flashing green cross:

Psychedelic green neon = free drugs.

Psychedelic red neon = pricey shades.

There seems to be one glasses boutique every other block in Paris, all of them strangely empty (or not so strangely; that’s a lot of eyewear for a population that doesn’t seem to actually wear all that much of it). Maybe their relative emptiness is a cost issue: the last pair of eyeglasses I purchased from just such a boutique set me back €300, and that was five years ago!

Or, maybe the French have simply begun doing as my dad does: order generic reading glasses by the dozen from Costco. Except they don’t have Costco here; Costco is far too practical (see my above point). Moreover, something tells me the esthetically sensitive nature of the French would find such things as 10-pound bags of frozen chicken breasts or 5-gallon bottles of olive oil somehow vulgar. Part of me agrees with them ... but another part of me says, “Cool! Five gallons of olive oil!”

You can take the girl out of America....

In loving memory

I have recently suffered a loss in the family; I don’t know if I can technically call it a being, but I do tend to “bond” with my material possessions to such an extent that they almost seem to have a soul. I know there’s a term for this (other than “insanity”). Ah yes, anthropomorphism. What did people do before Google? Seriously?

So the family member in question is my late Samsung E840 Candy Pink telephone, which I purchased back in the foggy, innocent days of spring 2008. At the time, I was looking to change mobiles and fell in love with the sleek lines and sexy color of this little slider. The fact that it was quite similar to G.’s own maroon version added a certain extra touch of “buy me” seductiveness. So I bought it.

Having tested multiple phone brands in the past, trial and error had proven Nokia to be the most worthy of living in my purse. Nevertheless, I took a chance on this Samsung because, well, it was so preeeeetty. Sadly, what it boasted in physical beauty it sorely lacked in inner depth. For one, it offered but a shadow of the gadgety personalization options I’d come to so appreciate from Nokia, and two, its texting configuration was an absolute disaster. It steadfastly refused to be taught any new words, and for my franglais texting needs, this was unacceptable. But it had a nice built-in camera and worked just fine as an actual phone, so in the end I figured it could stay.

For years, the two of us built up a certain complicity: Katrin and her fuchsia phone! Despite our rocky beginnings, we came to become all but inseparable. The phone’s memory stored my friends’ numbers and G.’s loving text messages; the calculator function made dividing up the tab after group dinners a breeze; the camera function had my back whenever my real camera ran out of power; the alarm function gently woke me every morning with the song “Paul Simon” by the Russian Futurists. On a side note, I would have preferred a song called “Russian Futurists” by Paul Simon, but whaddya do?

So life was bliss … until, on a Friday night just a few weeks ago, G. proposed that we see the movie “Inception” at the UGC cinema near Opéra. We settled into our seats and as usual, I put my purse by my feet. Now, I’ve always had a little voice in my head that has whispered, “Watch out, someone behind you could just reach under your chair and nab that purse right out from under it!” but I have always brushed off said voice because hey, what kind of an evil person would do THAT?

I’ll tell you what kind. The kind that slips into a theater at 11:00 pm and pretends to watch the movie when really, they just want to take your stuff. So the long and the short of it is this: some punk kids behind us managed to get their greasy little hands into my purse and steal my cell phone right out of it without my noticing a thing until they were long gone. I know this because when we called the number later on—you know, just to be sure—they answered. Morons. I’m lucky they didn’t take my whole damn purse, but that’s beside the point.

I’ve had run-ins with the Dark Side of Paris before, and each time I’ve come away thinking that the city loves me a little less, which is truly sad. It’s an awful feeling knowing that some ne’er-do-well has a cherished belonging that only minutes before was sitting safely in your care, even when it’s something as insignificant as a phone. I liked this little phone of mine, all the more so for the years of saved texts from G., virtual messages having long replaced the written love letter among us Gen Y-ers.

