Paris was never forever

This one's gonna hurt, posse.  It is time.


People keep asking us if we're happy to leave Paris.  The answer is no, we're not happy to leave Paris -- in fact, we're quite devastated about it -- but at the same time we're ready to leave Paris.  Paris could never be forever for us; it takes too much energy, mental and physical, to live here, and we are quite sloth-like by nature.


But we're going to miss it.  My God, we're going to miss it.

 This is where we lived.  42 rue Dauphine. 

 photo by Chloe Lodge

Someday there will be a plaque next to this front door telling awestruck tourists I lived there.  

Or maybe not.

 

This was Lucien's school

This was "my" cafe on rue de Buci.  Cafe de Paris.

This was the supermarket from hell on rue de Seine

If you come to Paris and happen by these places, blow them a kiss for me.  Even the grocery store.  I've come to peace with that place -- it helped my skin thicken like no other and that is truly a gift.

 photo by Chloe Lodge

 photo by Chloe Lodge

 Photo by Chloe Lodge

 

 

goddamn tiny elevator

photo by Chloe Lodge

photo by Chloe Lodge

Thank you, posse.  Thank you for sticking with me through three years of making a jerk of myself and being sick and getting yelled at and learning French and traveling and seeing penises and having unanticipated babies named Coco and struggling through the French system with a loud kid named Lucien.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for your support; there were many days it made all the difference between laughing and crying.

 photo by Chloe Lodge

 photo by Chloe Lodge

photo by Chloe Lodge

photo by Chloe Lodge

 photo by Chloe Lodge

I'm going to post here again when we get back to Seattle, just to let you know I am once again an American mom in America.  I'm also going to start a new blog in Seattle but I imagine since many of you were here for stories of Paris, I'm going to lose most of you.  To those who are moving on to the other bazillion Paris bloggers, thank you for sharing the ride.  You made it so much more fun.  To those who are coming with me, prepare yourselves.  I am going to make fun of Americans and spy on my supermodel neighbor.  If we ever get the goddamn house, that is.

I'll start the Seattle blog as soon as I find my way out of Costco.  I hear it's big and scary!

 photo by Chloe Lodge

So there it is.  Three years gone.  Holy motherf*ckin' balls (one final swear, for old time's sake).

Merci, Paris.  And thank you, thank you, thank you, posse.   

 how perfect is it she's screaming her head off for the heart-wrenching goodbye bow?

I was An American Mom in Paris and it changed everything.
Au revoir, mes choux...
Mindy

My feelings in pictures

The inevitable list

The first picture I took, taken the day we arrived.  January 1, 2009

I'm going to miss the little things about Paris:

• Hearing French all around me all the time.
• Being able to understand a slightly higher percentage of that French than when I first arrived.
• Elderly men in old suits riding bikes with baguettes in the front basket.
• Tourists dragging their flat-tired Velibs to Velib stations with mangled baguettes in the front baskets. 

Look how little he is.  Look how Seattle I am.  January 2009

• Adults who ride scooters to work -- the foot-powered kind.
• The adult man who rides a Segway through Saint Germain and doesn't give a sh*t everyone thinks he's an idiot.
• The early morning smell of baking bread in our apartment, compliments of the boulangerie below.
• The early, early morning sound of the garbage trucks -- every morning -- that always let me know it will be an acceptable time to wake up in two more hours.

June 2009

• The beauty of French men -- thin, perfectly tailored suit, floppy hair, scarf.
• The way those beautiful French men act as my mirror.  French men will flirt with anything.  So if they look at me like they want to devour me, I know I look semi-OK.  If they pay me no attention at all, I know I look like a hideous beast and should return home and hide in the closet for the remainder of the day.  It's a good thing I've never looked really, really good or else they would probably rip off their clothes and chase me down the street howling like wolves.

October 2009

• Feeling safe, even when walking home alone late at night.
• Never having to choose between drinking or driving because duh, no car, let's drink like motherf*ckers.
• The "Europe smell," that smell that's in the air as soon as you walk outside. Tough to describe but kind of smells like history.  (Seattle smells like teen spirit HA HA totally awesome Nirvana joke) 
• S.O.S. Medecins.  I don't know what people do when their kids get sick late at night back in the U.S. but I bet I'm not gonna like it.

January 2010

• The maitre d' who wears black pointy-toed shoes with hot pink laces.  
• That same maitre d' who suggested I take off my shirt when I spilled wine on it and then I almost did it because FRENCH MEN, PEOPLE, FRENCH MEN. 

