Life in Paris

Canterbury Rails

2010-11-12T13:29:00.002Z

It was time yet again to take the rails from Paris to Canterbury, England to visit to my niece. And Eurostar provides easy rails – I don’t even have to go as far as London, but get off the train in the English countryside at Ashford. Then I take a local train to Canterbury.

But this time I almost didn’t make it onto the train! Since my niece works in the organic produce market (The Good Shed), right next to Canterbury West station, and we knew she would be at work when I arrived, we had arranged for me to simply walk over to the market and meet her there. What I didn’t realize is that now, before you board the Eurostar in Paris you have to fill out a form with the address you’re going to visit in England. I didn’t have her address! I only had a phone number because I don’t carry my address book anymore. After all, I have all the phone numbers I need stored on my cell phone, right? Oh dear – would they let me on the train? Fortunately, the British agent in Paris, after some light resistance, let me through after I agreed with him that, yes, if this were the U.S. they would throw me in jail and leave me in solitary confinement for 3 months while they set about to prove I was a terrorist. I do think that the next time I travel to a foreign country I will have the address where I’m staying – that sounds like a good idea actually.

After that, the trip went very smoothly and I successfully walked the 50 yards from Canterbury West Station over to the produce market to meet my niece. I must say it’s an impressive market with all kinds of goodies, including cooked food. I think I had one of the best beef stews ever for lunch the day after I arrived. Who says the British can’t cook? This was terrific country food and at a great price. To be followed by Squirrel curlycues (or something like that) – chocolate and nut swirls that melted in the mouth. I’m a chocoholic, so I was happy.

Most of the time I had to stay in the cottage where my niece lives – on Heel Lane behind the orchards. No public transportation. No car. An hour’s walk from Canterbury – which my niece does almost every day. I’d pulled my lower back just before the trip – for more about that you can read my article:
http://www.bonjourparis.com/story/urgences/

So I took lovely, slow walks in the woods just beyond the orchards. You can discover all kinds of things in the woods, including fish tree bark! It gave me a real break and rest from concentrated Paris. Plus the fantastic food that my niece cooks, or rather creates. I’m in awe. (For more photos of Canterbury, go to http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/).

You do have to be tough, however. There’s no heat in the cottage except when someone builds a fire in the fireplace. Let’s just say I made friends with the sweater my niece lent me and the super quilt that weighed about 3 lbs I used at night. I survived!

There were several highlights during my stay. One was definitely the taxi drivers. Since I couldn’t walk into Canterbury, I had to call a taxi service. With no exception, all the taxi drivers were fantastic – as we drove into town, we had great conversations. “Are you from California – you have a California accent.” Actually, I did live there before I moved to Paris. (“Yeah, Dude”).

Another highlight was a guided tour of the house that my sister and her husband have bought and will live in once the renovation has finished. This is no joke since it’s been under renovation for about a year and a half already. But we found out why when my niece and I had a guided tour with Chris, one of the artisans who’ve been working on the house. It’s located in another small town near Canterbury called Headcorn (thankfully not Cornhead). The house is several hundred years old – and a few rooms on the ground floor are now the town post office! No problem – once you enter the house, you realize how grand and elegant it is, as the rooms unfold one after the other. Chris gave us at least 30 minutes of his time to lead us through each room – lovingly renovated and restored – it was a true blend of art and craft. (When they move in, I’ve got to figure out how to get invited there a lot).

But the most uplifting highlight came from Patrick, a friend of my niece, who has a food stand at the market. On an upright piano in the hallway of the market, by the toilets, he faultlessly played a Bach cantata, just for us. It was splendid.

Found: Boulangerie Nulle Part

2010-10-29T14:28:00.001Z

I have just walked out of a bakery with the best rye bread I’ve ever had in Paris. Good bakeries are certainly the norm here, and great ones are scattered all over Paris. But, yes, I have found a fantastic boulangerie (bakery) that is literally “nulle part” or in nowheresville It’s called Au Duc de la Chapelle, and is located in a poor, immigrant neighborhood with social housing all around in the 18th arrondissement.

What makes it special is the current owner/baker, Anis Bouabsa who won the “Meilleur Ouvrier de France” award in 2004 in the bakery division. The literal translation is “Best Worker” but the real meaning for Anis Bouabsa is more like “Best Artisan Baker”. Then four years later in 2008 he won the Meilleur Baguette de Paris award – a lot easier to translate – Best Baguette, man! Winning that award allowed Anis Bouabsa to supply bread to Matignon (i.e. the French White House) for one year. Frankly, putting nowheresville in connection with upper crust Matignon is mind bending. Plus, Anis is the youngest baker to ever to win the Meilleur Ouvrier award.

The Meilleur Ouvrier de France competition was created in 1924 to reward artisan workers who worked with their hands in fields that required an apprenticeship. It started out by giving 144 awards. Held every 3 or 4 years, by the late 90s it had 3,500 contestants in 180 professions. Within the bakery division in 2008, there were 84 competing, 15 of whom qualified for the final competition where the contestants had to create an artistic cake based on a theme from the cinema. The day of the finals, Anis astounded the judges with his “pièce de resistance”: Charlie Chaplin sitting on a bench! It had taken over 600 hours to make, but obviously the effect was worth it.

I’ve known about the bakery for some years because I had found it on one of my wonderings around the ‘hood. Originally, it was founded by Thierry Meunier, another Best Artisan Baker of France winner. I especially enjoyed the Triple Alliance (whole grain bread) and Pain de Seigle (rye bread). Especially the rye bread – a sourdough, dark ryebread, kind of the color of pumpernickel, but much more tasty in my point of view.

Anis Bouabsa met Thierry Meunier while preparing for the Best Worker contest, and apparently Thierry was so impressed by Anis’s creativity and energy that Thierry decided to pass along his bakery to Anis right then and there.

I find it intriguing that most Parisian bakers print a mission statement on their baguette sacks. This is a rough translation of Anis’s:

“There are many good bakers and that’s great. But what gives Anis that extra bit of ‘soul’ that made him become the youngest Best Artisan Baker of France?

Quite simply, it’s his thirst to learn and desire to always do better. ‘It was in me’ he always said when speaking of his unique way of connecting with what he was working with and to create, in his own way, the best mixtures of different flours.

Organic bread brings together different flours and numerous specialties springing from a generous creativity, or absolutely simple, crunchy baguettes, (plus pastries) which are all available at the first-class shop Au Duc de la Chapelle open Monday to Friday, from 5:30 am to 8 pm in the evening!”

And they say the French don’t work! This guy does. When you enter the bakery, he’s usually there either baking away in the back or even dealing with customers out front.