But let’s put this into perspective: it’s not the end of the world. I suppose I should take it as a lesson on the need for greater general awareness, or even as an opportunity for spiritual growth! Are we not supposed to store up our treasures in heaven, where thieves cannot break in and steal? Well, yeah, but … I’m an incorrigible materialist! It’s MY phone and as such, should be in MY hot little hands and no one else’s! Grrrrrrr.

However, time heals all wounds, and one week of mourning was really all I could give. Try as I might, I simply cannot lead a balanced existence without a phone/alarm/camera/converter/calculator. So I HAD to go out and get a replacement. Not considering myself to be “cool” enough for an iPhone (yet), I settled on the next best thing: a smart phone—by Nokia—which even pays homage to my departed Samsung with a nice fuchsia exterior. So everyone’s happy: my service provider, for coercing me into another 24-month contract in exchange for the phone; G., for once again being able to reach me during the day; and of course myself, for having what is quite frankly an awesome piece of technology AND just so happens to be beautiful on the outside as well as on the inside. But if you think I’m letting it out of my sight for more than 2 seconds, think again! No you can’t hold it! It’s mine, I tell you, miiiiiiiiiine!

R.I.P. - May 15, 2008 - September 4, 2010

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.

Zen and the art of grocery shopping

Today I would like to discuss one of my favorite activities—grocery shopping. I’m serious. Wandering the aisles of the local supermarket has always afforded me a peace of mind akin to that of a long stroll through a flower garden, or the silent contemplation of raked gravel. In college, when most of my fellow student-types were off engaging in more conventional forms of decompression, I could often be found lingering in the aisles of the local grocery store, collecting my thoughts while hunting for exotic sauces. Zen meditation or supermarket cruising—both do wonders for my sense of inner calm.

Land of food, France and its grocery kingdom were just waiting for my arrival. When I first moved here, I couldn’t get enough of grocery shopping—which was inconvenient considering I was living with a host family and had no refrigerator of my own, but that is beside the point. All I knew at the time was that in France the grapes looked different, the cucumbers looked different, the yogurt aisle was like something out of a dream ... and they had this crazy system where you weighed your own produce and printed out your own little labels with the prices right on them! How exciting! Now, many years later, I admit that the element of novelty has worn off (yeah, yeah, so the zucchini are round), but I still love to grocery shop.

The funny thing is that whereas in the beginning I celebrated all the new, strange and wondrous things that I could find and buy in French supermarkets (fromage blanc, for example, or liqueur de litchi, or pâtes d'Alsace...), today I get excited when I stumble across beloved “American” items that I had assumed I would never see on this side of the Atlantic. I’m thinking baby carrots; I’m thinking Special K; I’m thinking SMOOTHIES. Yes, after long years of bitterly lamenting their absence, my craving for pureed fruit drinks can at last be appeased—smoothies are now an accepted member of the French supermarket club. Thank you, Tropicana. In fact, smoothies have garnered quite a following in Paris. And what with the bagel bar that has recently sprung up next to my office, I feel nearly as though I’m at home in SoCal (well, kinda).

So my question now is: what on earth are smoothie shops like Jamba Juice and Surf City Squeeze waiting for? It is high time for them to go French. And before you get all up in my grill for advocating chain stores and industrial food and all that everyone loves to hate about America, I’d like to point out that this is no longer 1930 and France has so many of its own chain stores that no one bothers to do any hand-wringing over the presence of big, mean Starbucks anymore. Simply take a stroll along the Boulevard des Italiens in the center of Paris and THEN let’s discuss chain eateries. Or take a gander at the zones commerciales peppering the provinces. Honestly, France requires zero help from the US to go franchise. Hence my dream of opening a Bath and Body Works here and retiring at age 40, because believe me, all they need to do is tone down a bit of that cutesy barn look they have going and French women will be all over them. Witness Sephora, the Body Shop and Yves Rocher. Creams and lotions are of international interest. Much like round zucchini.