June 2010 God help us all

• Narrow streets full of strolling people holding hands.
• The freedom to push those stupid strolling people to the ground if they're in my way and I'm in a hurry.

 

September 2010

• Jazz bands playing on the street for no darn good reason.
• Beautiful French men peeing on buildings in broad daylight for no darn good reason because hello, there's a cafe right there stupid.

December 2010

• Men wearing brightly colored pants.  (Today I saw one in yellow and one in brick red.)
• Me wearing brightly colored pants with zero self-consciousness.  (Today I wore green.) 

March 2011

• The people in our neighborhood who say "bonjour"every day, like boutique man downstairs and the hairdresser up the street, who both think the sun rises and sets on Coco.
• The people who say "bonjour" when I walk into the grocery store -- and by "saying bonjour," I mean scowling and glaring at me with contempt.  They don't give a sh*t where the sun rises and sets.

 

July 2011

• Sitting at "my" cafe early in the morning and watching all the cafe workers on the street setting up shop, calling out to each other and waving. 

August 2011

• Waking up and thinking, "Holy sh*t I live in Paris."
• Waking up the next day and thinking, "Holy sh*t I live in Paris."

October 2011

OK, looking at all those pictures just about did me in.  Jesus Christ, who else needs a motherf*ckin' drink around here?  Sorry about the language, Mom, but I'm VERY UNSTABLE RIGHT NOW.

Feelings are a real bitch,
MJ

I'm what would happen if Seattle and Paris had a baby

Friends bought us that Seattle magnet over to the left years ago.  When we came to Paris, I made sure the magnet came, too, and found a prominent place on our teeny-tiny refrigerator.  I wanted to make sure we stayed in touch with our Seattle grittiness.

I don't know if it worked.  Is it "gritty" to wear skinny jeans and tie a scarf around your neck that's so large it looks like you're being choked to death by a boa constrictor?

(And yes, the Pierre Herme macaron flavors card will be coming back to Seattle and will find a prominent place on our huge American refrigerator.  We won't want to lose touch with our Paris fanciness.)

Alex is in Seattle and enjoying himself when he's not being intimidated by his new super hard job.  He had dinner at our friends' house, the friends next to the goddamn house we're trying to buy, where he met some of the neighbors. They tried to Skype with me as a group but they were too inebriated and yelling too loudly for me to help them figure it out.

Horny Brit told Alex he needed to get the video thing working so he could see if I was attractive or not, which would determine whether or not he was willing to have an affair with me. Then I think they all wandered off and fell asleep which is probably a good thing.

It's great he's having a good time but in my opinion Alex being in Seattle really sucks.  When left by myself during a stressful and emotionally turbulent time, my brain don't work too good.  Stuff like this keeps happening --

they all look the same after awhile

You can hardly blame me for the vagueness.  It runs rampant in Paris.  Just look at "some kid's" birthday invitation, especially the directions on how to find their apartment once inside the building --

There are no apartment numbers in Paris for reasons I'll never understand, so you must give visitors turn-by-turn directions from the front door.  Sometimes the directions are so convoluted you know you're never going to make it so you just pick any door and make a new friend!

(For those who don't speak the Frenchie talk, the above roughly translates to "you're never gonna find the party so leave the present in the courtyard.")

Alex and I had a meeting over the phone to discuss all "action items" still needing to be addressed for the move.  There are a billion.  It's overwhelming so I took copious notes --

At one point, Alex said, "OK, read me that list, let's see where we are," and I replied, "OK...umm... Sh*t F*ck Balls."  There was a long silence on the other end of the line.  I think Alex was taking a quiet moment to appreciate my sense of humor.

We've been notified of our temporary address in Seattle.  For two months we'll be living in temporary executive housing downtown while we continue humping legs for the keys to the goddamn house.  It's pretty cool we get to live downtown but it also sucks we're not going to have a yard for yet another two months.  At least our temporary apartment complex has a pool and fitness room so the kids and I can get ripped while waiting to play outside.

Our cleaning lady cried today.  Next week will be the last week we need her and she's not handling it well.  She met us way back when, back when I was newly pregnant.  She met Coco a few days after she was born and has been her faithful companion ever since.  They're peas and carrots.  I told her I'd always send her pictures of the kids and keep her updated on what they were doing and she started crying.  It was awful.

I can't believe how much we're going to miss her, but there it is.  She's a wonderful woman and has helped me immeasurably -- cleaning-wise, language-wise, and mental health-wise.  If you live in Paris and are looking for some help, let me know.  We want her to go to a good family who will give her lots of love and attention and scratches behind the ears (sorry, brain crapped out on me again there).