Anis has said in an interview that “What I create are like my children. I love to discover breads from different countries, stimulate the taste buds of my clients, mix rye flour and wheat flours... I create my own products and I love to do that.”

I can attest that he does wonders with rye bread. Besides the original Pain de Seigle, there is now a Pain de Seigle Céréales (rye flour mixed with other whole grain flours) that is splendid. Plus the baguette that Nicolas Sarkosy got to eat for a year!

I highly recommend this bakery – it’s worth a trip to Nulle Part if you like great bread. Open Monday to Friday, the nearest Metro is Porte de la Chapelle. Once you find the Rue Raymond Queneau, walk down the street and Au Duc de la Chapelle is just past the Boucherie Halel (the Muslim equivalent of a Kosher butcher) at 32 rue Tristan Tzara (the continuation of Rue Raymond Queneau). Voilà!

Admin Admin: Here we go again

2010-06-14T11:29:00.001Z

Some say the French administration is a bit heavy. I’ll ditto that. The rather stressed ID portrait above is one point of an administrative journey that actually began back in 2008. It concerns my health insurance which is handled by an association rather than the government because I am a “travailleur independent” or free-lance worker. Quite frankly, I wish the French government Social Security still handled my health insurance. The association (RAM) has made one error after another.

We now have a “carte vitale,” kind of like a credit card with a chip that is scanned by the doctor or medical practitioner and sent electronically to the reimbursement center. Then you get reimbursed in about one week. The problem is that they decided to change the original card to one with an ID photo on it. I still have the “change your card” form from back in 2008. But – one problem – the RAM made a mistake with my first name. I use the name Jeanne in France, but my legal first name is Ruth. My second name is Joan = Jeanne in French. Voilà. The RAM had me down as Jeanne Feldman which is fine for my friends and my blog, but not ok for official documents. After receiving the form in 2008, I sent them a letter to that effect, along with a copy of my passport. Nada. Never heard from them again. Which was no big deal since I still had the old card which worked fine. Until I was dumb enough to believe a letter they sent me saying that the “carte” had to be validated once a year to remain usable. When I did that by inserting it into a kiosk at the Social Security, the damn machine invalidated my card! So I had to apply for the new one. I did this the end of last February (2010).

On March 15 I received a letter that my request had been received and that I would (eventually) receive the form to apply for the new card. Then again, nada. Around mid-April I started phoning the RAM, “Where is the form?” “Oh oh oh – we’ll apply for it again.” Still no form. Called again. It finally arrived on May 6 – with the wrong first name! I finally went in person to the RAM on a Friday to see what could be done. Would I have to wait another 2 months just to receive another form? And then wait another 6 weeks to actually receive the carte? I spoke with a lady who told me she could speed up the process if I could provide an ID photo. I didn’t have one. Hadn’t even thought of it! Oh well – could I come back Monday with the photo? OK.

On Monday – the task was clear. Get the ID photo ASAP and then go to the RAM to straighten this all out. I had noticed a photo machine in the Metro near where I live. Why not just go there? Of course I also had a backup plan which is essential in France. If Plan A didn’t work, I’d go to the photo shop 2 Metro stops away where they could take my photo in the shop (Plan B). I arrived at the Metro station and went into the machine. Oh boy, it needed exact change and all I had was a 20€ bill. I went to the ticket window to get change. “Sorry, the machine is out of order. Is there another one?” “Yes, in the Monoprix down the street.” So I went there, found the machine and tried to get change for my bill. Not one cashier would give me change!

OK – time for Plan B. I arrived at the photo shop - closed on Mondays! Then I realized there was another Monoprix near the photo shop (Plan C). I went there, found the machine and got in line to ask for change. It was at that moment I had my “flash” (cool – not hot). “Buy something – then they have to give you change!” So I did. I got out of line for 2 seconds to find sugar free candy that I actually like and is cheap so I’d get lots of change. Bingo! I then took 4 ID photos in the machine and went directly from there to the RAM where I left the form, copies of other official IDs and the photo which I even offered to cut with my own scissors. I do think this really impressed the RAM lady who was actually very nice to me. And I received the card in less than “un bon mois” (i.e. 6 weeks). I’m also now contemplating whether or not I should go back to my local Monoprix, buy something really cheap and then pay with a 50€ bill. I’m thinking, I’m thinking.

GrosBill - Out!

2010-04-14T11:04:00.003Z

When you google GrosBill, the blurb says “GrosBill sells the most recent and innovative ‘high tech’ electronic and house hold appliances at discount prices online and in 7 stores” (my translation from French). Yeah – except if your innovative high tech electronic product doesn’t work so you take it back to the store. This is what happened to me – it’s so bad, I’ve simply got to out those “bad guys”.

Last year, on Thursday Dec 17, I bought an external hard disk at the GrosBill Paris store. I needed to backup files on my new Macintosh computer, and the man who helped me set up my Macbook Pro had highly recommended GrosBill. I of course told the guy behind the counter that the hard disk was for a Mac, not a PC, and bought it, paying 90 euros for the pleasure, including a special guarantee.

Once I arrived home, I connected the disk– and nothing happened. So the next day, Friday, I went back to GrosBill which, by the way, is really far out of my way and takes forever to get there! Imagine my surprise when, even with the guarantee, the guy behind the counter refused to take back the disk. He told me that it was my responsibility to format the disk for a Mac. Basically he said that “somewhere in the computer system you need to find ‘hard disk’ so you can reformat it for a Mac”. Right.

I made the mistake of taking him at his word and returned home. I looked at the system preferences and - nothing. I opened the disk utility and yet again – nothing. The following Monday, again I wasted my time going back to the store, this time to return the disk. It got even worse. Another customer service guy refused to believe me and insisted that he test the disk. “On a Mac?” I asked. Of course not! And on their PC the disk icon appeared. Then he admitted to me it wasn’t possible to reformat the disk (which is interesting since on the box it said you had to reformat it for a Mac).

At this point, I decided to return the disk for a store credit. I also asked the customer service guy where I could send an email about all this, and he gave me an email address. As soon as I got home, I sent an email with the whole story, in French, including, at the end, that I was so exasperated with their nastiness that I would “out” them.

I soon received an automatic response saying “The questions we deal with at this email address only concern problems of bank payments. If your question concerns an order or how Grosbill functions, you will receive no response from this address.” The guy had given me a wrong address – on purpose I’m sure! Par for the course.

Later, to my surprise, I did get an email response. This is what it said: “Hello. Only the store manager can decide what to do for you. You have been given a credit. We cannot do anything else for you. You may, if you wish, inform your network or a consumers association. Sincerely, GrosBill Customer Service.”

