Putting the Reality Back into Reality Show

The past three days have been like a real life house hunters international episode. And let me assure you, the whole thing is less fun from the other side of the fourth wall. It all started on Friday when I went to the housing office at the Sorbonne, immediately after registration, and tried to find an apartment.  She was helpful and understanding, and, not really knowing how any of it worked, I was happy to have a single appointment on  Monday.
I slept very poorly and It was a disorienting morning as my hostess had to go to her summer cottage in Normandy to address a leak and I was left with her kind and patient but not-a-word of English speaking neighbor who asked me a series of questions which I had to use Spanish and Latin and logic to understand. Exhausting. But well deserved.

Anyway, apt #1:
Within walking distance of school
Private entrance
Private bedroom and bath (note en suite)
Kitchenette, with a coffeemaker! (That I don't really know how to use yet and that I share with the owner)

Sounds perfect, right? Well as I said, I was in a weird mood. And you know how I said that French people have a face for business and a face for life? Well I think she was giving me her business face. It all seemed cold and not quite right and, frankly, inhospitable. Not a place I'd love to live. And I just didn't have anything to compare it to.

So I went back to the office and found #2 and #3. And for a passing moment there was a #4 but it was a 7 floor walk up maids room, which I'll explain in a moment, and the owner would only rent for a minimum of a year. Wasn't really ready to make that commitment since as of right now my visa is only for 7 months.

#2
A maids room in the 16th, just across the sienne from the Eiffel tower. You take an alley off a beautiful sloping boulevard to a lift which takes you up 7 stories and then you walk up the last flight and find yourself in a yellowed hallway with a million doors and you open it up and, oh look, there's the Eiffel tower filling my window. It's like a joke. I'm sure that this is where Pixar looked for inspiration for the chef's apartment. But it's basically half the size. It's roughly the size of my mom's walk in closet, probably a little smaller, and going clockwise from the door, let's call that 5 o'clock, you have cot, shower at 9, jutting into the room, table, plastic stool, window with view of Eiffel tower at 12, sink that's roughly the size of a little tykes sink, glorified hot plate, cabinet at 3, back to the door. I was so shocked by the size that I didn't have time for colorful experimentation, but I don't think that there would have been room for me to do a snow angel on the floor. Maybe with the cot at my feet and the window at my head I could have laid out with my arms stretched up into a straight line, which now sounds like it's not a line but an arrow imploring me to jump. Jump out of the window. I think it would have taken very little time for me to go very crazy in that hovel. But what a view.

#3
an interesting option. I would have paid $650 for the summer basically to look after her house. But I wasn't really allowed to use the kitchen. And my "bedroom" was more of an office or studio. No closet. And she spoke about as much English as I spoke French, which is a problem mostly because she would have had trouble giving me instructions. She said it would not work. I said "d'accord." Which may have been perfect or may have just confirmed her wary opinion of me.

So in the end there was really no choice. And thanks to my science of happiness course I knew that that was an easy route to contentedness. Not a word. But anyway, I knew this was my best, and to some extent, only option. The office had helped me. My goddess of a b&b host had helped me. And it seemed that there was no solution better than the one at hand. Voilà. Happy.

That of course isn't how it really went down. Instead, despite knowing the above, I freaked out and looked for all these other places, which in turn confirmed my choice. And the biggest surprise of all came when I dropped off the deposit. Remember the two faces? Well this time I definitely got the social one. She was friendly and loving and welcoming and kind. Total 180. It was so strange and, honestly, such a delightful cosmic gift that I left her home, now my temporary home, so light that I felt as if I could float away.
You know when something weighs in you so heavily but so slowly that you don't even realize it's been crushing you until it is gone? That's finding an apartment in Paris.

Rough Day

Today, as an end of day treat, I sat in jardin de Luxembourg on my way home and enjoyed a few chapters of Peter Heller's new book to the tune of a fountain, crunching gravel, and idle chatter.

