n. – mould
Faux plafond
n. – dropped ceiling
The day following a torrential rainstorm earlier this month, we awoke to a loud crash. I knew what it was right away without even looking – the ceiling in the kitchen had collapsed. Well, in order not to over exaggerate, it wasn’t the entire ceiling, but rather one of the “plaques” or panels that separates it from the roof allowing for the spot lighting that we have.
Nevertheless, it was a mess with water and plaster everywhere. We had warned the owner that we had seen some cracks and the day before I could hear dripping even though I couldn’t see any water. So when my husband called to tell her the latest news, it couldn’t have come as a surprise. He pointed out that it was a good thing neither one of us were standing in the kitchen at the time to which she actually had the nerve to respond that the panels aren’t that heavy. Trust me, we picked up the pieces (literally) and I wouldn’t want something not that heavy falling on my head!
This was two weeks ago and given that it’s July and everyone in Paris is on vacation, not only has it not been repaired, but nobody has even come to assess the damage. I had a mini fit about the mould that had gathered on what was now our ceiling, but after cleaning that off with a sponge in rubber gloves and protective face mask, I’ve become resigned to the fact that this could take not days, but maybe weeks or even months to rectify.
You see that’s the beauty of July and August in France. It’s as if the months don’t even exist because life in its normal pace simply doesn’t. Several years ago when they had the “canicule” or heatwave that left many elderly dead, it was primarily the result of the “vacances.” People were away and not checking on their older relatives and that coupled with nursing staff also reduced because of vacation, led to a tragedy that rocked the country.
A little air conditioning might come in handy, but people say the same thing every summer when it gets hot – “c’est exceptional,” it’s exceptional. But it isn’t if it happens every summer! It’s that stubbornness that is a characteristic of the French. And while it helps secure so many of the wonderful traditions that mark the French lifestyle, it can also be a bit of a hindrance as the world changes.
So while they may not always be that adaptable, I have become more so. That combined with patience and a healthy sense of humour is what gets me through the frustrating moments. And somehow, things work out – after all it can’t stay summer all year long and eventually people have to come back. Until then, I remain zen and just hope that it doesn’t rain hard again any time soon.
Jul 29, 2010
Filleul
n. – godson
Last year for the first time I was asked to be a godmother. I was deeply honoured. We were in New York for a visit when my friend told me the news of her pregnancy. I was so thrilled for her and her husband, a fellow Franco-American couple like us. We went out to dinner that night with my husband and hers who asked me if I thought I would be a good mother. I replied that I thought I would be a good mother even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mother. I thought it was a strange question since his wife was the one who was pregnant, not me. He kept repeating the question until finally I understood through his slightly accented English that he was asking me if I would be the godmother!
I couldn’t wait to tell people. As soon as we got back to Paris I proudly told our friends that I was going to be a “marraine” or godmother. People were very excited for me. I was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl. I reminisced about my own godmother, a fascinating woman who was one of a few colonels in the army at the time and this was a while back. She was widowed twice and never had any children of her own. She had the discipline of someone in the army. When the Surgeon General issued the first warning about cigarette smoking, she quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey. She held herself ramrod straight, but at the same time was feminine, elegant and gracious. I adored her.
So I felt that she would be my role model to be the perfect godmother. She was the first person to take me to Disneyland and I would have sleep-overs at her house where we would talk about grown up things. It was a wonderful relationship, nurturing and non-judgmental. And this is the relationship I wanted with my goddaughter.
The results from the first sonogram were in. I was having a godson! So a few mental adjustments were made – I was no less thrilled, but it would just mean that I wouldn’t be giving him the little gold baby bracelet of mine that I had kept for all these years.
I did quite a bit of research into godparenting. From what I could find, godmother and godson are both one word and are not capitalized. Traditionally the godmother is supposed to ensure the spiritual education of the baby where the godfather or “parrain” is to ensure the financial security in case anything should happen to the parents. The mother’s brother is the godfather.
I followed the pregnancy closely with frequent emails from my friend as well as online research of what to expect at the different stages. When the baby was finally born, they called me and I cried. Into the world arrived seven plus pounds of pure perfection named Preston. And his godmother couldn’t have been prouder.
My first sight of him apart from photos was via Skype. I felt so close, but at the same time so far. I couldn’t wait for our trip to New York for the “Baptême” or Baptism. I did more research on that to understand if there was a difference between that and Christening, but the only nuance is that they used to use the word Christening since it was where the child was given his or her Christian name. It’s interesting because when my friend was telling my about names they had chosen, the girl’s name would have been the same as my maternal and my husband’s paternal grandmother. Instead, my godson’s first name is actually the maiden name of my friend, which I think is lovely and his middle name is coincidentally the same as my maternal grandfather, who sadly I never knew, and my beloved uncle who just recently passed on. So I felt a connection with all of that as well.