OK – they said they didn’t mind my informing my “network”. I can also add that there is a kind of “happy end” to this story. I figured that I needed to use the credit, and finally I found something for the same price – a cordless headphone. Ordinarily I wouldn’t spend 90 E on a headphone, but what the heck. I wanted one. And when Anvil’s heavy metal rock sound burst into the middle of my head, I did feel that I had turned it around. Somewhat.

My advice to anyone living in France is - avoid GrosBill. Like the plague.

Another Pool Surprise

2010-03-31T20:41:00.002Z

Sunday morning once again, and I arrived at the municipal swimming pool at 8:15 am (the pool opens on Sunday morning at 8) only to face a dull, grey and unlit building. On strike again! OK. Call another pool with cell phone. OK, they’re open. Go to bus stop. Stop! There was Anne, another pool regular coming toward me. “Ils sont en grève” (they’re on strike) I warned her. Anne swims regularly at our pool, and we always greet each other in the shower room. “OK,” she said. “Allons nous à Mathis” (OK – let’s go to Mathis). Huh? Mathis is supposedly one of the best municipal pools in the area– at least that’s what several “regulars” have told me. Frankly, I’d never been there and didn’t even know exactly where it was located. What I did know was that it wasn’t exactly nearby – but here was Anne suggesting we walk there! As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen a lot of Anne at our pool recently. She explained this was because she now goes more frequently to Mathis. How could I resist? “Je suis partante” (I’m game!). And off we went, sacs balanced on shoulders to the mysterious Mathis pool. And I was right, it wasn’t that close.

After we crossed over the railroad tracks that lead to the Gare de l’Est, we turned into a small park with gigantic clean lined apartment towers – social housing as a matter of fact. This finally led to the pool, which was of course open and not on strike. I think they just don’t do a thing like that at Mathis. Thanks to my guide Anne, I had finally arrived at the “best” pool. But now there was one more hurdle to overcome. Each pool has it’s own unique system for changing booths and lockers. At Hebert, the ‘hood pool, you get a basket, undress in a changing booth, put the basket with your things into a locker and then lock it using a personal code that you then use to open up the locker. At my backup pool Les Amiraux, you go right into a changing booth, undress, leave all your stuff there, clack the door behind you which then automatically locks, and get an attendant to unlock it when you return after your shower.

Now I was facing system #3: pull a basket from an empty locker, undress in the changing booth and then put the basket with your stuff back into the locker which has a real and actual lock – that you need to insert one euro into to pull it out. What euro? I certainly had never met this situation before and did not have any money on me at all (I did of course have my cell phone, house keys, kleenax, list of pool phone numbers, tickets to get into the pool, a business card with my name, address, phone numbers, email and website address in case I am injured or killed so they know who was injured or who died – but no change whatsoever). Without Anne it would have been a disaster. But generous being that she is – Anne lent me a euro coin to pull out my locker key. And by absolute and unplanned good fortune, we actually finished swimming at the same time, so I could give it back to her just before we walked home together. Which was good because I had already forgotten how to get there and would undoubtedly have gotten miserably lost without my “guide” to show me the way.

Oh does it pay to be a “regular”!

Opportunity Knocks

2010-03-14T17:09:00.002Z

For once I got up early enough in the morning to arrive at the municipal swimming pool at 7 am. During the week, it opens from 7 to 8:15 and then closes until 11:30. But no way am I going to stop whatever I’m doing during the day to go swimming. I know myself – it’s before breakfast or nothing. That Wednesday morning I left early enough to make it! Suddenly, about 2 blocks from the pool, 2 guys signaled to me. Weird. Then I looked up and realized they were both swimming pool regulars. I must say it really does pay to become part of the “regulars” in France. In fact this is how I found my hairdresser, one of the best I’ve ever had in Paris. Marcelle, another swimming pool regular, is friends with her mother and told me about the shop. It’s about 30 seconds from my apartment. However, the sign outside says “Messieurs” (“Men”) and I’m totally unobservant, so I hadn’t noticed that there were actually ladies inside what had been her father’s barbershop. But I’m digressing. The 2 regulars simply said “Ils sont en grève.” (They’re on strike = the pool is closed). It was freezing cold, so cold in fact that I couldn’t even deal with the thought of taking off my gloves to call other pools on my cell phone to see who was not “en grève”.
So, no swimming that Wednesday morning. (If you want to know more about the “greve” read my blog: I did it right!, Wednesday, February 24, 2010.)

As often happens in life, this actually allowed opportunity to knock at the door. You see, I’m a teacher at a university in Paris called Sciences Po (Institute for Political Science). It’s a top school and the students are very “intello”. So am I, but since I’m older, I know they’ll have to deal with things other than logic to succeed in life. This is why, in my English skills class, I play music. Heavy metal rock music. It’s a shocker, but they need it as far as I’m concerned. As I tell them, “You’re getting all the linear logic you need in all your other classes. Let’s rock.”

Unfortunately Tuesday night at Sciences Po I had left my newest fantastic heavy metal CD in the CD player. The class ended at 7 pm, and of course I didn’t notice it until I got home that evening. Then I tried to figure out when to go back to get the CD. Well, here it was - the opportunity to arrive at Sciences Po Wednesday morning the day after at 8 am before the first class of the day. Surely I would find my CD still in the player. After all, there’s only one class after mine in the evening, and the young professor arrives wearing a suit and tie – I can’t imagine him playing any music!

OK — off we go by Metro to Sciences Po! By then it was 7:30, perfect to arrive at 8. And there was my CD right there in the player where I’d left it. I found Anvil! I arrived home at around 8:30, just when I would have gotten back from the pool, and played Metal on Metal while I did my morning yoga. GREAT!

Me and Vashti

2010-03-04T11:39:00.000Z

Last Saturday night was the beginning of Purim. (I assume that Jewish holidays begin at sundown because if you’re wandering around in the hot dry desert you really look forward to sunset for some relief.) The story of Purim takes place in ancient Persia when the King, Ahasuerus, marries a Jewish girl Esther, although he doesn’t know she’s Jewish (her “real” Hebrew name is Hadassa). Esther’s uncle, Mordecai, looks after her and even prevents an assassination attempt on the King. At the same time, the villain of the story, Hamen, a high official in the Persian administration, hates Mordecai because Mordecai doesn’t bow down to him (in truth, he’s just plain anti-Semitic). What makes it even worse for Hamen is when Ahasuerus rewards Mordecai for saving his life by having Hamen lead him around on a horse through the streets of Sushan. So Hamen gets the king to put his seal on an order to kill all the Jews, and once this happens the order can never be repealed. Esther, using her feminine wiles, lets the King know she’s Jewish – and does he want her, his beloved beautiful wife, killed too? Of course not – so the Jews are warned, fight back and win, thus following the standard Jewish holiday motif: They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat.

