n. – étiquette, manners
I made a major faux pas today, which literally translated means false step. I decided to throw caution to the wind on this bright and sunny day and go to my yoga class in my yoga clothes. Mind you, the outfit was subdued. It wasn’t the ultra yogi look with flared pants decorated with dragons or lotus flowers, but rather a pair of simple lightweight black workout pants and a black t-shirt.
“Quand même” or even so, I was convinced at any moment I would be pulled over by the French fashion police as I was in clear violation of the French fashion code. One simply does not wear their workout outfits to and from home and workout place. That’s what “vestiaires” or changing rooms are for.
The problem with the vestiaires, like many Parisian spaces, is that they’re often small. Given that the classes are crowded, I just wasn’t in the mood to cram myself in and try to avoid elbowing anyone while changing clothes. Plus it shaves off time from my commute, instead allowing me to leisurely enjoy the metro musicians and beggars of which today I was treated to two different ones in only five stops.
There must be something about the nice weather that tempts people, just like me, to want to break the rules. Across from me on my short ride, was a woman who was eating a sandwich. Somehow, the metro is the last place I feel like ingesting food, but I suppose she also was trying to maximize her time. Once finished, she decided to turn over the plastic bag and deposit all of the crumbs – some quite large – on the floor of the train. Really - I thought to myself – are those crumbs weighing you down so much that you can’t wait until you’re off the train and pass by one of the many trashcans in the station?
On the walk from the station to my apartment, I watched another woman simply discard a piece of trash on the street when there was a trashcan only yards from where she was standing. Littering is a problem the world over, but I do find it particularly odd in such a beautiful city where people pride themselves on beautiful things that they just throw the trash in the street.
Dog poop is a problem here, as well. You can get a fine for not picking up after yours, but I’ve never seen anyone get caught. Don’t dog owners have an equal disdain for stepping in poop? And gum chewers who throw their gum on the sidewalk – how do they know that one day they won’t be the ones to step in it?
Well, nobody’s dead, as my mother-in-law likes to say to keep small infractions in perspective. But it would be a nicer place if people would pick up after themselves and I suppose an even more beautiful place if everyone dressed well. So I will do my part the next time I go to class to put on some real clothes with the hopes that the litterers and dog walkers and gum chewers will follow suit in their own way.
Apr 28, 2010
Apr 22, 2010
Barbe à papa
n. – cotton candy
Just as I wrote recently that I thought the French word for sour cream, “crème fraiche” was so much more appetizing than our version, I feel the exact opposite about cotton candy. Literally translated in French it means papa’s beard. It’s also grammatically incorrect as it should be “barbe de papa”. I suppose it’s a “clin d’oeil” or wink to the fact that it’s something named by a child. But even as a child I don’t know if I would have found eating my father’s beard, even if he had one, appetizing.
“Clin d’oeil” makes me think of “trompe l’oeil,” which we use in English to mean optical illusion and literally translated means just that – a trick of the eye. It’s funny how sometimes you don’t really think of the translation of a word or expression when you use it in its natural form. Other examples are “déjà vu,” which literally means, already seen, “hors d’oeuvres” which means outside of the work or more simply, the snacks you eat outside of the meal and “RSVP” or “respondez s’il vous plait,” which means please respond or literally, respond if you please.
The plural of “oeil” or eye is “yeux” and the plural of “oeuf” or egg is “oeufs.” A single eye sounds almost like “oy” where the plural sounds more like “yueh.” While the “f” is pronounced in the single version of an egg sort of like “uff,” the “f” disappears in the plural form sounding more like “uh.” I have a hard time pronouncing and spelling these along with the word for sister, “soeur” or heart, “coeur.” There are just one too many vowels stuck together for my liking.
You may have noticed that I’ve become lazy with some of my accents. The one over the “a,” accent “grave,” doesn’t always come up automatically in spell check even if I have the document checked for French. I don’t know how to do it automatically and I’ve gotten tired of trying to find an older one and copying and pasting. There is actually an accent grave in the word grave since it denotes an “ah” sound vs. an “ay” sound. So I’ve gone on an accent grave strike, which actually strikes me funny (no pun intended there) since the word for strike is “greve,” which also has an accent grave over the “e” since it’s an “eh” sound vs. an “ee” sound.
You’re never alone really when striking in France. For the last two days, the newspaper distributors have been on strike forcing our lovely little local newsstand vendor to close up shop early and head home, losing revenue. There’s a gargantuan volcano disrupting worldwide air travel to, from and within Europe and what do a portion of the French railway workers do when travelling by rail has now been one of the only alternatives for travel? Go on strike, “bien sur!” I can’t help but get a little frustrated with strikers especially with so much unemployment. Even the people who work for the unemployment office went on strike recently.
At least my accent grave strike is hurting no one except perhaps a sensitive French person who reads my blog and is offended by the accent sloppiness. There are many more accents I could avoid if I wanted to. There is accent “aigu,” which usually goes over an “e” to make is sound more like an “ay.” There are accent “circumflexes,” which are the little hats that go over some “o’s,” “trénas,” two little dots that go over some “i’s” similar to “umlauts” and “cédilles,” little squiggly lines under some “c’s” to denote a softer “c” vs. a hard one. This word actually comes from Spanish meaning little c.
If my keyboard were French and thank god it isn’t, the accents are built in, albeit with a great deal of shifting and control alt maneuvers. The French keyboard is azerty vs. ours, which is qwerty so even if it’s just those few letters out of place, it wreaks havoc. I can’t tell you how many emails I’ve written from my in-laws “Hqving q greqt time – zish you zere here!”
As far as describing my French skills, I like to say I have “bonnes notions,” good notions or, “bonne connaissance,” a good understanding. I don’t like to use the word “courant,” fluent or “bilinge,” bi-lingual, but rather that I “debrouille bien,” or get by just fine. This way I don’t oversell myself and people will be more impressed than disappointed. I do like to speak well, however and so try to continue learning the rules of the language, which are endless.