The ceremony was wonderful, the baby slept peacefully and we bonded during our all too brief visit. I held this precious two-month bundle of love and happiness until we finally had to make our way back to Paris.
Lucky me because two months later, I was back on a plane this time to act as nanny fill-in for three days. It was a delight to spend so much quality time with my little godson, enjoying the rhythm of an infant’s life – sleep, eat, change, play or maybe sleep, play, change, eat. I would watch his little face in repose, sleeping so soundly and then watch it come to life and his studious observation of me and his surroundings. And then there would be a smile, bright and wide and really very few tears. We got along swimmingly and I enjoyed every second.
It’s true that it’s work, no doubt about that. I guess I looked more tired than I thought at the end of it because when we went to the doctor for his four-month check-up, the doctor asked if I was the grandmother. Yikes! I’m 16 years older than my friend so I suppose theoretically, I could be, but still. I felt the doctor could have erred on the side of caution and asked if I was the aunt or even just a friend or maybe just asked who I was. I’m sure she was mortified – as she should be! I sympathized with little Preston after she gave him his shots. As the poor little guy cried briefly from the pain, I agreed with him that she was a mean doctor.
The next time I see my godson, he will be almost seven months old. I know the time will go quickly, but I can’t wait yet again to see how he’s changed and enjoy spending time with him. It’s true that children are gifts so by sharing their son with me by giving me the role of godmother, my friends have given me the greatest gift of all. For that I will always be touched and grateful.
Last year for the first time I was asked to be a godmother. I was deeply honoured. We were in New York for a visit when my friend told me the news of her pregnancy. I was so thrilled for her and her husband, a fellow Franco-American couple like us. We went out to dinner that night with my husband and hers who asked me if I thought I would be a good mother. I replied that I thought I would be a good mother even though I wasn’t sure if I would ever be a mother. I thought it was a strange question since his wife was the one who was pregnant, not me. He kept repeating the question until finally I understood through his slightly accented English that he was asking me if I would be the godmother!
I couldn’t wait to tell people. As soon as we got back to Paris I proudly told our friends that I was going to be a “marraine” or godmother. People were very excited for me. I was convinced that the baby was going to be a girl. I reminisced about my own godmother, a fascinating woman who was one of a few colonels in the army at the time and this was a while back. She was widowed twice and never had any children of her own. She had the discipline of someone in the army. When the Surgeon General issued the first warning about cigarette smoking, she quit a three pack a day habit cold turkey. She held herself ramrod straight, but at the same time was feminine, elegant and gracious. I adored her.
So I felt that she would be my role model to be the perfect godmother. She was the first person to take me to Disneyland and I would have sleep-overs at her house where we would talk about grown up things. It was a wonderful relationship, nurturing and non-judgmental. And this is the relationship I wanted with my goddaughter.
The results from the first sonogram were in. I was having a godson! So a few mental adjustments were made – I was no less thrilled, but it would just mean that I wouldn’t be giving him the little gold baby bracelet of mine that I had kept for all these years.
I did quite a bit of research into godparenting. From what I could find, godmother and godson are both one word and are not capitalized. Traditionally the godmother is supposed to ensure the spiritual education of the baby where the godfather or “parrain” is to ensure the financial security in case anything should happen to the parents. The mother’s brother is the godfather.
I followed the pregnancy closely with frequent emails from my friend as well as online research of what to expect at the different stages. When the baby was finally born, they called me and I cried. Into the world arrived seven plus pounds of pure perfection named Preston. And his godmother couldn’t have been prouder.
My first sight of him apart from photos was via Skype. I felt so close, but at the same time so far. I couldn’t wait for our trip to New York for the “Baptême” or Baptism. I did more research on that to understand if there was a difference between that and Christening, but the only nuance is that they used to use the word Christening since it was where the child was given his or her Christian name. It’s interesting because when my friend was telling my about names they had chosen, the girl’s name would have been the same as my maternal and my husband’s paternal grandmother. Instead, my godson’s first name is actually the maiden name of my friend, which I think is lovely and his middle name is coincidentally the same as my maternal grandfather, who sadly I never knew, and my beloved uncle who just recently passed on. So I felt a connection with all of that as well.
The ceremony was wonderful, the baby slept peacefully and we bonded during our all too brief visit. I held this precious two-month bundle of love and happiness until we finally had to make our way back to Paris.
Lucky me because two months later, I was back on a plane this time to act as nanny fill-in for three days. It was a delight to spend so much quality time with my little godson, enjoying the rhythm of an infant’s life – sleep, eat, change, play or maybe sleep, play, change, eat. I would watch his little face in repose, sleeping so soundly and then watch it come to life and his studious observation of me and his surroundings. And then there would be a smile, bright and wide and really very few tears. We got along swimmingly and I enjoyed every second.