So who is Vashti? She is the first wife of King Ahasuerus. The story begins, not with a bang, but with a seven-day banquet to celebrate his reign for all the men who lived in the palace. “And the rule for drinking was, ‘No restrictions!’” On the last day, Ahasuerus orders Queen Vashti to present herself, “wearing but the royal diadem to display her beauty.” She refuses. Now I’m behind Vashti on this one: “What? Display myself naked in front of a bunch of drunken idiots? No way Ahash!” This is why the king divorces Vashti and finds his new Jewish wife Esther. But my heroine is Vashti! You go girl! And she did – we never hear about her again.

The way we celebrate Purim at my synagogue Kehilat Gesher in Paris is to read the Book of Esther from the Old Testament, out loud and word for word. Purim is also the Jewish Halloween – you’re supposed to come in disguise. I, of course, came as my heroine – Vashti! And our rabbi? Imagine someone leading a service in an outsized green top hat and red beard – he was a leprechaun! This may explain why were all given a quarter glass of whiskey and were instructed to take a sip every time we heard the word “banquet”. That, plus the booing whenever we heard the name Hamen, made for a very special evening indeed at Kehilat Gesher in Paris.

I did it right!

2010-02-24T09:52:00.003Z

Yup, for once. I like to go swimming in the public pools of Paris. This started years ago when I was on Unemployment and discovered that this entitled me to free entry to any municipal pool in Paris. Vive la France! I’ve been a bit irregular lately, but I’m getting back into it, and Sunday morning is a must. Before I eat breakfast. No exceptions. However, the situation now is that the guys who staff the pool are on strike. Not every day, but from time to time when it hits them. Most people don’t even know why they’re on strike, but I do. You see, I have a tuyau (ie. pipeline) to the pool. One of my friends used to work there, and he told me how the higher ups, to reduce the budget, have decided to get rid of the people (mostly ladies) behind the cash register at reception and replace them with the guys who work the pool (basically sitting behind a counter although I’m told they also heat up the pool, add chlorine and make sure the levels are right). Anyway, they’re saying “NO WAY” to this order from on high with no discussion beforehand. I don’t blame them really.

Since I knew about the strike and how it was hitting each pool differently, on different days, and being a pre-planner from way back (my father was an engineer so I guess it’s in my genes) I photocopied a list of local pools and put them into the sac I bring with me to the pool. I also put in my cell phone and a Metro/bus pass – Ok, Ok, I’m a plan ahead freak. But what if I get locked out of my apartment on a Sunday morning when there’s no one with an extra key in the building to let me back in, and I have to go pick up the key?

I arrived at my local pool – about a 2 minute walk from my apartment – at 8 am Sunday morning when the pool is supposed to open. I had great hopes since the inside was brightly lit, indicating the guys were not on strike. Wrong. At exactly 8 (which is rare, they usually come out 5 to 10 min late to open the gate) out came one of the guys, José, to let us know that they were indeed on strike.

OK – plan ahead strategy up! As I walked toward the bus on a line that stops at 2 other pools in one direction and another in the opposite direction, I pulled out my cell phone plus the list of pool numbers , dialed pool no. 1 – the better one – and actually got through to a human being. Nope – they were on strike until noon. Too late – as inflexible me must swim before breakfast. By this time I was at the bus stop and –surprise of surprise – a bus was racing toward me from down the street (if you just miss a bus, you have to wait up to 20 min for the next one on a Sunday). I was so proud of myself as I got on the bus and validated my ticket at the same time that I was calling pool no. 2. This is definitely an intercultural skill that I have learned from living in France. Thinking that I’d get off who knows where if that didn’t work out. Surprise – on the bus I got through again to a human being – and they were open! Success – Réussite.

I learned to always plan ahead for last minute unexpected changes while I was researching my shopping guide Best Buys and Bargains in Paris . I must say it served me very well indeed Sunday morning.

Canterbury Getaway

2009-11-25T15:58:00.001Z

My niece and I sat at the dinner table, eating a glorious meal she had cooked in her cottage by the orchards, listening to Ethiopian funk music on her computer. That just about sums up my "long weekend" in England. The English countryside, family and funk all harmoniously swinging together. I do love living in Paris, but I find it a very intense city – there are so many fascinating things all going on at once that even when I cut things down, I still have the feeling of being overwhelmed floating in the background. So every once in awhile I need to get away. This was my second visit to Canterbury where my niece lives now and where she works at an organic produce market in the area: The Goods Shed, Station Road West, Canterbury, CT2 8AN*. She's getting her Master's Degree in literature at Canterbury University and feels quite at "home" living in the English countryside. Now this is an international soul – born in Germany and then having lived in Switzerland and then in Holland before moving to England to study. And I do mean the countryside. She doesn't own a car and walks a minimum of one hour each way, every day, to and from the actual town of Canterbury. This made it a great getaway from Paris where the transport is fantastic, but where I live alone. In Canterbury, we pretty much stayed in the cottage, but spent time talking about anything and everything. I have come to truly believe in he power of genes. My goodness – my niece thinks just like I do! And with a good 35 years age difference. (But after all, there must be some positive side to family connections.) And it's wonderful to meet someone young who really loves where she is, wants to stay there and grow her own vegetables and raise animals on a farm. I'm still trying to figure out where that gene came from.

* http://www.thegoodsshed.net, open Tuesday to Saturday 9 to 7 and Sunday 10 to 4

The Bingo Way

2009-11-05T17:53:00.002Z

Bingo? And what does that have to do with Pierre Gonella, the young man in the photo above? Please bear with me. I know that you're all familiar with the game Bingo. But do you also know that it's also a way of life? This is how it works. You have something that you want to do or accomplish. You start out and "beat the bushes", but nothing happens. No results. Nada. Do you give up? Not if you subscribe to the Bingo Way. No –keep beating those bushes! And, one day, when you're least expecting it – BINGO! You get what you want – or something better. I know this is why they created the game in the first place – to have a game that imitates the Bingo Way of Life.

That is why I have not written more columns lately on exploring Paris. I have been exploring, honest! But I simply have not discovered anything worth passing along to you. No Bingo. Does this mean I will quit exploring? Not on your life. And be assured that you will all be the beneficiaries when I achieve Bingo and share it with you. It just hasn't happened yet. Fortunately, although so far there is nothing I can recommend to you to visit, I have taken some interesting photos that I've uploaded on my flickr site:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/ .