There are some things that even the French can’t explain. For example, what is the difference between “parce que” and “car,” both meaning because, other than one is much longer than the other? Similarly, why are there two expressions for “on the other hand” when only one is supposed to be used or is considered proper? A friend of mine once practically threatened me never to use “par contre,” but always “en revanche.” Now I get nervous if I hear a French person using the former as if something awful will happen to them. I mean why does “par contre” even exist to begin with if it’s wrong?
Every day brings something new to learn and yet leaves some things continually a mystery. And I suppose that’s part of the fun of it all, n’est ce pas?
Just as I wrote recently that I thought the French word for sour cream, “crème fraiche” was so much more appetizing than our version, I feel the exact opposite about cotton candy. Literally translated in French it means papa’s beard. It’s also grammatically incorrect as it should be “barbe de papa”. I suppose it’s a “clin d’oeil” or wink to the fact that it’s something named by a child. But even as a child I don’t know if I would have found eating my father’s beard, even if he had one, appetizing.
“Clin d’oeil” makes me think of “trompe l’oeil,” which we use in English to mean optical illusion and literally translated means just that – a trick of the eye. It’s funny how sometimes you don’t really think of the translation of a word or expression when you use it in its natural form. Other examples are “déjà vu,” which literally means, already seen, “hors d’oeuvres” which means outside of the work or more simply, the snacks you eat outside of the meal and “RSVP” or “respondez s’il vous plait,” which means please respond or literally, respond if you please.
The plural of “oeil” or eye is “yeux” and the plural of “oeuf” or egg is “oeufs.” A single eye sounds almost like “oy” where the plural sounds more like “yueh.” While the “f” is pronounced in the single version of an egg sort of like “uff,” the “f” disappears in the plural form sounding more like “uh.” I have a hard time pronouncing and spelling these along with the word for sister, “soeur” or heart, “coeur.” There are just one too many vowels stuck together for my liking.
You may have noticed that I’ve become lazy with some of my accents. The one over the “a,” accent “grave,” doesn’t always come up automatically in spell check even if I have the document checked for French. I don’t know how to do it automatically and I’ve gotten tired of trying to find an older one and copying and pasting. There is actually an accent grave in the word grave since it denotes an “ah” sound vs. an “ay” sound. So I’ve gone on an accent grave strike, which actually strikes me funny (no pun intended there) since the word for strike is “greve,” which also has an accent grave over the “e” since it’s an “eh” sound vs. an “ee” sound.
You’re never alone really when striking in France. For the last two days, the newspaper distributors have been on strike forcing our lovely little local newsstand vendor to close up shop early and head home, losing revenue. There’s a gargantuan volcano disrupting worldwide air travel to, from and within Europe and what do a portion of the French railway workers do when travelling by rail has now been one of the only alternatives for travel? Go on strike, “bien sur!” I can’t help but get a little frustrated with strikers especially with so much unemployment. Even the people who work for the unemployment office went on strike recently.
At least my accent grave strike is hurting no one except perhaps a sensitive French person who reads my blog and is offended by the accent sloppiness. There are many more accents I could avoid if I wanted to. There is accent “aigu,” which usually goes over an “e” to make is sound more like an “ay.” There are accent “circumflexes,” which are the little hats that go over some “o’s,” “trénas,” two little dots that go over some “i’s” similar to “umlauts” and “cédilles,” little squiggly lines under some “c’s” to denote a softer “c” vs. a hard one. This word actually comes from Spanish meaning little c.
If my keyboard were French and thank god it isn’t, the accents are built in, albeit with a great deal of shifting and control alt maneuvers. The French keyboard is azerty vs. ours, which is qwerty so even if it’s just those few letters out of place, it wreaks havoc. I can’t tell you how many emails I’ve written from my in-laws “Hqving q greqt time – zish you zere here!”
As far as describing my French skills, I like to say I have “bonnes notions,” good notions or, “bonne connaissance,” a good understanding. I don’t like to use the word “courant,” fluent or “bilinge,” bi-lingual, but rather that I “debrouille bien,” or get by just fine. This way I don’t oversell myself and people will be more impressed than disappointed. I do like to speak well, however and so try to continue learning the rules of the language, which are endless.
There are some things that even the French can’t explain. For example, what is the difference between “parce que” and “car,” both meaning because, other than one is much longer than the other? Similarly, why are there two expressions for “on the other hand” when only one is supposed to be used or is considered proper? A friend of mine once practically threatened me never to use “par contre,” but always “en revanche.” Now I get nervous if I hear a French person using the former as if something awful will happen to them. I mean why does “par contre” even exist to begin with if it’s wrong?
Every day brings something new to learn and yet leaves some things continually a mystery. And I suppose that’s part of the fun of it all, n’est ce pas?
Apr 20, 2010
Texto
n. - text (message)
We continue to develop more and more sophisticated ways of communicating only so that we can actually communicate less. I am not a cell phone person. I always forget to turn it on, it scares me when it rings and annoys me if I’m somewhere other than home. I don’t like talking on it when I’m walking around and I absolutely loathe texting.
I minded the latter less when I had a blackberry since it was easier to type on the keyboard. The phone I have now, albeit the pinnacle of coolness, is hard for me to type on. It autocorrects to the point where if I’m not paying attention the message I type comes out as something completely different.
The other day, my husband and I were meeting a friend for lunch and we had the addresses mixed up on top of the fact that we changed to another restaurant across the street at the last minute. So there we were were texting back and forth, waiting and worrying and wondering until finally I picked up the phone and dialed my friend's number. That was so much easier. That way I could explain exactly where we were and how to get there.