It’s true that it’s work, no doubt about that. I guess I looked more tired than I thought at the end of it because when we went to the doctor for his four-month check-up, the doctor asked if I was the grandmother. Yikes! I’m 16 years older than my friend so I suppose theoretically, I could be, but still. I felt the doctor could have erred on the side of caution and asked if I was the aunt or even just a friend or maybe just asked who I was. I’m sure she was mortified – as she should be! I sympathized with little Preston after she gave him his shots. As the poor little guy cried briefly from the pain, I agreed with him that she was a mean doctor.
The next time I see my godson, he will be almost seven months old. I know the time will go quickly, but I can’t wait yet again to see how he’s changed and enjoy spending time with him. It’s true that children are gifts so by sharing their son with me by giving me the role of godmother, my friends have given me the greatest gift of all. For that I will always be touched and grateful.
Jul 8, 2010
Blague
n. – joke
Rigoler
v. – to joke
Our local butcher is a very jolly fellow – almost a young Kris Kringle type without the beard and with less of a girth. He’s always making jokes – asking how many hundred of pounds of this or that I want. At first, I had trouble getting them because his method is very tongue in cheek, but now I’ve caught on. So today when I went in to ask for some veal, he asked me how many dozens of cuts I wanted. I thought I was very clever by responding, “une sixieme d’une douzaine” or a sixth of a dozen so in other words, two. I guess he didn’t get my humor either though since he started cutting six pieces.
Back when we first arrived in Paris and were living on the Ile St. Louis, there was a very hot butcher as he was known on the island. I wrote about him in an earlier posting, but what I should have done was take a picture of him! On the other hand, thanks to my mother who was here at Christmas, I have a picture of our current butcher, not hot, but very pleasant.
My hairdresser is quite handsome and the grocer is a bit of a player, but everyone these days is hot – whether attractive or not. The main topic of conversation lately is the “chaleur” or heat. The French are living in fear of another “canicule” or heat wave. A little “clime” or air conditioning would go a long way, but I doubt I will see that in my lifetime if ever. We make due with a giant “ventilateur” or fan and it suffices.
It’s surprising that especially the French women don’t put up more of a fuss. I say this because recently I was having a conversation with an Italian woman about working out, more specifically, power yoga and how it’s not that common here where as a more gentle practise is preferred. She explained that French women don’t like to sweat.
We’re all creatures of habit, which is why it can be challenging to move to a different way of life. I remember discussing the showerhead dilemma with a former French intern of mine who had lived in New York for six months. Where I can’t understand why they can’t be attached, she couldn’t understand how you could take a shower without being able to remove it from the wall. Personally I prefer having both my hands free in the shower, especially when washing my hair, but to each his own.
Here the windows don’t have screens, another topic I’m sure I’ve broached. It’s lovely for the view, but not helpful in dissuading bugs from coming in. Last year, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and just the other day I was attacked by a giant moth. I never had these issues in New York, but wouldn’t you know that the tenant renting my apartment there now, who happens to be French, asked me if she could actually remove the screens.
So it all comes down to what you’re used to and the beauty of adaptability is that you get used to more and more things. That’s why change should be looked as an opportunity - to learn how to live with or without different things and to grow as a result.
Rigoler
v. – to joke
Our local butcher is a very jolly fellow – almost a young Kris Kringle type without the beard and with less of a girth. He’s always making jokes – asking how many hundred of pounds of this or that I want. At first, I had trouble getting them because his method is very tongue in cheek, but now I’ve caught on. So today when I went in to ask for some veal, he asked me how many dozens of cuts I wanted. I thought I was very clever by responding, “une sixieme d’une douzaine” or a sixth of a dozen so in other words, two. I guess he didn’t get my humor either though since he started cutting six pieces.
Back when we first arrived in Paris and were living on the Ile St. Louis, there was a very hot butcher as he was known on the island. I wrote about him in an earlier posting, but what I should have done was take a picture of him! On the other hand, thanks to my mother who was here at Christmas, I have a picture of our current butcher, not hot, but very pleasant.
My hairdresser is quite handsome and the grocer is a bit of a player, but everyone these days is hot – whether attractive or not. The main topic of conversation lately is the “chaleur” or heat. The French are living in fear of another “canicule” or heat wave. A little “clime” or air conditioning would go a long way, but I doubt I will see that in my lifetime if ever. We make due with a giant “ventilateur” or fan and it suffices.
It’s surprising that especially the French women don’t put up more of a fuss. I say this because recently I was having a conversation with an Italian woman about working out, more specifically, power yoga and how it’s not that common here where as a more gentle practise is preferred. She explained that French women don’t like to sweat.