I discovered the Bingo Way quite by accident even before I moved to France and have been following it ever since. As a matter of fact, that is how I got to France in the first place. And Pierre is another example of how it works. First, I assume you're asking yourself "Who is this guy? A top model? An actor? A descendant of a Renaissance angel?" Nope – guess again. He's my physiotherapist ("kinésithérapeute")! I've been having some back problems for awhile and need regular physiotherapy sessions. At first I tried a few really useless therapists who either did nothing or made my condition worse. Finally I found a really great one, but he was really far outside Paris. And then – he decided to become an osteopath, rather than a physiotherapist, so our sessions would no longer be reimbursed by Social Security. I didn’t' have a lot of resources at the time, so I was desperately seeking a new "kiné" when I spoke about it with a friend of mine who has knee problems. He was getting physiotherapy at a local clinic and gave me the contact info, I was so desperate that I phoned them for an appointment even though I didn't know the name of his kiné. I just asked for someone – anyone. That "anyone" turned out to be Pierre, one of the best kinés I've even had – plus- although he's studying osteopathy, just like the kiné I had to leave, he has chosen to continue as a physiotherapist, covered by Social Security. Bingo!

I know that the Bingo Way works – eventually – although it takes patience and continued effort (i.e. it can be a real drag). But I'm committed – I'm sold – I will continue along the Bingo Way. After all – I got to meet Pierre. And I got to France, didn't I?

Health Care in France

2009-09-13T18:37:00.003Z

Health Care in France. To my surprise, I haven't heard any references to it in the current "debate" (i.e. mess) now happening in the U.S. Funny thing that. So I thought I'd share my latest experiences.

For the last two weeks I've had a constant pain in my abdomen. I figured it was something that could be taken care of by my "kiné" (i.e. physiotherapist), so I let it pass until I finally made an appointment to see him last Thursday. As a matter of fact, that is why I didn't write a blog last week – pain really wastes your life. I couldn’t write or do anything but the basics,

During our session, the kiné did express concern about the pain and warned me if it got worse I needed to phone my doctor on Friday to see him immediately. Since the pain did go away after our session, I didn't phone my doctor. But at 3 am blasts of pain exploded inside my abdomen. Good lord, why hadn't I phone my doctor? And I had the entire weekend ahead of me before I could even phone him to make an appointment. Then another delay to get tests. Then another delay until I could get treatment – all the while experiencing unbearable pain. Then the thought came to me – go to the Emergency Room ("Service des Urgences") at the nearest municipal hospital! I even considered walking there at 4 am, but I really couldn't handle it since there's no public transport at that hour in Paris. So I worked on my computer (a great way to handle insomnia by the way) and took my time getting ready in the morning. It was a risk, but I figured if it succeeded – it would be an all-in-one operation: examination, diagnosis, tests, and prescription.

I arrived at les Urgences at around 11 am. Oh boy – there was an enormous room filled with people – how long would I have to wait? In fact, the first wait was about 5 minutes to see the sign-in person behind a window. I explained my situation. Fortunately, I'm in the French health care system, so I have Social Security reimbursements for medical expenses, and my complementary insurance policy pays the rest at municipal hospitals which are all within the "reasonable and customary" category regarding fees. So I merely had to show my documents. That was it. I never got a bill because all will be billed directly to Social Security and my personal insurance (for which I pay €63.93 a month).

Now the wait. After about half an hour I was called by a nurse for a quick review of my situation. It was urgent, but not so urgent that I had to see a doctor immediately. "Please go back to the waiting room and a doctor will call you." OK. I noticed that the next person she called was a young Chinese woman, accompanied by her husband, who could not even stand up straight as she walked toward the nurse. I was relieved to see she never came back into the waiting room.

Another wait. It seems really long, but at 1 pm, exactly 2 hours after my arrival, the doctor calls my name. A very young doctor – an intern according to his badge – who looks about 18 years old. Very kind and soft-spoken. We go through the door into the back of the department where there are a number of examination rooms. We speak – he examines my abdomen. Orders a urine test. Studies the results. And diagnoses that I have spasms that are blocking my digestion. He prescribes an antispasmodic medication and the painkiller Paracetamol. He explains that I absolutely have to see my regular doctor within 48 hours (i.e. Monday at the latest) and gives me a written report to give him.

That's it. I leave the Urgences at about 1:45 pm, less than three hours after I arrived.. I filled the prescription at my local pharmacy where I also didn't have to pay anything up front as all will be billed directly to public and private insurance policies. I took the medicine – and the pain disappeared! Relief at last after 2 weeks.

Oh yes – I then phoned my doctor. On Saturday? Oh yes. I have his cell phone number. You see, I've been going to the same doctor for about 15 years. He works alone – doesn't need a staff because he doesn’t' have to deal with insurance or heavy administration. And he was perfectly OK to speak with me on the phone Saturday to make the appointment for Monday afternoon. Thus speaks the French Health System. At least, that's how it worked for me during a critical incident. I'm very happy to be living in France and to be part of this "socialist"(ooh la la!) health system. You see – it can work. Wonders.

Chartres

2009-08-28T10:15:00.004Z

Sometimes you have to get out of Paris. I just love living here, but it's almost like it's too much of a good thing. One easy way to leave is to take a day trip to one of the many sites within easy reach by train. And one easy motivation is to have guests visiting so you've got someone to go with. During the month of August a friend I've known since high school, her friend and their daughter have been staying in Paris. Yesterday we decided to visit Chartres, one of the most beautiful cathedrals in France. I'm very proud of how we met up. The regional train to Chartres leaves from the Gare Montparnasse which was "renovated" during the 70s (poor thing) and is now monstrously huge. There was no way we could meet there - it's simply too big. So, we met on the platform at the station Pasteur (link virus I told them) because both our metro lines crossed there. Then we simply went back one stop, together, to Monstrous Montparnasse. After that, we bought our train tickets on the spot and hopped on the next train. No reservations required.

The train was two-thirds empty, so we had almost the entire car to ourselves. After a brief trip that took a little more than one hour, we arrived in Chartres. As I remembered, just before you enter the town, you can see the majestic cathedral sitting on a hill, overlooking the entire area that surrounds it (and is agricultural to boot). It was an easy walk from the station up to the cathedral - (I can truly say "it's awesome"). Since it was time for lunch, we started looking for a good restaurant. To the left side of the tourist office is a street with several restaurants, but they were all too expensive. Finally, on the right hand side we saw a bar-brasserie-restaurant with decent prices and full of what looked like neighborhood people. Bingo! We had a fantastic lunch, and when we found our table across the restaurant and outside, we were literally sittting in the shadow of the cathedral. Ahhh. We then floated inside and were mesmerized by the stain glass windows and sculptures. On the way back to the train station, we found the river where in 858 the Vikings arrived to burn and sack the town. I sometimes imagine telling a French medieval peasant to just be patient and that eventually the Vikings would found Ikea and H&M, but somehow I don't think that would have comforted them much.