Texting is a part of life worldwide, but I do believe the Europeans caught on to it first. I remember when another dear friend was going through a painful break-up while living in London and kept explaining the texts that she and her then boyfriend were sending to each other leaving room for confusion and miscommunication. I asked her one day, why don’t you just call him and talk to which she explained that everyone texted there.
I think texting, while at times I suppose is more convenient than a phone call, can also make a recipe for disaster. The other day, my brother-in-law texted me while I was out walking. Immediately flustered by the out of the blue message, I felt the need to respond right away. So while crossing the road and trying not to get hit by a car, I read the message quickly and responded.
As such, I misunderstood his message and my response set off a chain of events that now have to be undone. Basically he was asking if my husband had a certain video game (for our Wii), “est ce qu’il a le jeux…” Because I read it in a panic, I understood, “est ce qu’il jeux…” or is he playing the video game. So trying to be not just prompt, but witty to boot, I wrote back “Pas a ce moment ;)” – yes with the wink as well, meaning he’s not playing at the moment because he wasn’t since he was at work. Well, I finally realized after asking my husband why his brother would send me such a weird text message in the middle of the day that he was writing because he wanted to know what to get my husband for his birthday. I would like to add that to my husband’s birthday was three weeks ago already, so had the message been more timely, maybe I could have figured that out.
I texted back again in the evening to clarify things, since my husband actually has the game in question. Then my brother in law called, but since it was all supposed to be a secret, I couldn’t talk to him not to mention we were in the middle of dinner. I said we could talk later and hung up. But then he texted me again – in this case, texting is just as disruptive as talking. It turns out that he had understood my reply, rightfully so, to mean my husband didn’t have the game and had already ordered it. A simple call in the first place could have avoided this whole mess, saved time and avoided the mini fit against technology that I had as a result so another lesson learned – pick up the phone rather than just peck at it.
We continue to develop more and more sophisticated ways of communicating only so that we can actually communicate less. I am not a cell phone person. I always forget to turn it on, it scares me when it rings and annoys me if I’m somewhere other than home. I don’t like talking on it when I’m walking around and I absolutely loathe texting.
I minded the latter less when I had a blackberry since it was easier to type on the keyboard. The phone I have now, albeit the pinnacle of coolness, is hard for me to type on. It autocorrects to the point where if I’m not paying attention the message I type comes out as something completely different.
The other day, my husband and I were meeting a friend for lunch and we had the addresses mixed up on top of the fact that we changed to another restaurant across the street at the last minute. So there we were were texting back and forth, waiting and worrying and wondering until finally I picked up the phone and dialed my friend's number. That was so much easier. That way I could explain exactly where we were and how to get there.
Texting is a part of life worldwide, but I do believe the Europeans caught on to it first. I remember when another dear friend was going through a painful break-up while living in London and kept explaining the texts that she and her then boyfriend were sending to each other leaving room for confusion and miscommunication. I asked her one day, why don’t you just call him and talk to which she explained that everyone texted there.
I think texting, while at times I suppose is more convenient than a phone call, can also make a recipe for disaster. The other day, my brother-in-law texted me while I was out walking. Immediately flustered by the out of the blue message, I felt the need to respond right away. So while crossing the road and trying not to get hit by a car, I read the message quickly and responded.
As such, I misunderstood his message and my response set off a chain of events that now have to be undone. Basically he was asking if my husband had a certain video game (for our Wii), “est ce qu’il a le jeux…” Because I read it in a panic, I understood, “est ce qu’il jeux…” or is he playing the video game. So trying to be not just prompt, but witty to boot, I wrote back “Pas a ce moment ;)” – yes with the wink as well, meaning he’s not playing at the moment because he wasn’t since he was at work. Well, I finally realized after asking my husband why his brother would send me such a weird text message in the middle of the day that he was writing because he wanted to know what to get my husband for his birthday. I would like to add that to my husband’s birthday was three weeks ago already, so had the message been more timely, maybe I could have figured that out.
I texted back again in the evening to clarify things, since my husband actually has the game in question. Then my brother in law called, but since it was all supposed to be a secret, I couldn’t talk to him not to mention we were in the middle of dinner. I said we could talk later and hung up. But then he texted me again – in this case, texting is just as disruptive as talking. It turns out that he had understood my reply, rightfully so, to mean my husband didn’t have the game and had already ordered it. A simple call in the first place could have avoided this whole mess, saved time and avoided the mini fit against technology that I had as a result so another lesson learned – pick up the phone rather than just peck at it.
A coupé
Adj. – sliced
The neighborhood where we live in the 7th is filled with commerce. On our block alone there are two bouchers (butchers), two boulangeries (bakers), two hair salons and even two pharmacies not to mention a dry cleaner, supermarché, wine shop, tea shop, floriste, several boutiques and jewelry shops and eight restaurants. So you could say we are spoiled for choice.
As such, we can afford to be choosy so we have our favourites. The butcher directly across the street we may have gone to first for that very reason, but he is a delightful man sort of like a slimmer version of Santa without the beard. We buy lovely roasted chickens from him as well as gigots d’agneau (legs of lamb), which he’ll even prepare for us so all we have to do is heat them up. One time I was looking for merguez sausages, which he didn’t have and I actually felt guilty going to the other butcher down the street.
There is a baker directly across the street as well, large enough to eat in with beautiful ceilings. However, the women who run it are almost mean and as such, we will make our way further down the block to the one run by a super friendly woman who greets us with a kiss if she hasn’t seen us for a while. She is closed on Mondays so I was forced recently to go to the meanies. I was excited because I had the exact change for the bread I wanted, a triangle pavot (poppyseed loaf). The grumpy face behind the counter asked if I wanted it sliced, which I did and once finished she asked for 10 cents more than I expected. I was confused and looked again at the price to which she responded by rolling her eyes and pointing to a little sign that said “a coupé – 0.10.” Seriously, 10 cents for slicing? I never noticed at the nice baker, but perhaps that’s because I’m distracted by her kindness or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t charge extra although my husband told me it’s common.