Thank God I bought those gritty sequined ballet flats and that gritty red houndstooth coat with three-quarter sleeves OH MY GOD THEY'RE GONNA LAUGH ME RIGHT OUT OF SEATTLE,
MJ

Greedy Hamster

I'm antsy.  I have no idea what to do with myself.  I guess I'll just sit around and fret, freak out, and flail.  The calendar is filling with goodbye dates but I have little hope that adding immense sadness to the mix is going to make the final countdown time more bearable. 

We had a goodbye dinner with Newcastle Guy and Quebec Hottie before Alex left for Seattle.  It was a goodbye dinner but also a celebratory dinner because those two crazy kids recently ran off and got married. I wanted to post a picture of them on the blog but they wished to remain anonymous so we compromised --

 Most. Terrifying. Dinner. Ever.

When the server learned of our two momentous occasions, she brought us some complimentary drinks.  They were some kind of sweet aperitif.  They confused us and had no business being in the middle of our meal but it was nice of her to bring them so we drank them.

She was Scottish and seemed to like us quite a lot.  That changed suddenly when she walked up to the table and overheard Alex describing a man at his gym who wore a white spandex bodysuit while doing downward dog in the middle of the weight-lifting room and who wore his "little helper" pointing straight up.  There was some sputtering between Alex and Newcastle Guy and some incredulous exclamations of "Who the hell wears it pointing UP?"

After that, Scottish server pretended we didn't exist.  We couldn't have gotten Scottish server to pay attention to us even if Alex and Newcastle Guy put on spandex and did downward dog in the middle of the restaurant.  (Let's not picture the "little helper" part.)

I am aware there's been a lot of penis talk on the blog of late.  Sorry about that or you're welcome, depending on whether or not you're a penis enthusiast.

Here's something special.  I found this at one of those cheesy shops that sell Paris souvenirs.  It's become my most prized possession.  I'm going to take it home in my carry-on to make sure I don't lose it.

 I always suspected the "altruistic hamster" thing was an act

OK, I know most of you don't care about my future Seattle life but it's time to reveal something that's been weighing me down, causing me anxious, sleepless nights, making me pull my hair out and scream like a lady who's just lost her Greedy Hamster sign --

 This goddamn piece of sh*t stupid ass house

Alex and I have been trying to buy this "old" (1903 -- HA HA!  Our Paris apartment is from 1670, motherf*cker!) house for almost eight months.  When we first started the process, it seemed like plenty of time to get it squared away before we returned home.  But that was FALSE.

 how you doin', Earl...

The house is a short sale, which means we're trying to swoop in and buy it before it becomes a foreclosure.  Those of you familiar with the short sale process (nothing short about it) have probably just emitted a blood-curdling scream and fainted.  It's a nightmare.

GAH!  OMG!  WTF is that, house?

We could just return to the house we already have, the one we spent years fixing up and have dreamt about since walking into our teeny tiny Parisian apartment three years ago.  But the more we thought about going back to our old life in our old house, waking up that first morning in our old bedroom and mowing our old lawn, the more depressed we became.  It didn't feel like it fit anymore.  We needed something new, something to be excited about --

-- like these discarded cushions found in a closet

When we heard about this house, we jumped.  "Yes!" we exclaimed.  "What we need is a smaller house with fewer bathrooms that's covered in graffiti, full of garbage, and needs a shit ton of work!"  

But wait.  It's also three doors down from some of our favorite friends, in fact one of whom was just here visiting me.  (Her husband was wearing a koala backpack when I first met him.)  Across the street from the house are more friends.  About seven or eight doors down there are some more.  Our friends have started a commune on this street and we want in.  (Can anyone say "sexy key party?"  whoot whoot!)

If you're still not sold -- the next door neighbor is a male supermodel and I bet he mows the lawn with his shirt off.  

Oh yes, there will be life after Paris --

This is not him.  I will never reveal his identity because he deserves his privacy, a fact I will ignore when I'm leaning out an upstairs window with a pair of binoculars aimed squarely at his shower.  Jesus Lord I need help.

Our real estate agent has put her whole life on hold to help us get this house.  If you need a kickass real estate agent in Seattle, I'll give you her info but she may not be able to help you right away; she will be busy sawing at the chain I've used to attach myself to the house and telling me to calm the eff down because I'm screaming, "It's MINE, it's MINE, give the greedy hamster her house!"

 come to mama, beautiful

In a recent conversation with my parents, my father said, "You guys sure don't do anything the easy way."  I'm proud to say we don't even try; it just comes naturally.