Then by a long and roundabout route we finally got back to the train station and took our easy train ride back to Montparnasse in Paris. photos:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/

The End of the Line

2009-08-23T00:22:00.003Z

I finally did it - I finally took the article that had been sitting in my files for about 8 years and transcribed the info from French into a nice American list of interesting things you can you discover at the end of several Metro lines (i.e. subway or underground) just outside Paris. I decided to begin with the Canal de l'Ourcq. Yes - there are 2 canals in Paris. There's a body of water that starts at the Bastille, then goes underground and resurfaces around République as the Canal St Martin. When it reaches La Villette, the renamed Canal de l'Ourcq branches off and then continues for over 100 kilometers until it eventually joins the Marne River.

(For more info, here is a link to Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canal_de_l%27Ourcq)

At any rate, it seemed like a good idea. In fact, I had biked along the canal earlier in the week, and after a certain point past La Villette, the canal transformed into a peaceful waterway flowing along the countryside (yup, yup!). But getting there from the Metro turned out to be "pas evident" ("not obvious" as they say here). My French article said "end of the Line 5 Bobigny". But, there are 2 stops at the end of the Line 5 with the name Bobigny. Which one was it? First I assumed it was the stop before the very last stop and even led some friends there. Wrong. This part of the canal, easily accessible from the Metro, is not so charming when you walk along it. We could see the bridge way up the canal that marked the beginning of the "peaceful waterway" transformation, but frankly we were too wiped out to go there.

The next day I took the Metro out to the very very end of the Metro Line 5. When I exited, the first "mauvais signe" (bad sign) was that there was no wall map in the station to show the layout outside. This is the first time I've been in a Metro station did not have a fantastic wall map! When I asked at the ticket window, the woman behind the glass told me to go up the stairs to the left and then straight ahead. I did, and this is when I discovered "Bobigny land" a sort of strange suburb of ugly concrete housing mixed with planned greenery, and no canal in sight. But, the lady had said to "walk straight ahead" and I did, finally coming to a sign that said "Navettes Fluviales" (Water Transport). After that, more paths to nowhere and more concrete, interlaced with greenery. Finally, after walking about 20 minutes I found the canal where I took the picture above. But somehow, it didn't seem as charming on foot as it did on my bike (and yes - I had reached the flowing waterway part).

In the end I don't regret having gone there. After all, that's what exploring is all about - to see what's there. And sometimes it just ain't worth it - but at least you know from being there in person. That's part of the exploring deal as far as I'm concerned.

For more pictures of Bobigny, and of La Villette where a friend of mine danced the hula (true!), see my photos at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/

Don't worry, I've still got 4 End of the Lines on my list. Plus a list of great places to visit on the public buses of Paris. I'll be back.

Back Yet Again Again and Unemployed

2009-08-18T04:53:00.004Z

Yes - I'm back yet again, again. And now I can come back to my blog. I'm starting to explore Paris again. I'm still taking photos - at least I've done that all along.

At the end of March I left a very stressful job. It was kind of like a no fault divorce in that I agreed to leave peacefully and in return I received some extra compensation and the right to receive unemployment insurance. The full story will certainly be told in my autobiography. But right now I'm not naming names so the guilty can't punish me (even more than they did on the job). It's taken over 4 months to BEGIN to recover, which I'm doing now. It also took 4 months to finally get the unemployment insurance. At first they demanded the "right" forms from Institut d'Etudes Politiques de Paris (otherwise known as Sciences Po) which is a fantastic university where I have the pleasure to teach. This had been only 1 course a week and not at all my main source of income. It was not the job I left, nor do I intend to do so. I teach there because I love both the work and the students (imagine - students who are self-disciplined - whoah!). Getting the "right" forms from Sciences Po took 3 weeks in itself because there's only one lady who takes care of it and she was busy working on something else. Then, when I finally did turn in the papers, Unemployment told me that Sciences Po was in the public sector and that their unemployment was separate and so I had to apply there first, get their benefits and then return to regular Unemployment. OK. But when I went back to Sciences Po, the response was "Public? What are they talking about - we're private!" The lady even wrote a note to that effect and I handed that in. The response? "Sciences Po is public, therefore... Luckily, I have a few French girlfriends. In a phone conversation with one of them, I mentioned my predicament and she responded that if indeed Sciences Po was private, there would be certain codes and numbers listed on each pay slip. There were! So I went back to the Unemployment office with a pay slip. Now, you have to understand that Unemployment has been merged with the National Employment Agency. When you arrive, you can speak to a young person of an average age of 19 who kind of knows things, but has no access to your file. If you need access to your file, you have to phone. If you phone from home, you'll never get through because the line is always busy. So it's much better to phone the mysterious people who work on files from one of several phones in the Unemployment Insurance lobby. But I really lucked out because my 19 year old took my pay slip, disappeared into the back office for at least 30 minutes (while everyone behind me waited, of course) and came back with the magic words, "Yes - Sciences Po is private." So, once again I had to drop my application in the letter box by the door. "You'll simply get the money in 1 or 2 weeks." Right. In 2 weeks I did get a letter saying I had been approved retroactively since mid April (by then is was the beginning of August), but the payment was 379 euros. Not exactly a sum to equal 3 and 1/2 months of unemployment insurance. So, back again to the office where the 19-year old couldn't help me. So I phoned and was told that since I'm 60 years old and could get retirement if I wanted, they had to have proof that I was not. It would have been nice if they could have notified me in writing! Then it was time to find other forms, this time from the National Retirement Service, proving that I had not taken my retirement (forms which Unemployment had received but had obviously lost). Success arrived in mid-August - the whole shebang! I'm not rich, but I'm ok for the moment. I can rest up a bit.

Given what I've been through, I decided to explore monuments to the dead in Paris. The monument in the photo at the top is in the Pere Lachaise Cemetary, Metro Pere Lachaise or Philippe Auguste. Take the main entrance on the Bd Menilmontant and walk straight back. There you'll find the monument in the form of an Egyptian temple. It's the work of Paul-Albert Bartholomé who lost his wife when he was very young and dedicated the monument to her spending 8 years on the site. Since everyone seems to ignore it, I wanted to bring it to your attention. The cemetery was full of 19 year olds (obviously on their day off from the Unemployment office) strolling around. So obviously this means it's a cool thing to do in Paris.