My husband’s boss has a favourite expression, “You live, you learn.” And clearly with each passing day of my life in Paris, I do just that.
The neighborhood where we live in the 7th is filled with commerce. On our block alone there are two bouchers (butchers), two boulangeries (bakers), two hair salons and even two pharmacies not to mention a dry cleaner, supermarché, wine shop, tea shop, floriste, several boutiques and jewelry shops and eight restaurants. So you could say we are spoiled for choice.
As such, we can afford to be choosy so we have our favourites. The butcher directly across the street we may have gone to first for that very reason, but he is a delightful man sort of like a slimmer version of Santa without the beard. We buy lovely roasted chickens from him as well as gigots d’agneau (legs of lamb), which he’ll even prepare for us so all we have to do is heat them up. One time I was looking for merguez sausages, which he didn’t have and I actually felt guilty going to the other butcher down the street.
There is a baker directly across the street as well, large enough to eat in with beautiful ceilings. However, the women who run it are almost mean and as such, we will make our way further down the block to the one run by a super friendly woman who greets us with a kiss if she hasn’t seen us for a while. She is closed on Mondays so I was forced recently to go to the meanies. I was excited because I had the exact change for the bread I wanted, a triangle pavot (poppyseed loaf). The grumpy face behind the counter asked if I wanted it sliced, which I did and once finished she asked for 10 cents more than I expected. I was confused and looked again at the price to which she responded by rolling her eyes and pointing to a little sign that said “a coupé – 0.10.” Seriously, 10 cents for slicing? I never noticed at the nice baker, but perhaps that’s because I’m distracted by her kindness or perhaps it’s because she doesn’t charge extra although my husband told me it’s common.
My husband’s boss has a favourite expression, “You live, you learn.” And clearly with each passing day of my life in Paris, I do just that.
Apr 15, 2010
Crème fraiche
n. sour cream
Un oeuil au beurre noir
n. – black eye
Doesn’t crème fraiche or literally translated “fresh cream” sound so much more appetizing than “sour cream?”
It goes without saying that the food culture here is among one of the strongest. I love that the French implement a food item even to describe a black eye. Literally translated, it means an eye of black butter. The Italians also take their food very seriously. We were discussing the passion of the Italians recently with friends from Milan. Even if they’re upset about something, they’re immediately distracted when they see food on the table. The Catholic Church is embroiled in an ever growing scandal – oh look the pasta’s here, let’s eat.
Both countries take their food very seriously and as such, the time they take over eating it is never rushed. In Paris you have to practically stand on your head to get the check, or “l’addition,” which is logical since it’s the addition of what you’ve eaten. My all time lunch record was five and a half hours and that’s only because my friend and I finally wanted to leave. We could still be sitting there.
Getting the check is one thing. After that, you have to wait some more to get the waiter to bring the portable credit card machine. If I’ve asked for the check, it’s a good indication that I want to pay so why it doesn’t come hand in hand or at least shortly thereafter without another headstand, I’m not sure. And it’s almost an insult if you don’t want a coffee. Last night, we were offered coffee, tea or even digestives on the house. It’s as if leaving after only two hours at the table was simply too much to bear. I had an armagnac just to keep the owner happy and because a free digestive is just too good to pass up.
Here a “tisane” or herbal tea is nicknamed a “pisse mamie” – it’s not very polite – meaning literally it will make granny pee. I recently bought some eau de toilettee and it made me realize that it’s like the pisse mamie of perfumes. It’s so light that no sooner have I spritzed it that the scent is gone. As such, I’m not much of a tisane person. I will have coffee after lunch and as I said, I’m never one to pass up a digestive after dinner. I also love alcohol soaked desserts like prunes in eau de vie. What could be bad about a drink called “water of life?”
I remember once we had dinner plans with another couple. We invited them to our apartment for a drink before hand and the wife had a glass of water. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t even sparkling. Moving on to dinner, she ordered tea. That’s all, no entrée, no main course, just tea. When dessert came around, of course that was out of the question, too, but she was curious about what I ordered which were cherries soaked in brandy. I watched as she took a bite and as I feared her face contorted sort of as I would imagine a baby’s doing if you fed them a sour pickle.
I suppose there is such a thing as karmic retribution though since I had my own face puckering experience one afternoon when meeting another friend. It was too late for coffee and too early for a drink so I copied her order of hot lemon water. I’m not sure if this is a French thing, she’s from Guatemala. I like lemonade, but something about it hot rendered it undrinkable. I tried adding more and more sugar, to no avail.
It reminded me of the time we were making fresh mayonnaise and added too much salt. We kept adding more oil to balance it out, transferring it from a small bowl into a larger and then even larger one. Finally we had the mixture in a huge salad bowl and had run out of oil, but it was still too salty! This was like the hot lemonade, I could have added all the sugar on the table and it was never going to be enough.
I will leave you with my last food observation for now, which is a small anecdote from a restaurant that’s known for its’ specialty in game food. When dining there recently with friends, we kept coming across hard little pieces in our meat that we had to spit out. We finally realized it was actually gun shot. I guess you can’t get more authentic than that so bon appetit, but be careful of your teeth.
Un oeuil au beurre noir
n. – black eye
Doesn’t crème fraiche or literally translated “fresh cream” sound so much more appetizing than “sour cream?”
It goes without saying that the food culture here is among one of the strongest. I love that the French implement a food item even to describe a black eye. Literally translated, it means an eye of black butter. The Italians also take their food very seriously. We were discussing the passion of the Italians recently with friends from Milan. Even if they’re upset about something, they’re immediately distracted when they see food on the table. The Catholic Church is embroiled in an ever growing scandal – oh look the pasta’s here, let’s eat.