I am interrupted by a man chattering at me in French. Sorry, sir, I don't speak French. The implication being, I'm not interested. Not how he took it.

He tried again in English. "I am a student at the college of medicine. I want to practice my special skill. Can I give you a free foot massage?"

Umm...what? "Please I need to practice can I practice on you" swivel for candid camera. Not there.

Embarrassed. Confused. But polite: oh...no...sorry, no thank you.

Strange man with plastic bag trots away disappointed.

And that pretty much sums up the mood of my day. I'm hoping that all of today's big problems will be resolved tomorrow and I can fill you in then.

The City of Paradoxes

Today I went for an ice cream with a family friend whom I was meeting for the first time (I'll refrain from boring you with the actual definition of our relationship) and I got a much desired earful on everything Parisian and French. Two recurring, helixed themes of the chat were the sacred life/work balance for the French and the public/private persona of the French.

These ideas don't require much explanation, but in the name of due dilligence, there is an ongoing debate about working on Sundays here. Is it an infringement on worker's rights to ask them to spend their Sundays in the service of others? There is tension between the socialist ideals and the capitalist reality. "If you want worker's rights, don't complain for lack of business," says logic. Following from this worker oriented train of thought, the service, in general, is less consumer oriented. Why should a fully grown man smile and nod and coddle you for an extra fifty cents? This is just a job. And while he may be the most affectionate, doting uncle to his darling g niece and nephew, you do not call upon that part of his identity as an American with an aggressively bad french accent.

An interesting group of thoughts, but definitely not the only paradoxes that capture the contrast of the idea of Paris and it's reality (which is the biggest paradox of all). Much of the romance of Paris, for me and I'm sure for many others, is all of the art that has been forged here. Whether it was dancing or painting or writing or pretending to be s statue until someone drops a Euro into your hat, it is a city that conceptually embraces the creative. And the city seems to embrace that legacy as part of its appeal. But in reality, institutionally at least, it rejects the outsider. The student visa was the most trying travel experience I have ever had. Imagine trying to actually move her...start a life. The city, at least, operates on the premise of permanancy. You can not rent unless you have a French bank account, a history of residency, a wealthy guarantor. How do you get those things without renting? I can't even get a monthly metro pass without a letter, national identity card copy, and electric bill from my landlady. 

I can't imagine that it was always this hard to get going. Otherwise,  why would all of those creative types from fin de siècle settles here? The only remaining explanation that I have is that Paris is a city that rewards the struggling. You bumble through but ultimately find yourself lifted by a view of Notre Dame at sunset or the elegance of a side street artistically spaced with patisseries and pedestrians and mopeds. It is the sense I get in most cities: If I'm going to miserable no matter what, why not be miserable here? There is a comfort in the constant rumbling of cars and buses,  the rattling of the metro under foot, the chirping of birds outside 4th floor walk up windows. But perhaps the smell of fresh bread, the wafting aural aroma of that guttural Parisian "R," the wrought iron balconies and flowerboxes and craftsmanship at ever turn, perhaps they all combine to allow Paris greater success than most cities at making urban anonymity feel like a club house, one where only the cool kids are allowed to hang out and, look at that, you made the cut.

Enchanté Paris

As romantic as sending bits of my journey to friends and family one line at a time sounds, I do not think that I'm presently capable of such inefficiency. So...comment se dice en français quarter for your thoughts? Don't expect epic soliloquoys or life affirming lessons. Think more along the lines of anecdotes and misadventures.

But to kick off the reboot, I have arrived in Paris. I've been here for just over 36 hours. With the help of every form of transportation known to man and 3 kindly strangers I made it my b&b. I have spent the past almost 36 hours registering for my French classes, scheduling an appointment to view a potential apartment, and walking everywhere within walking distance of where I'm staying. I do have a local SIM card, but I don't have a blow dryer. Some errands will just have to wait. I made it through the day in a white dress with zero stains and only 2 marilynn Monroe moments (by which I obviously mean that subway grates blew my dress up and potentially exposed my underwear to the throngs of plebs on the sidewalk, NOT that I had a sexy, flirty, charming moment on the streets of Paris).

