The post about our weekend in Avignon is turning out to be a monster; as I type this, the gallery is slowly uploading.
As we returned home fairly early in the afternoon, we made the decision to try our most impressive easter-related acquisition: the chocolate lobster.
Dark chocolate lobsters: yet another reason I don’t ever want to go back.
The American shop up the street (they import junk food and sell it to students attending the American University of Paris and French folk looking for gag gifts for their colleagues [all I’m going to say is that it involved a box of macaroni and cheese, and that I wish I understood more French, because the part that I did understand was hilarious]) carries peeps, as we found when we walked by the other day.
I enjoy peeps.
The Purrito is of the opinion that they’d be well-represented in the pantries of hell.
These things taste terrible. And awesome.
Sunday, as probably everybody knows, was Easter; while under most circumstances, this is at least a positive event (Easter is arguably the premiere candy holiday, and the chocolatiers here put effectively every candy I’ve had prior to living here to shame), it was made even better this year (full disclosure: last year, too) as the Monday immediately thereafter is Lundi de Pâques, which means that I had the day off.
After lazing around for the bulk of the day as per our normal Sunday routine, we decided, somewhat late in the day, to dart out and feed the pigeons; this isn’t an entirely common occurrence (which isn’t to say that we’ve never done it before), but the bread knife happened to catch my attention as I loaded the dishwasher earlier that morning. Knife met leftover baguette, and a bag of pigeon bread was created.
While the original intent was to simply find a band of marauding pigeons, heave the bag at them, and disappear back to the apartment, we ended up embarking on one of those rare perfect evenings where both of us were feeling good, where the weather was pleasant, where we were engaged with our surroundings, and where we indulged in a cycle of “let’s walk over that way” until it was so late that I couldn’t take pictures anymore, the sun already having disappeared behind the horizon.
While I didn’t have my camera with me, I did have my phone, and the Lumia 925 boasts an impressive camera for a phone (to me, anyway; I still associate cell phone photography with the asstastic camera that was found in the Razr (RAZR?) that I had prior to purchasing the first-gen iPhone); a visual record of our wandering can thus be found below.
I should note that we never did find a group of pigeons; the bread wound up in the gullets of two mallards that were milling around the garden barge (there’s a post that dates to June or July with a photograph of said barge) as we passed by.
Saturday saw our plans go sideways for the third week in a row, though we did manage to get something checked off of the to-do list: The Musée Marmottan Monet.
The museum itself started life as an outpost on the edge of the world; originally constructed as a hunting lodge. it is now in the middle of a very nice, very staid, very expensive residential area near the edge of the 16e arrondissement. In addition to temporary exhibitions, the lodge features some very nice furniture from the first empire (not sure I would have fit in the bed that we saw) and what is apparently the largest collection of Monet paintings anywhere, donated by Monet’s son in the mid 1960s.
While it’s not uncommon for the museums to prohibit photography in the temporary exhibitions, the Marmottan does not allow photography of the permanent collection either, so I don’t have any pictures of the gorgeous furniture, the incredibly elaborate clock, or a dumbass water lily. I consider myself placated, however, due to the surprisingly good gift shop (though I should have picked up those damn cufflinks).
We eschewed the bus in favor of simply walking home. We knew it would take us an hour or so to get back, we’ve not spent much time in the 16e, and it was an interesting change from our neighborhood; where ours is invariably lively, the 16e was quieter, with what seemed to be much less traffic and less boisterous pedestrians. Our indirect route home also afforded us the opportunity to indulge our“what’s that?” impulse, so we wound up walking through Cimetière de Passy, where we pondered the mechanics of perpetual burial concessions and discussed our personal philosophies with respect to the remembrance of the dead.
Any day that ends with a sandwich from Bagelstein (it’s like Einstein Bagels, but much better) is one that’s pretty good.
Surprises are, by nature, unexpected events.
Surprises can be fun: “LOOK! They offer PADDLE BOAT RIDES!!!”
Surprises can be sweet: “Aw! You bought me lobster-shaped chocolate from my favorite candy shop!”
Surprises can be comical: ” When she saw the car, she passed out and fell into a garbage can!”
And, everyone’s least favorite, surprises can be panic-inducing-shock-fests: ” Oh, by the way, the owner of our apartment happens to be in Paris for a week and wants to come install a fire alarm and check on the place.”
…check on the place…
Granted, at first this doesn’t seem like that big of a deal, but then you start to worry. When was the last time he saw the place? What if he sees the scratches on the parquet ( CURSE YOU REAL WOOD) floors from our throng of cats running around at night? The ones that I will fix before we move out? What if he is mean, old and grumpy? WHAT IF HE THINKS WE ARE TERRIBLE PEOPLE AND MAKES US LEAVE? WHERE WILL WE LIVE!?! See? This can get out of hand quickly.