Both countries take their food very seriously and as such, the time they take over eating it is never rushed. In Paris you have to practically stand on your head to get the check, or “l’addition,” which is logical since it’s the addition of what you’ve eaten. My all time lunch record was five and a half hours and that’s only because my friend and I finally wanted to leave. We could still be sitting there.
Getting the check is one thing. After that, you have to wait some more to get the waiter to bring the portable credit card machine. If I’ve asked for the check, it’s a good indication that I want to pay so why it doesn’t come hand in hand or at least shortly thereafter without another headstand, I’m not sure. And it’s almost an insult if you don’t want a coffee. Last night, we were offered coffee, tea or even digestives on the house. It’s as if leaving after only two hours at the table was simply too much to bear. I had an armagnac just to keep the owner happy and because a free digestive is just too good to pass up.
Here a “tisane” or herbal tea is nicknamed a “pisse mamie” – it’s not very polite – meaning literally it will make granny pee. I recently bought some eau de toilettee and it made me realize that it’s like the pisse mamie of perfumes. It’s so light that no sooner have I spritzed it that the scent is gone. As such, I’m not much of a tisane person. I will have coffee after lunch and as I said, I’m never one to pass up a digestive after dinner. I also love alcohol soaked desserts like prunes in eau de vie. What could be bad about a drink called “water of life?”
I remember once we had dinner plans with another couple. We invited them to our apartment for a drink before hand and the wife had a glass of water. Nothing wrong with that, but it wasn’t even sparkling. Moving on to dinner, she ordered tea. That’s all, no entrée, no main course, just tea. When dessert came around, of course that was out of the question, too, but she was curious about what I ordered which were cherries soaked in brandy. I watched as she took a bite and as I feared her face contorted sort of as I would imagine a baby’s doing if you fed them a sour pickle.
I suppose there is such a thing as karmic retribution though since I had my own face puckering experience one afternoon when meeting another friend. It was too late for coffee and too early for a drink so I copied her order of hot lemon water. I’m not sure if this is a French thing, she’s from Guatemala. I like lemonade, but something about it hot rendered it undrinkable. I tried adding more and more sugar, to no avail.
It reminded me of the time we were making fresh mayonnaise and added too much salt. We kept adding more oil to balance it out, transferring it from a small bowl into a larger and then even larger one. Finally we had the mixture in a huge salad bowl and had run out of oil, but it was still too salty! This was like the hot lemonade, I could have added all the sugar on the table and it was never going to be enough.
I will leave you with my last food observation for now, which is a small anecdote from a restaurant that’s known for its’ specialty in game food. When dining there recently with friends, we kept coming across hard little pieces in our meat that we had to spit out. We finally realized it was actually gun shot. I guess you can’t get more authentic than that so bon appetit, but be careful of your teeth.
Bébé
n. – baby
Impots
n. – taxes
I always wondered why in the old movies whenever a woman was giving birth, boiling water was immediately ordered up. You can’t bathe the baby in boiling water, nor can you clean the woman with the boiling water and unless there had to be an emergency c-section, there aren’t really any instruments used in extracting the baby. Well, maybe forceps, but you never heard the people yelling to get the forceps ready.
Babies are most welcome in France. Most all of the people we know, straight or gay, have them. Babies, like anywhere else in the industrialized world, are encouraged. Families get tax breaks and even subsidies by the time they have three children. Our tax accountant blanched when we told him we didn’t have any.
When we first moved here and I was looking for work, a friend of my husband’s suggested that we “faire un bébé” or make a baby since here you make them first, then have them, which is perfectly logical. It’s a similar logic when the French say “dans l’avion” or in the plane vs. on the plane as we say.
The word baby is masculine so even if you’re having (or have made) a girl, if you refer to the baby, she would still be a he. “Acouchement” is the word for birth and “enceinte” is the word for pregnant. People here get very excited when they’re pregnant and often break the three month taboo meaning they share the news almost as soon as they’ve found out themselves.
Buses here are very stroller friendly with more standing room than the ones in New York. On Wednesdays which is a day off from school for small children, the buses are often crowded with strollers or “pousettes” and their small passengers. It sort of reminds me of matinee day in New York where everything’s just a little more crowded on that day than during the rest of the week.
It’s April 15th, tax day in the US. As non-residents we file in June. But the day that’s really going to hurt is later in the year when we have to file here. With no children, we get no breaks and that’s something that even boiling water can’t fix.
Impots
n. – taxes
I always wondered why in the old movies whenever a woman was giving birth, boiling water was immediately ordered up. You can’t bathe the baby in boiling water, nor can you clean the woman with the boiling water and unless there had to be an emergency c-section, there aren’t really any instruments used in extracting the baby. Well, maybe forceps, but you never heard the people yelling to get the forceps ready.
Babies are most welcome in France. Most all of the people we know, straight or gay, have them. Babies, like anywhere else in the industrialized world, are encouraged. Families get tax breaks and even subsidies by the time they have three children. Our tax accountant blanched when we told him we didn’t have any.
When we first moved here and I was looking for work, a friend of my husband’s suggested that we “faire un bébé” or make a baby since here you make them first, then have them, which is perfectly logical. It’s a similar logic when the French say “dans l’avion” or in the plane vs. on the plane as we say.
The word baby is masculine so even if you’re having (or have made) a girl, if you refer to the baby, she would still be a he. “Acouchement” is the word for birth and “enceinte” is the word for pregnant. People here get very excited when they’re pregnant and often break the three month taboo meaning they share the news almost as soon as they’ve found out themselves.
Buses here are very stroller friendly with more standing room than the ones in New York. On Wednesdays which is a day off from school for small children, the buses are often crowded with strollers or “pousettes” and their small passengers. It sort of reminds me of matinee day in New York where everything’s just a little more crowded on that day than during the rest of the week.