We need this beautiful, sh*tty house.  Our whole lives depend on it.  Commence with the crossing of the fingers.

Ugh,
MJ

All by myself

Alex left this morning for Seattle to start his new job.  He'll be there for almost two weeks.  I have been left behind to "organize" for the move and I think I'm doing a very good job -- the apartment is now dotted with lots of important piles.  To anyone else, our apartment looks like it's been ransacked by a herd of angry rhinoceros pillagers.  But to me -- meh, that's pretty much what it looks like to me, too.

The pile I'm most proud of is my pile of batteries.  I call it the "WTF am I gonna do with all these goddamn batteries" pile.  My second favorite pile is the "miscellaneous pieces of paper" pile.  My organizational skills know no limits!

We have received the bad news that Alex's employer will not ship alcohol in our official air and sea shipment containers.  Devastation -- the wine can't come with us.  We now must drink several cases of wine purchased in the Loire Valley in the next several weeks.  If you're in town, come on over.  Arrive thirsty.

In other news, Lucien's teacher called us in for a meeting recently.  Allow me to illustrate --

La Maîtresse first requested a meeting with us at the beginning of October.  She made it very clear both Alex and I were to attend this meeting, that she needed to address us both.  She wouldn't give us a clue as to what the meeting was about.  This made us feel very nervous --

Alex's work schedule, the teacher's work schedule, and my doing nothing schedule made it difficult to find a time to meet.  But every time we saw La Maîtresse, she reminded us of "the meeting" and pressed how important it was we find a time --

When we left for Croatia, "the meeting" was still hanging over our heads.  The more we pondered the reason, the more frazzled we got --

After vacation, we finally agreed on a time.  Alex and I hugged a lot the day of the meeting.  We reassured each other they weren't allowed to physically hurt us, and no matter what Lucien had done to necessitate this meeting, we would be gone soon and wouldn't have to face the anger too much longer --

...and suddenly Alex had Javier Bardem hair... 

La Maîtresse is a stern, serious woman.  Remember her? --

She sat us down and started her talk.  She began by telling us she'd heard about Lucien from other teachers before he was assigned to her class.  She'd heard he had a hard time sitting still, that he was loud, that he played too rough, that he delighted in breaking the rules.  She'd heard all these things and more before he even stepped into her classroom.

Alex and I steeled ourselves for the worst.  We saw where the conversation was going and it was nowhere good.

But then La Maîtresse said this --

"I've had Lucien in my class for several months now and I honestly have no idea what those other people are talking about."  

CAN I GET A "HELL YEAH!" UP IN HERE???  IT'S TIME TO CELEBRATE PEOPLE COME ON OVER!!  (Seriously, we have a ton of wine.)

La Maîtresse continued.  She said Lucien is well-behaved in class.  He listens to her.  He does all his work and does it well.  He's gotten into trouble here and there, sure, but nothing major.  She wanted to meet with us because she wanted us to know that while we may have gotten some bad reports about Lucien in the past, she has nothing but good things to say about him.  She thinks he's a great kid, a funny kid, a sweet kid, and she will miss him when we leave.

It was about that time Alex blurted out incredulously, "Are we still talking about Lucien???"

You done good, kid

It's not that we don't know Lucien is a good, sweet, funny kid -- we know it better than anybody.  We just haven't gotten many French education officials to agree with us.  But then suddenly there she was -- the teacher we thought was the meanest and the most horrible, cheering for our boy all along.  (We suspect Lucien behaves in her class because she scares the sh*t out of him, but no matter -- at least we know he can do it.)

We gave Lucien big hugs and told him how proud we were of him.  His smile took up his entire face.  We headed out of the school with our arms all wrapped around each other because we were all so proud and happy.

But then, suddenly, "Buzzkill Man" stepped out of the shadows, stood directly in front of us and started gesturing wildly --

Buzzkill Man monitors the kids in the lunchroom and on the playground.  He wanted us to know Lucien is horrible, always doing de betise and never listening to him or following the rules.  Buzzkill Man glared and waved his arms and really seemed to feel quite strongly about the whole thing.

For a minute, we felt like this --

Then Alex and I looked at each other, nodded, thanked Buzzkill Man for letting us know, and walked past him.  He was not going to ruin the moment for us; he was especially not going to ruin the moment for Lucien.  Then we went to get ice cream even though it's November.



One step at a time, family, one step at a time....

OK, I'm outta here.  I have to go figure out what to do with my goddamn batteries, plus those five cases of wine aren't going to drink themselves.
MJ