I've basically been hitting up the gardens of Paris. I still have a week until classes start, so I'm trying to save the big museums that I didn't get to hit last time until I run out of free things to do. The weather is beautiful, so it's not all that demanding to walk around the city for hours on end.

It is almost eleven and there is still some day light in the sky. What a strange place I've come to.

Why I hate New Year's

Please take note that I didn't say NYE. If you have the same issues with capitalist opportunism and senseless indulgence that every blogger and buzz feed "writer" seem to, then deal yourself out. Don't bitch and moan my ear off. Solutionism is the new optimism. Am I right Justin?

So the thing that gets me about this whole 48 hour period is the one-trick-ponyness of it all. Like this is the only time of year you can get all your friends together and have a big night out. Or this is your only opportunity to start a diet. Or this is the only calendar flip that permits self improvement.

News Flash: the new year starts whenever you start counting. So whether you realized today or february 32 that there's something you want to change, all it takes is you. This is both empowering and horrifying, because it means that the most wonderful time of the year is a farse and puts the emphasis back on the "self" in self improvement. But I call em like I see em.

Perhaps this comment offers an explanation as to why NYE is a glorified Friday night(a night out followed by a day off) and why it's the secular (read capitalistic) holiday we hate to love. And perhaps my frustration with its bands of allegiant followers explains why I felt emotionally compelled to blog for the first time in 4 months, but some things ust have to be said.

So whether it started last night, 7 months ago, or hits you 4 months from now, may your life be one of perpetual improvement that flourishes outside the confines of provides opportunity. Write your own happy endings.

Xoxo gossip squirrel

Chillin at the Super Market

Disclaimer: this is my first attempt at mobile blogging so please forgive grammatical/spelling lapses until I get the hang of this (ok, ok, I'm lazy and reviewing text on my phone makes my eyes hurt. Obviously I know how to use my phone)

Today I blog from the kosher aisle at the local mega shoprite (a chain that is probably the love child of Tesco and Smart and Final...but really the love child of that child with A&P). Why, you may ever so rightfully ask, would I take the tome to pause here to reflect on my emotional state of affairs? Aren't there more peaceful, leas chilly places conducive to introspection?

Well, dear friends, the obvious answer is yes. And the reason I am not blogging from my backyard or Tahiti or the roof of a hut in Vietnam is that my state is holding steady at just above mediocre and that my new employer is only paying 8.75 an hour AND that my mom sent me here on a near impossible mission to acquire chicken for our Friday night dinner for Rosh Hashanah.

It has conceptually hit me how strange it is that this year, different from all other years, is not being punctuated and metered by marking periods, semesters, and national holidays (plus a week at Christmas and Easter). Now instead my life will be measured by semi-legit events and accomplishments. Being able to finish my statement of purpose, for example. Joining an adult kickball league. I suppose these aren't particularly less meaningful than an administrator's ability to read a calendar, but they leave a little something to be desired.

Which brings us to Rosh Hashanah. You may be questioning how this relentlessly mobile date in September claims with any legitimacy to be the new year. I suppose the fact that it coincides roughly with the new school year has something to do with the fact that our school year is based on the agrarian life style, and this new year marks that moment right before the rush of harvest. The more tr hnocal answer has to do with the insanity that is the 5k year old Hebrew calendar, which is based pb the moon, not the Sun, and adds extra months at odd intervals in some effort of compensation and cooperation. It's really quite strange. Like unbelievably so. Except that. People have been following it for over 5 millennia, so really who are we to point fingers.

Every year of my life some unpredictable day in the pre-autumnal weeks has demanded a life stoppage. I'll admit that my mom's demands seemed to shift. No light switches. No tv. No tv once we sit down to dinner. No work never seemed to make the list, probably because she invited as many as 30 people to sit around a giant table with our family and share on the celebration.

