An American in Paris

I have not had a Thanksgiving dinner in Paris yet. When I lived in NYC and came to Paris to avoid family, we could have a lovely meal but the idea of Thanksgiving was far from our minds. Last year was my first living here and I just ignored the holiday. This year I was planning to do the same, but my friend Christine was coming to dinner on the day and Helmut said, "well, if it is Thanksgiving, why don't we do Thanksgiving?" Well, hmm... ah... uhmm... I guess why not? Well, one reason of course is the Turkey. The bird is not eaten in Europe often, and we would have had to order it. Since we decided to do this the day before, I just don't think that is happening. Also, the meal would be a bit incomprehensible to a Frenchman. While theater, as we know it in NYC, is not really part of the culture here, dinner has taken its place. There are different "acts" (entrée, plat, fromage, dessert) and it is the entertainment for the evening. The free-for-all that is...

This post is for the music geeks out there. I have thought that moving to Europe would give me the ability to travel to various places more easily. I think that in the US, the "TRIP TO EUROPE" in capital letters and as many quotes as you can give it, is a right of passage and, for some, a once in a lifetime event. Literally. For me, Europe has always been a place I love to go. Years ago, I would come to Paris every Thanksgiving, both to avoid family and see a city I loved. Now, though, Paris is my home base and the entire continent is my oyster. There is something here called EasyJet: a small airline that charges less than 100 euros to get almost anywhere in Europe. Yes, you can only take one bag; yes, you are treated like cattle; yes, it is uncomfortable. In fact, I swear they try to make you suffer a bit. For instance, they always have stairs involved and curbs. You are required to have a carry-on back so you would think that ramps would be the thing. Noooo! Their termin...

We are struck again with terrorism. I guess this is the way of life. I have had the distinct fortune of being in NYC on 9/11 and Paris on 11/13. There have been attacks on other cities in other countries, but these have been personal. This time in Paris, though, it hit my home neighborhood, the 11th Arrondissement. On this Friday the 13th, Helmut, Laure and I were outdoors, having dinner at Chez Mamy , one of our favorite restaurants. We heard from the owner that there had been a shooting around the corner and they wanted us to move indoors. Helmut and Laure were both skeptical, but I immediately posted on Facebook that there were odd goings-on and I was safe, but still out and about. Having been through 9/11, I did not want to get caught and not be able to tell people I was OK. Laure began to panic and left us; she was almost in tears. I have checked with her and she is still very shaken by these events (the café was across the street from her apartment). It has been a little over...

Over the last weekend, Helmut and I got married. This is both much bigger and smaller than it seems, or at least it started out that way. Smaller, because the main reason for doing it was the paperwork: I am here as a tourist and I need to have more reason to be in Paris than being a tourist. It is bigger for me because marriage has never been on my radar, so it was never anything I aspired to. Helmut has been deep in this pool, and has had a very long relationship with a woman (3 children) but never married because he doesn't believe in marriage for anyone (too many benefits arbitrarily given to those within and withheld from those without the institution). So, even with this, we decided to do it. After we decided to do it, Helmut decided he wanted to have rings. Wow, that made it somehow bigger and more important. We decided to do this in NYC. France and Paris, specifically, love their paperwork. Since neither of us are French, we would have had to get our birth certifica...

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...