It’s April 15th, tax day in the US. As non-residents we file in June. But the day that’s really going to hurt is later in the year when we have to file here. With no children, we get no breaks and that’s something that even boiling water can’t fix.
Apr 8, 2010
35. Rue de Belles Feuilles – euille!
Back to the street with the pretty name, but to an apartment that was just downright gross. You can see that by now, I was trying to keep my humor by rhyming words even if they didn’t make sense. It reminds me of that state of delirium that happens in the movies when the people have been wandering in the desert for too long or when someone has been sleep deprived or sedated. You’ll be happy to know, that it was just at this point and seven apartments after looking at the perfect one on the 7th floor in the 7th arrondissment that we heard back and they accepted our dossier! Never mind that for 200 square feet less, we were paying almost the same as we were in the 16th. The neighborhood is indeed “canon” and we have been living here happily ever after ever since. Our next adventure one day will be looking to buy…wish us luck!
34. Fancy on Avenue Foch, but moche!
I had high hopes for this one as it was the most expensive rent of all. Located in a modern ultra luxury building on one of the fancier streets on the right bank with health club, pool, 24 hour doormen, the apartment was sure to be the one, right? Wrong. Tiny and cramped with a Murphy bed no less it was clear you were paying for the amenities only and considering I wouldn’t be able to spend all my waking moments in the pool, I really needed the apartment itself to be more up to par. “Moche” for the record means ugly.
33. Avenue de Versailles – also near the Radio thing – top floor with chambre de bonne, but not quite right
When I mention the Radio thing, it’s a reference to Maison de la Radio, which basically houses all the radio stations. It’s huge and ugly and the surrounding area is not much better. This apartment wasn’t bad however and with it, the upstairs “chambre de bonne” or old maid’s quarters was even included. This wasn’t a selling point though because even in the middle of February standing up there in a room big enough only for a bed, the heat was stifling and the small space claustrophobic and cramped. It didn’t make sense to spend extra money for space we would have a hard time putting to use.
32. Near the Radio thing with Antonin – modern ugly!
The broker who found us the apartment we were now moving out of was kind enough to find something else for us to look at. Thinking that the older buildings were what was causing us trouble due to the bad noise insulation, he showed me one in a modern building. Again, the French do so many things so well, but modern buildings not so much.
31. 8th near Europe – crammed with stuff – 1st floor no elevator
Again an apartment that was still inhabited by the owner and ALL of his junk piled into every nook and cranny. Lacking any imagination whatsoever, it’s difficult for me to see past anyone else’s mess, but judging from the complicated lay out, I didn’t think our stuff would be able to pile in any better.
30. Belles Feuilles – top floor of 2 story – nice, but no elevator
Belles Feuilles means “pretty leaves” and is a pretty name for a street, but the street this apartment faced was very narrow and being only two floors up didn’t feel like far enough.
29. Near Porte Maillot – 6th floor – yuk
Porte Maillot is a western entrance to Paris and a business center with a huge ugly black tower housing convention rooms, restaurants, hotels and shops. This apartment was not far and actually had a view of said ugly tower. Enough said.
28. Could be the one – top floor – 7th in the 7th!
Fabulous neighborhood, “canon” as our friend called it, which is a good thing. The building is actually made up of six buildings with separate entrances surrounding a regal courtyard. The apartment is on the top floor with spectacular views over the rooftops, plenty of light and sunshine and quiet. Completely re-done with everything brand new and clean, it seemed too good to be true so I didn’t even think about getting my hopes up. And by now, I had lost all perspective. I didn’t even know what I wanted any more. We submitted our dossier and kept looking.
27. 16th – nice, but brick wall
Again, a nice apartment, but with nothing but walls to look onto – another deal breaker that couldn’t even be remedied by the fact that this one even had a “dressing” or the French equivalent of a walk in closet.
26. 16th – nice, but brick wall
I remember this one. It was nicely furnished, spacious, but on an interior courtyard surrounded by walls giving the impression that you might actually be in prison.
25. Eiffel Tower – cute, but taken!
This was on the top floor, accessible by a flight of stairs up from the last floor accessible by the elevator. It was owned by an elderly couple who lived in the apartment below and the woman was a huge fan of New York so we thought we might have a chance. It was also one of the least expensive rent-wise that we looked at AND we found it on the PAP site, which is where owners can list their properties direct, thereby avoiding the agency fee commission. The apartment was charming, small, but with a huge terrace almost as big as the interior and a full on view of the Eiffel Tower. What was the catch you may wonder? Just that another couple had already seen it and put down a deposit.
24. 16th – nice, but no tub
The elevator was claustrophobically small, so much so that I questioned if I would ever even bother using it. The apartment had been re-done and wasn’t bad, but it had only a shower and no tub and even if I was starting to cave on almost all of my deal breakers, this one was one I couldn't live without. So on to the next.
23. Neuilly
We decided to broaden our scope and look a little bit outside of the center of Paris. Neuilly Sur Seine is a lovely suburb, more popular with wealthy young families. This apartment was in a large modern compound, completed exposed to the apartments around it. I wasn’t impressed in the least, but was glad to have made the trip because it just reinforced the fact that I wanted to stay closer to the center after all.
22. Furnished with people, too!
I felt I was close to a break down by now. The broker who showed up late had never even seen the apartment. When we walked in, it was filed with a family watching television, their laundry hanging all over the apartment and each room a different color scheme, design, disaster!
21. Furnished, next to Church!
The reason I put the exclamation is not so much because I had trouble with living next to a church, but rather with the fact that you were so close to it I felt almost as if I was being watched by a higher power. The apartment was decent, but again needed some titivating which doesn’t seem to fall on the owner’s shoulders, but rather yours and I simply didn’t feel like repairing and re-painting the walls and ceilings. Moving on.