Friday night services

2009-02-23T13:50:00.003Z

Last Friday night, t'was I the Rabbi. Well not exactly. What really happened is that I led the Friday night services for our Parisian synagogue Kehilat Gesher . Our real and actual rabbi was on a well deserved vacation (you're allowed that in France). And even when Tom (he's American so we can call him by his first name) is here, he alternates between two locations, one in Paris and another in the Western suburbs outside Paris, I really like that because each variation has its own good qualities. Either we follow the effervescent Tom or we "do it ourselves". And even when Tom is there, the numbers are a smidgen of what they were/are in my gigantic Reform synagogue where I grew up in New Jersey (like 600 families or something like that). We're full up if we have 60 in Paris! Which I love. When we "do it ourselves", it's very special because it's a small group of "fideles" (regulars) who are really open and friendly.

Back in the States, in L.A. where I lived just before moving to Paris, I was a member of a Renewal synagogue. That means bringing spiritual values back into Judaism – values cut out by reformers in W. Europe in the 1800s. More and more Tom is bringing in those values. On Friday night basically all we do is recite and sing. In three languages (Hebrew, French and English) There really is something comforting about ritual that was also cut out of our lives. I'm happy to be bringing it back. And yes there are some rabbis who have a "feeling" for music. Such as "The Rockin' Rabbis", the group in the picture above. Tom, on the right is joined by former rabbinical classmates who were all in a rock band together. They still get together for special occasions. Too cool, right?

So I got roped into leading the services alone because I thought I'd be leading them along with someone else who turned out not to exist. Thank" you know who" that there's a marked prayer book for lay leaders like myself and a congregation who knows the service better than I do! Every week there's a Torah portion to comment on. Thank "you know who" again for internet! I found the portion for the week plus ideas how to interpret it on one of the many Renewal websites. Plus, there was one sentence that really sprang out at me: "He who insults his father or mother shall be put to death" (Ex 21:17). Whoah! But then I thought about it, and it seemed to me that in fact, if you don't respect your parents, something dies within you because you've cut off your connection with your own identity. Yeah – that I could relate to. And it was also interesting to note that the beginning of the portion is totally legalistic and detail oriented while the end is a magical feast with a vision of God appearing above a cobalt blue road. Now that's an interesting combination that reveals a lot about my religion.

The Mailman

2009-02-17T04:35:00.002Z

I recently had a most unusual conversation with my Parisian postman. Actually, I trace the source to the local swimming pool. You see, it was at the municipal pool that I met Marcelle. And it was Marcelle who connected me with Veronique, my hairdresser. Veronique is about 50 yards down the street from where I live (and is the best coiffeuse I've ever had in Paris!). But - outside her door it says "Messeiurs" (Men) because she inherited her father's barber shop and never bothered to change the sign. I had passed her salon numerous times without ever noticing that she cuts WOMEN's hair. And frankly, without Marcelle's recommendation I never would have noticed (being a head in the clouds intellectual well suited to the "intello" atmosphere of Paris). It was while having my hair cut that the postman delivered mail to Veronique's salon. I realize this may be hard to believe, but our postman is a doll! He's always happy, beaming, polite and recognizes everybody in the neighborhood (otherwise known and the 'hood). When I see him outside on his mail route we always say hello to each other in a very friendly way. So of course he commented on my new haircut! (Thank goodness he came in at the end while Veronique was brushing out my hair.) Then he left and continued on his mail route. The next day, he happened to come into the lobby of my apartment building just while I was leaving. So of course I had to whip off my hat to reveal Veronique's latest masterpiece haircut! He was duly impressed, we laughed and chatted together, and the circle was complete. I love Paris.

Echomusee

2009-02-09T10:57:00.004Z

I'm afraid I was a bad girl this weekend – I didn't go to the gallery.

It's been over a week since the exhibition ended with 6 of my photos (!) – and I didn't take them down and bring them home as I promised myself I would on Saturday. Thank god the gallery owner is a French artist himself and therefore TOTALLY flexible with dates and deadlines. I promise I will go this week, although it will be sad to take my photos down from the gallery wall of my first exhibition.

The exhibition included me plus 12 other artists. I was the only photographer and was really lucky to get in at the last minute. I mean literally at the last minute. What happened is that I was wandering around the Goutte d'Or neighborhood with a (thankfully now ex-) boyfriend and we visited the small gallery Echomusee, 21 rue Cavé. La Goutte d'Or, despite its glorious name ("golden drop" – apparently in the middle ages it was covered with vineyards for white wine), has one of the worst reputations in Paris. Poor, immigrant, dangerous and ugly. But did you know that artists are gifted in real estate! They find "poor" neighborhoods, with low rents, that are not bad at all. Such is the case with La Goutte d'Or. It is filled with young artists. Let's hope that as the neighborhood is "renovated" the artists will not be pushed out as the rents go up (as is often the case).

While we were in the gallery, the owner, Jean-Marc Bombeau, mentioned the upcoming exhibition "L'Écho de Noël Les Artistes en Fêtes" that was beginning the next week. Now I've been taking photos for years and have been looking for a gallery – an impossible task when you are an unknown and don't have much time to promote yourself because you're too busy doing other work to survive. I suppose that's why I asked Jean-Marc if I could exhibit some of my photos along with the other artists. We agreed that I was only to propose photos of the neighborhood because Echomusee is not merely a gallery, but is also an association that supports La Goutte d'Or. After bringing Jean-Marc a CD with sample photos, he agreed to take 6.

To see them go to:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/).

Then I had to actually develop and frame my photos for the exhibition several days away, while working at my management training job during the day. But I did it. I had to have the photos developed twice because, did you know that the measurements of digital photos do not fit standard picture frames!

I and several other artists chose to invite people to the closing party Saturday night, January 31 rather than the opening. It was a blast. And little did I know that I was to provide most of the refreshments! But I suppose this is where being Jewish comes in handy. I prepared enough food for the 12 people I had invited and of course this was enough to serve 25. I did, however, manage to hide 2 bottles of Moet and Chandon champagne (a Christmas gift from the audit company where I work as a trainer) and reserve it for my very own guests.

At the end, I walked home, late at night and alone, in the "dangerous" Goutte d'Or. Nothing happened. I suppose an oldish (not old enough to be old yet!), lady pulling a shopping cart (used to bring the refreshments for 12 people) and blowing her nose as she walked was not a very attractive target. Or maybe La Goutte d'Or is exactly that, hiding under all the poverty and neglect on the surface.

Back yet again…

2009-02-02T14:47:00.004Z

I've been overloaded with work since September, 2007, and it's only now that I finally have time to myself. Hallelujah!