And completely dissimilar to the secular New year, an event so overwhelmed with glitter, champagne, substandard musical performances, and attempts at weight loss that it's meaning has either been covered in morning-after vomit or lost altogether, Rosh Hashanah offers a niche group an incredible moment of reflection and promises another 12 month's, whenever they begin or end, loaded with savory food, passive aggressive family, and wonderful friends.

So, despite my on again/ off again relationship with the big guy upstairs, I feel compelled to mention that the cultural aspects of this religion never leave me feeling anything but like I'm a member of a community, like I'm among friends, like I'm at home. So in whatever way works for you, as the seasons change and we grow older, I encourage you to kick back with some apples and honey, do what you live with whom you love, and than whatever you do or don't believe in for the ability to be together, once again, toasting to what I hope will be another incredible year.

Goodbyes are a Terrible Thing to be Good At

Today, my baby sister (an exceedingly true but all-too-disarming title for me to use to her face or to anyone who has met her) is fleeing the country. If you had handed me this scenario a decade ago I would have supposed that she had somehow been led down a path of stalking Hilary Duff via the Lizzie McGuire fan club or that she had somehow become a fence for coolectibles of  outdated teen dramas on network television. But, alas, she is leaving by choice. Today she embarks on a four month adventure, two weeks shy of her 20th birthday, to live in Prague and hop around Eastern Europe by plane, train, and (I can only assume) Pterodactyl. Bon Voyage.

At no point over the past 5 months (roughly the amount of time I've known she was going) was I ever looking forward to her departure. Y'know, every once in a while as she suffocated me with a hug or mumbled incoherently and demanded sound advice I thought to myself, "gee, being an only child won;t be that bad." But that's not exactly the same. And judging by the fleeting thoughts it should be fairly obvious that I was also not dreading the event. No skull and crossbones appeared on the Sept. 1 block of my calendar. I have not brewed any potions to induce a four month slumber without her. And yet, as I hugged her and implored her to make good choices (a delightful human being but her senses of humor and style always seem to trump that often more useful common sense) I felt the familiar compression of breath in my chest, the flaring of my nostrils, the burning behind my eyes and the tendency to smile away the betrayal that my hormones are about to enact. And as I stand there, barefoot in the garage, waving like an idiot, the only thing I can think to myself is "god I'm TERRIBLE at this"...and I thought I was getting good.

I have, until this late stage of development, led a life riddled with goodbyes. Every summer at sleep away camp, teen travel trips, going to school 3,000 miles from home, even studying abroad were all abvious opportunities for growth and personal development, but they all just as obviously necessitated a farewell at the end of term. And you'd think that after so many of them you'd get exhausted. You'd get more selective about the people you let in, or develop shallower relationships so it's easier to end them, but social behavior isn't quite that easy to engineer, and more often than not you end up trying to kick yourself in the teeth for bringing on this forthcoming wash of misery.

Well, boo-frickin-who. Every time I approach one of these major life changes of my own I think, "Yea, I've totally got it this time. Not goodbye. See you later. It's great. No worries. etc. etc." Fast forward 24 hours and I'm in the fetal position at an airport trying to stop crying long enough to figure out which one my gate is. It's unavoidable. I'm terrible at goodbyes. And while the list of things I'm terrible at is expansive (finding lost objects, carrying on conversations with people I don't like, crosswords) I feel like there are much worse things that could be on  that list than goodbyes. Maybe being bad at goodbyes just means I'm sappy and emotional. (not new news). And maybe being bad at goodbyes means I'm at least moderately in touch with my emotions.

And what would it mean to be good at goodbyes? That I didn't care what happened to you? That I wasn't going to miss you in the inevitable periods of absence? That I could go back to being the person I was before I met you? Before you made me a better version of myself?

So I'm OK with it. I'd rather be bad at goodbyes than bad at opening wine bottles. Because let's be honest, that's what I need now.

Be safe little one! Have incredible adventures that even you don't understand in full.
xoxo gossip squirrel