20. Furnished, ugly, peeling shutters
Another disaster making me wonder what seriously goes through people’s minds when renting out apartments. Worst than that, I realized people actually rent these places. This one doesn’t warrant any more description.
19. Music – rue de Rome – potential, but too late
And so began round two of looking. Here, unlike in the US, you can break a lease with three months notice and provided the owner can find another tenant to take over in a timely fashion, you may not even have to pay the remaining rent. With the lack of inventory for decent rentals, ones that are don’t stay on the market long so we were free to begin our search again. The first apartment on the new quest was on rue de Rome, which is situated in a neighborhood where the streets are named after European cities and on this particular street are many stores specializing in musical instruments. The apartment was big and bright and I liked it, but there was a woman already talking to the guardian about being in touch and since I knew she would get in first, there was no point in handing in our dossier so we decided not to torture ourselves.
18. Antonin – 16th X
The X marks the fact that this in fact became the apartment we finally moved into. The broker was a friend of a friend, very sweet and he found us what for all intents and purposes was a very decent apartment. I still wanted the one on rue Passy, but the owner had refused to stop the visits until our money cleared so we couldn’t take a chance and give up on this one since it had almost all the criteria we were looking for. An apartment or house, in my opinion, has a soul and you either connect with it on some spiritual level or you don’t. Despite the fact that we signed the lease, I never connected and things went from bad to worse after we moved in. Apartments here are surprisingly “sonore” or noisy. I think a lot of it has to do with the old parquet floors that creak and groan whether or not you have carpets or rugs on top of them. Couple that with living below a family with two small children who constantly run back and forth and you have what I can only describe as your own personal hell. We moved in at the beginning of February. We had already given notice before the end of the month.
17. Furnished with stuffed ferret!
I don’t remember where this was, only that it was over furnished with among other things an overstuffed animal of some kind. It wasn’t just that the stuffed animal was creepy, but it was in a crouched position with a menacing expression as if ready to attack. Even the broker admitted this was strange and didn’t understand why people leave the things they do when showing an apartment. Have I mentioned yet that we were on just as many brokers as apartments by this point? It must be a great business because there is no shortage of them and they clearly don’t need your business because we never saw any of them again after turning down only one apartment that was shown. This would be another.
16. Modern – far away – renovation
Modern buildings in Paris are almost a revolt against the old beautiful buildings of the city. I remember someone once calling the architecture of the 70’s “early ugly” and this couldn’t be closer to the truth here. Nevertheless, we decided to give this place a go since it promised spectacular views. It was a good thing that there something to look out on since the interior of the apartment was literally in shambles. They were in the process of renovating it, but based on the look of the progress so far, we had no confidence it would be an improvement once it was over so we passed.
15. Dead ficus
I can’t remember now if this apartment came furnished or if it was just still furnished since it wasn’t available just yet. Suffice it to say looking at the dead plants only depressed me along with a somber layout and lots of vis a vis. Next…
14. Invalides – ok, but no cigar
Neighborhood was good in the 7th with a view of the front of the magnificent Invalides Monument, provided you were able to pull yourself through the side window and contort your body to view it from around the front of the building. The apartment was on the first floor of a busy street with a totally unworkable kitchen although the rest of it was spacious and with extra terrestrial closets that must have been constructed by an alien (a.k.a. an American). The broker demanded a 300 euro non-refundable deposit to check our dossier meaning if we failed, we would be reimbursed, but if we passed we were stuck with it so we passed since there was more we didn’t like than we liked.
13. Tour Eiffel – not so much
The same broker who showed us the heartbreak apartment showed us this furnished loft apartment with a giant view of the Eiffel Tower. But something about it just wasn’t right and again I felt again like I was getting a consolation prize plus the bathroom was like something out of Alice in Wonderland. I felt like a giant standing in it and probably would have had to forgo bathing in order not to feel completely claustrophobic.
12. Passy – broke my heart!
This was a breaking point for me. I loved this apartment. It was modern, newly renovated, spacious, in a great neighborhood with tons of shops and just a stone’s throw from the metro with a direct line to the office. The owner, however, was a control freak, monitoring the visits from a corner of the apartment – a corner I was too intimated to go to. We saw it at the same time as another candidate, which made it even more awkward. The broker was very professional, sophisticated. I asked her, just tell me what it’s going to take to get this place. Well it seemed simple, sort of. We should be willing to put a year’s worth of rent on a bank account that we couldn’t touch as a “caution” or guarantee. Fine. The young man apparently had a better dossier than us, but it seemed the owner would prefer a couple than a young bachelor. But there was a catch to that even. She wanted to make sure we weren’t going to have children because that’s why the previous tenants moved out. Seriously! And then if we were willing to block another six months of rent on top of the year, that would help too. That wasn’t happening, but tears were shed over this one.
11. Boétie AKA Bow tie, bathroom!
This broker was a character who wore a bow tie which I thought went along well with the name of the street that was named Boétie. The apartment was lovely although it had a strange layout and a bizarre bath/shower set up. You literally couldn’t stand to take a shower, which I noticed right away. The broker got in the tub to see how it would work and he said, “C’est faisable, mais pas evident.” It’s feasible although complicated. Indeed, you would have to crouch down while holding the shower head in your hand. It was just poorly designed period. He would look into it with the owner and if they could fix it we would take it. They didn’t accept our dossier either.
10. 6ieme modern – no, but cute broker
This one was awful, so depressing, but I was hopeful since the young broker was so cute and peppy I thought surely she would find us something better. We never heard from her again.
9. Victor Hugo :- AKA “Demanne”
My husband was more enchanted with this than I was. I think he was just beginning to panic mildly and it’s true that it wasn’t awful. One selling point was that you had an elevator access all to yourself. One drawback was the graffiti in the elevator. I preferred to think it was an adolescent vs. a gang tag especially given the upscale neighborhhood in the 16th. The kitchen was seriously “vide” with just an outlet for the water around which you could build your own sink. We nicknamed the broker “Demanne” because he was a Southerner and that’s how he said “demain” or tomorrow. We deposited our dossier, but we never even heard from him “demain” or ever again.
