An American in Paris

I have learned that when you are living in a language that is not native to you, you must be flexible and make the most of the situation. I was having lunch with Helmut at our "gluten free" cafe. We call it that, not because it actually is gluten free, but when they first opened, they served everything with bulgar wheat. I mean everything. Yes, I know anything with wheat has gluten. Yes, I know that if they serve that they are not now, nor will be gluten free. Just go with it for now. Anyway, I don't always know every word of things when I order them, but for the most part I get the gist. As you probably realise, this can sometimes go awry. Like the time I was out with English speaking clients of Helmut. I saw a pavé on the menu. This has always been beef, so I told them so and the beef was always excellent. That night I found out that  pavé means filet. Many times that is beef; sometimes it is fish. Anyway, back to our Gluten Free lunch. I saw on the menu an item...

Lakewood, New Jersey was well past its prime by the time I became cognisant. It had had its heydays of being a Jewish resort and then the center of egg production during the second World War. The resort hotels were still there but barely hanging on, disappearing via an annual immolation (or so it seemed) and the dilapidated chicken coops were torn down when someone came up with a better use for the land. Even though we were about 20 minutes from the shore, the town latched onto the Jersey Shore connection for dear life and so my family did its civic duty and went to the beach. Every Sunday throughout the year we had our ritual but it was enhanced during the summer. We began with 9AM mass (which later got moved to 8:45 to accommodate traffic), which of course meant getting up at 7:30 to prep. This prep did not include breakfast (that was after mass) but showers, putting on our suits and getting to the church. We were always late, mostly because of my mother. She of course always blame...

This year we have taken the exodus from Paris with the rest of humanity. We are traveling to Italy in the stiletto of the country's boot; more or less, the end of the line for Italy. Because it is summer, we are eating, drinking spritzes in the afternoon and seeing cathedrals in old cities. For me, though, the most unusual aspect of this summer outing is going to the beach (for Helmut, this is a natural, even a requirement). For me, it is a an activity filled with dread at times. One takes one for the team sometimes. Having been brought up at the shore in New Jersey, I am used to very fine sand. Sure, there can be an area of slightly bigger gravel where the waves break, but mostly powder. This is a good thing since I have the most tender feet in the world. Not just I-take-care-of-my-feet tender (which I do not), but there-is-something-genetically-wrong-with-me tender. You would think this is something to envy, but believe me, it is not. I cannot walk on anything remotely rough o...

My  friend Joey graduated from Columbia this year. I could have gone to the ceremony, but instead, I am flying her to Paris for three weeks. She majored in architectural history, studied French for 2 years and has never been to Europe. I know! Could not have been a more obvious choice.  Joey is staying at the apartment of a friend of mine here, who is elsewhere on her own vacation. Joey is here alone to start and the boys (her husband Ben and their 10-year old son, Owen) will follow in about a week. I have a few things planned, but mostly time together. Joey and I stay in touch but we both miss our time together. When she was in school, we would have lunch every Thursday and mull over the issues of the day. This time in Paris is a joyous time for me; time to reconnect and to get closer. It has a touch of sadness as well. When this time is over, when will we be able to do this again? No, not for now. Now we will revel in the time we have.  Of course we have to see some of ...

I am currently on a "tourist" visa in France. That means that every three months, I need to exit the country and re-enter to go through customs. This seems to be standard procedure worldwide and I have heard the same routine for friends of mine in the US who are non-citizens. Helmut has been telling me that this is unimportant because I am an American who is not looking for support from the state and there should be no problem. I am always a bit leery when he says "should be" because there is no real recovery when this assumptions turns out to be off or plain wrong. As I started researching other more permanent solutions to the immigration issue, I see again and again that you should never overstay the 3-month limit and there are dire consequences throughout the EU if you do. I am now 3 weeks over my 3-months. Looks like it is time to take a trip.  I can go anywhere in the world that will stamp my passport, but I am running into a problem in that I don't want...

Today in Paris we are having the most stunning weather. Not a cloud in the sky, sunny, warm, an ever-so-slight breeze. If it were two degrees warmer it might be too hot but it is just right. I feel that the weather here is quite different than in NYC. It can be sunny and warm, and then cloud up and rain for ten minutes, then become windy and cold. If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes. But today? Perfect. It is also the day Helmut has put together a cocktail party for my quilt. It is a celebration of my five year project. He has invited friends and some professionals, but no expectations. Just a moment to breathe and enjoy the accomplishment.  Tomorrow and the next day I have my first concerts with the Melomen, the gay chorus here in Paris. But that is in the future and I just want to enjoy my place here for the moment. If you are in Paris today and did not get an invite, forgive me and drop me a note. I will give you the info to come; I would love to see you. ...

Tonight we went to a little place in the neighborhood called Balls (http://www.ballsrestaurant.com). It is a very smart resto, having an extremely limited menu, namely meatballs. You choose the meat (pork, beef, chicken, vegetarian) the sauce (tomato or yoghurt) and the side ( polenta, risotto, salad or vegetables). Simple enough but definitely satisfying. It attracts a young after-work crowd and we have gotten to know the owners.  The usually have a special, so I looked on the menu, and it says: Balls du jour (voir ardoise) Now at this point, I am pretty good with food in French and I can usually figure out what the items are. Even if I don't know it specifically, I can at least figure out if it is poultry, fish or beef. This time I am at a complete loss.  "Helmut, what is voir ardoise ?" "Ardoise." This is Helmut's usual first volley when I ask the meaning of something: repeat the word. I am not sure if he thinks by repeating it I will understand it or if ...