When I read the e-mail, I felt my blood pressure start to rise almost immediately. It’s not that we don’t take care of the place, it is just that this is kind of our space right now. We have covered virtually every surface to protect it from the felines and bought several metric tons of carpets in an attempt to protect the floors. We have even come to terms with the fact that the furniture looks like it belongs in a gypsy camp thanks to the strange collection of fabrics we have draped all over them. It’s just that this little apartment has been our safe haven from those rough days in Paris for almost a year. It felt invasive. It also made me very aware of all those little ‘to-do’ list items I have for when we leave the place. Panic set in and there was really no stopping it. It took a lot for me to call the guy and even talk to him. When I finally did, I was surprised. He sounded younger than I had thought and even nice. After talking to him for a few minutes, I brought up the fact that we actually already bought a smoke detector. I almost told him it wasn’t installed yet, but caught myself. Note; It will be installed today. Suddenly, he no longer had a reason to stop by and snope around the place. He simply asked for an email confirming that we had one to send to his insurance company. *POOF* Problem solved. He even asked if we were happy in place and if there was anything he could do. Nice! See? And yes, he can do something for me.
Stay away from the flat until we leave, please and thank you. I promise it will be in good shape when we give it back.
It was one year ago today that I groggily disembarked from a plane, hopped in a taxi that, in retrospect, overcharged me, and found myself in an aparthotel at the back end of La Défense.
As the Purrito will rightly state, our official expatriation anniversary is not until June, but it was at this time last year that I pulled up stakes, left the fuzzballs in her care, and acted as the advance scout for the adventure that we’re still very much in the middle of.
It’s strange to think back on those six weeks alone, dinners consisting of breaded merlan or chicken paired with broccoli, and compare it with our shopping routine on the weekend on which we hit a wine store, a fromagerie, a poissonerie, and a boucherie.
It’s strange to reflect on how unfamiliar and uncomfortable the center of the city was, and how easy it was to stay within the confines of Courbevoie; I’m up here every day, but I don’t live up here anymore, and it’s perhaps a bit surprising to me how much of a difference this makes.
It’s strange to acknowledge how uncomfortable and foreign everything felt, and how comfortable things now are, most of the time.
Here we are though.
Here I am.
From our visit to the opera house a few weeks ago. I uploaded them, but never threw them into a post…
Some 40 hours of one-on-one instruction (broken into 1.5 hour chunks) later, I find myself at the end of my company-allotted French lessons.
I am now feeling strangely adrift, and it took more effort than I expected to stop myself from simply sulking through the day.
She was nominally “just” a French tutor (whom the Purrito is/was seeing as well, albeit separately and in a different location), but the reality was that, for the both of us, she was more than just a language teacher; she’s been an interpreter, a dictionary, a historian, a city guide, a soother of frayed nerves, and perhaps even a bit of a psychologist at times. I would say that she’s been an anchor to the two of us, but that’s not accurate; anchors keep you in one place, they keep the sea from sweeping you away, they keep you from changing too much… but we have changed so very much. Perhaps the more apt metaphor is one of a lighthouse; you’re still bobbing around in the ocean, but at least you’re not going to find yourself unexpectedly dashed against the rocks.
We’ll continue navigating the shoals (because what else can you do?), and we’ll continue to learn the language, but it will be through dimmer waters, on a sea that feels, to us, much more alone.
Dumb idea of the week: retaining the anger at the taxi driver that drove me there earlier (after he bellyached at being asked if he was available and then sighed when I told him the destination, despite the fact that he was the lead vehicle in the cab stand line) and instead of just taking another taxi home, deciding to hop the 82 bus from the Hôpital Americain to our ‘hood in the 7th.
Fifty minutes, four crying kids, and one old woman reading my texts over my shoulder later, I arrived, more or less alive.
Buses: still not really a fan.
Yesterday proved to be a bit much for our lungs (mine in particular, seeing as I seem to be unable to rid myself of a cold). While we did end up doing what we planned to do, making a few stops for the sole purpose of hanging out in seemingly fresher air certainly helped us along.
The haze visible in these pictures isn’t rain, nor is it fog; it’s the air during the worst pollution day of the year thus far, which resulted in the métro being free and a certain number of cars being banned from the road (I continue to be glad that we don’t drive).
The air quality is supposed to be better today, but what we apparently need is rain; here’s hoping.
Fezzik In Paris 