8. Monceau 2 :-
That symbol is supposed to indicate that it wasn’t really smiley worthy even if it wasn’t awful. It was in the same building as the former apartment, but it was one flight above in a renovated suite of “chambres de bonnes,” or maids’ quarters. So the layout was a lot of little rooms with narrow hallways connecting them. I wasn’t as impressed with the view, albeit of the Eiffel Tower, since the mansard roofs cut off quite a bit of liveable space. I wasn’t happy with this consolation prize, but not to worry since our dossier wasn’t accepted here either!
7. Monceau ☺
Ah this was where things were starting to look up, hence the smiley face. It was a grand apartment just opposite the beautiful gates of the Park Monceau. It had a beautiful entry with a talking elevator and although the apartment faced an interior courtyard, it was high enough that you could still see sky. It was the biggest we had seen so far. Dossier deposited. Dossier not accepted.
6. Goblins!
I have to admit I don’t remember what was wrong with this one, which may be for the best. The fact that I had written an exclamation next to it says a lot. Perhaps it was too painful to chronicle in any further detail. Goblins, for the record is a location, not a reference to the apartment being possessed or haunted, although perhaps that's one of the things that was actually wrong with it.
5. No show at all
This was a broker who just never showed. It was particularly disheartening since we schlepped out in a snowstorm to see the place. Not only did she not show up, but we never even heard from her again. At this point, I was beginning to get discouraged.
4. No show – workers let me in
Yes, the owner himself who we were dealing with couldn’t even bother to show up. There were workers there doing much needed renovations on the apartment so I snuck in with them, but the renovations I saw wouldn’t be enough.
3. Rashida #2
This was the second apartment shown to us by the same broker who showed us the previous one on Ile St. Louis. I was willing to give her a second chance since I felt I had made it clear how completely inappropriate the first one was. I was wrong. Granted the next one wasn’t a total tear down, but the ceilings were so low, I felt that I would need to bend down going from room to room and we were only two floors up from a hideously busy street. Hated it, although she was very attractive. I named her Rashida because she reminded me of the equally attractive former minister Rashida Dati, who is now actually the mayor of our current arrondisement. Next…
2. Ile St. Louis – wreck!
This was only a few doors from our temporary apartment. I’ve never seen anything like it. The apartment needed to be demolished and re-constructed. I felt like it was a bad joke. Enough said.
1. Mr. Le Fevre – Wagram
I was struck with the formality of the young real estate broker who insisted that we could speak English. After a few words, I realized that it was much better if we stuck to French, but didn’t want to insult him. I remember the apartment had an elegant entry and there was even a door mat that looked like the American flag which I took as a good sign. I laugh when looking back on it because it was probably one of the nicest apartments I saw, but I instantly dismissed it due to the “vis a vis” meaning it faced an interior courtyard with views only of other apartments. It also had absolutely not one closet and a kitchen that was completely "vide” or empty. So not only were there no appliances, relatively common, but there weren’t even any shelves or cupboards. I explained I needed more light at which point the broker immediately dismissed visiting the next apartment on his list. Apparently, it was “sous sol” or below ground – yikes! At the beginning my husband and I had a whole list of criteria. We thought it would be helpful for the brokers to know what we wanted. We learned quickly that not only was it not helpful for them, it wasn’t welcome. We never heard from Mr. Le Fevre again.
Appartement
n. – apartment
As I may have mentioned, I looked at almost 40 apartments before settling into the one we love here. That included moving twice from the original temporary apartment where we started on Ile St. Louis.
The Ile St. Louis, one of the oldest parts of Paris and an island that is located directly in between the left and right banks, is charming and quaint. However, although it’s in the center, it can feel a little isolated and the neighborhood, being so small, gets familiar quickly.
We moved under pressure, as our temporary lease was running out, to the 16th. It’s a lovely neighborhood and a very large arrondissement so much so that it has two postal codes for the Northern and Southern parts. But where we were was not very “vivant,” or lively. And as a contrast to the stillness outside our door, we had very noisy neighbors living above which rendered the situation unfeasible.
With reluctance, we moved out almost as quickly as we moved in, but we finally found our nest in the 7th. We’re on the top floor therefore eliminating unruly neighbors above and have a lovely view of the “toiles” or rooftops of Paris including a little glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I kept a list of all the places I saw with one or two words that I scrolled next to them at the time which I thought made up an interesting observation of the apartment hunt adventure. So following will be some short blogs on each to make up for my first quarter hiatus.
As I may have mentioned, I looked at almost 40 apartments before settling into the one we love here. That included moving twice from the original temporary apartment where we started on Ile St. Louis.
The Ile St. Louis, one of the oldest parts of Paris and an island that is located directly in between the left and right banks, is charming and quaint. However, although it’s in the center, it can feel a little isolated and the neighborhood, being so small, gets familiar quickly.
We moved under pressure, as our temporary lease was running out, to the 16th. It’s a lovely neighborhood and a very large arrondissement so much so that it has two postal codes for the Northern and Southern parts. But where we were was not very “vivant,” or lively. And as a contrast to the stillness outside our door, we had very noisy neighbors living above which rendered the situation unfeasible.
With reluctance, we moved out almost as quickly as we moved in, but we finally found our nest in the 7th. We’re on the top floor therefore eliminating unruly neighbors above and have a lovely view of the “toiles” or rooftops of Paris including a little glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I kept a list of all the places I saw with one or two words that I scrolled next to them at the time which I thought made up an interesting observation of the apartment hunt adventure. So following will be some short blogs on each to make up for my first quarter hiatus.
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