We’re all creatures of habit, which is why it can be challenging to move to a different way of life. I remember discussing the showerhead dilemma with a former French intern of mine who had lived in New York for six months. Where I can’t understand why they can’t be attached, she couldn’t understand how you could take a shower without being able to remove it from the wall. Personally I prefer having both my hands free in the shower, especially when washing my hair, but to each his own.
Here the windows don’t have screens, another topic I’m sure I’ve broached. It’s lovely for the view, but not helpful in dissuading bugs from coming in. Last year, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and just the other day I was attacked by a giant moth. I never had these issues in New York, but wouldn’t you know that the tenant renting my apartment there now, who happens to be French, asked me if she could actually remove the screens.
So it all comes down to what you’re used to and the beauty of adaptability is that you get used to more and more things. That’s why change should be looked as an opportunity - to learn how to live with or without different things and to grow as a result.
Jul 7, 2010
Lentement
adj. – slowly
I think I’ve made this observation before, but Paris is not a place where you want to be in a hurry. As I walk along at my somewhat fast pace, I’m often forced to slow down for a number of reasons. First of all there are a lot of stoplights in Paris and while you don’t risk a ticket if you cross against them, with the circular streets, it’s not often a safe idea. Cars can come out of nowhere from a direction you didn’t even realize was crossing your path so I tend to play it safe and wait until the little man has gone green in the crossing sign. Unlike in other places where there is a flashing between the green and red options, here he goes from green directly to red giving you little idea of how much time you really have left and again forcing you to err on the side of caution and wait rather than crossing at your peril.
The sidewalks are often small, in some case with barely enough room for people to walk abreast. If people do choose to walk this way though, it leaves absolutely no room for the oncoming people yet there is a stubbornness about the Parisians where they refuse to budge forcing you, the oncomer, into the street. The sidewalks are also uneven and often made of cobblestones, another impetus to fleeting feet.
Running an errand is an oxymoron here. It’s really more like walking an errand or even waiting an errand. There’s no rush anywhere ever. Lunches or dinners can take hours. I would say a dinner is a commitment of three hours minimum. First there’s the half hour factor for running late. Then by the time it takes to order, you should be able to have committed the menu to memory. Dessert, followed by coffee will easily add another half an hour and asking for and then paying the check could take another half an hour on top of that.
Today I was in a Subway sandwich shop - please don't judge me. Let’s just say it’s not run with the same lightening speed efficiency I’m used to in New York. It can hardly be called fast food here because it’s anything but. I supposed it serves me right though to eat that kind of fare in one of the culinary capitals of the world.
I sometimes marvel at how quickly the days go by here, but I realize it’s simply because everything takes so long and before you know it, the day is over and your list isn’t. Well there’s always tomorrow to surely, but slowly, start it all over again.
I think I’ve made this observation before, but Paris is not a place where you want to be in a hurry. As I walk along at my somewhat fast pace, I’m often forced to slow down for a number of reasons. First of all there are a lot of stoplights in Paris and while you don’t risk a ticket if you cross against them, with the circular streets, it’s not often a safe idea. Cars can come out of nowhere from a direction you didn’t even realize was crossing your path so I tend to play it safe and wait until the little man has gone green in the crossing sign. Unlike in other places where there is a flashing between the green and red options, here he goes from green directly to red giving you little idea of how much time you really have left and again forcing you to err on the side of caution and wait rather than crossing at your peril.
The sidewalks are often small, in some case with barely enough room for people to walk abreast. If people do choose to walk this way though, it leaves absolutely no room for the oncoming people yet there is a stubbornness about the Parisians where they refuse to budge forcing you, the oncomer, into the street. The sidewalks are also uneven and often made of cobblestones, another impetus to fleeting feet.
Running an errand is an oxymoron here. It’s really more like walking an errand or even waiting an errand. There’s no rush anywhere ever. Lunches or dinners can take hours. I would say a dinner is a commitment of three hours minimum. First there’s the half hour factor for running late. Then by the time it takes to order, you should be able to have committed the menu to memory. Dessert, followed by coffee will easily add another half an hour and asking for and then paying the check could take another half an hour on top of that.
Today I was in a Subway sandwich shop - please don't judge me. Let’s just say it’s not run with the same lightening speed efficiency I’m used to in New York. It can hardly be called fast food here because it’s anything but. I supposed it serves me right though to eat that kind of fare in one of the culinary capitals of the world.
I sometimes marvel at how quickly the days go by here, but I realize it’s simply because everything takes so long and before you know it, the day is over and your list isn’t. Well there’s always tomorrow to surely, but slowly, start it all over again.
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