Today's adventure involved getting to and from my dentist. Don't worry. In Paris, even going to the dentist has a story attached. In fact, it's not easy to find a good dentist in Paris. I have finally found one. This was through my former dentist who insisted I get my teeth cleaned once a year by a periodontist. I liked her (the periodontist). But not the dentist who was abrupt, rude, cleaned too hard and left too large a space between a new filling and the tooth next door. And didn't want to admit it. So I contacted the periodontist who recommended a new dentist. He's a bit far away which defeats my plan to stay within my own neighborhood (otherwise known as the 'hood) as much as possible. Although it normally takes awhile to get there, I can simply take one bus starting from a bus stop 1 minute from my apartment going directly to his office. But wouldn't you know that just the morning of my appointment, it had snowed all over Paris! This just doesn't happen! At least not often. But of course on the day of my appointment there was not only snow but ICE all over the roads and sidewalk. Which means – no bus (and not even a strike). Yikes.

By leaving early and taking FIVE different metros I managed to get to the dentist's office on time. Yes, that's right – FIVE (line 12 to line 4 to line 5 to line 3 to line 3bis = one route of the 60 bus). Yup – Paris continues give us on the spot emergency training. I believe I did rather well this morning so I'll give myself a 17 out of 20 mark (this is the French system of grades which I know because I teach in a French university). Good girl, Jeanne!

On the way back I decided, given my new time freedom, to keep trying for the bus since the snow and (most of the) ice had melted by then. First the 60, right near the dentist's office. No go. The panel noted a 60 minute wait. OK – so I'll take the "bis" Metro for one stop. Then change to line 3 until Republique. Try for the 65 bus there. "58 minutes". Nope. Get back on metro and take line 5 to the Gare du Nord. By this time it's 11:30 am, about 2 hours since the ice has melted. Voilà! The 65 bus arrives, and we all clamber on. I don't bother to validate my ticket – I'm now a proud inhabitant of Paris and they made me wait a good hour for them to get their busses ready. Hummph!

At the next stop, a man boards the bus carrying an enormous (I mean Enormous), Blue Metal Box. Then – oops – the inevitable woman with her baby in a stroller board. There is literally no space to move until one more stop when one man gets off and I shift to stand behind a pole. Then another man alerts the Blue Metal Box man to the extra space and helps him shift his box, followed by an alert and help to the woman with the baby in a stroller. We all just fit until I get off at my stop and slowly walk home along the still icy sidewalk in the 'hood.

Yes it's cold – and grey – and drippy droppy water all over you. But hey, Man, it's still Paris! Enjoy the adventure. Even to and from the dentist.

Best,
Jeanne
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman

Aging in Paris

2008-08-31T04:43:00.003Z

I've been in Paris no since 1991 - woah, that makes 17 years! Good lord. In fact, I arrived here on August 23, 1991 - so it's almost exactly to the day. Time does fly when you're having fun, doesn't it? As I mention on my website , as a girl growing up in New Jersey and young adult struggling in California, my dream had always been to live in Paris. So I really should thank the nutso French rageholic who offered me a job in his Parisian video distribution company way back then. Even though "international sales" turned out to be typing mail orders into a computer. And even though he dumped me 3 months later. (Fortunately, I guess, I haven't had contact with him since he disappeared, and his company too, a year or two after I was dumped.) That's how I fell into teaching English which eventually transformed into international communication skills for French bosses! One of the best things about living in France that I know from personal experience is that aging does NOT automatically mean putting on pounds (excuse me - kilos)! I do know from personal experience that eating small portions is excruciating for an American used to supersized portions. Plus we Parisians have our dear Metro with enough stairs to equal a workout in Golds gym. I already talked about style in my last blog - you can see the results in the photo - taken last week - really! Oh yes - I picked up that red dress along with the "animal" pants at the used clothing store for 3 euros each. Not bad for a 59-year old lady. Living in Paris.

Style

2008-08-10T04:52:00.003Z

One of the reasons I originally moved to France was because of French style. Yes, the French do indeed have "style" and I'm not exaggerating. I remember on one trip seeing a homeless guy in the Metro wearing a scarf that was totally elegant. I could not help thinking, "Good Lord - in Paris even the bums in the Metro have style." You see it everywhere. And so you dare to apply a bit of it to yourself. I didn't in the U.S. Didn't dare because intellectuals who wear glasses are not exactly in the number one style group. Here, they are. But what exactly is style? On my last trip to the U.S., someone asked me, "So, Jeanne. What's in style right now in Paris?" You know, I couldn't think of the answer. In fact, the French genius is simply to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. (Hey - that's me!) Of course, there are women who follow the "Style". I guess you could say that right now, according to my "scan other women in Metro" status report, that short skirts or short knit dresses worn with tights that cut off at the ankle are "in". Also structured. Also non-structured. Also bright colors. Also black and pastel colors. So, what does this mean for me? What is means is that I have to know myself and answer the question: what do I want to express about me visually? Given the fact that I don't really pay attention to "fashion", I do pay attention to what expresses me. Also, as the discount shopping maven of Paris, I into bargains. Bargains that express me. Occasionally we have a "Bingo" moment. Just had one the other day at Guerrisol, a resale store with an outlet near Barbès (17 bis Boulevard Rochechouart - mentioned in my shopping guide "Best Buys and Bargains in Paris"), I found 2 items: a pair of eccentric black and white pants and a 100% bright red cotton short dress for, are you ready, 3 Euros each. For a photo, I'm sorry, but you'll have to hold your breath until I can get a friend to take a picture. In the meantime, you'll just have to admire my Italian fluffy, ruffled and uneven hem skirt bought in the discount center for Italian clothes near Republique. This, plus jewelry and scarves sent to me by my mother she when she moved into a smaller apartment at her rest home (got a box with 84 scarves plus other items), allow me to express Me. It's an ongoing process. And that, to me, is the genius behind French style.

She shudda lissinned.

2008-08-03T05:31:00.004Z

Sorry to use North Jersey speak in the title, but, really, she shudda lissenned. "She" is Pat Russo, the soon to leave chief executive of Alcatel Lucent.

At the end of April, 2006, I heard about the upcoming merger, and I actually contacted Pat Russo because I thought to myself, "She's going to be butchered - she knows nothing about French culture." You see, I'm an intercultural trainer and coach in Paris - and I'm originally from New Jersey (South Jersey, not North Jersey). And I know how complex the culture is here - I've studied it and have lived it since 1991. And I know how different things are from the US. I love it, but (to use North Jersey speak), ya godda no wut yur duwin. In fact, I still have the return email Pat Russo sent me on May 3, 2006 suggesting that we try to arrange some time to meet. We never did, and now you know the results!

Of course, I wouldn't be totally upset by my failure to deal with French culture if I too had a 6 million euro golden parachute. But I do regret that we never met, and that I was not able to help her. At least now I'm going in the other direction at a French university called Sciences Po where I'm currently teaching a course called "French-American Intercultural Communication". For your midterm exam, please explain the influence of the Puritans on Michael Jackson's "Thriller".

P.S. I'm from South Jersey where we do not speak like Mafiosa - we prefer to speak like Cockneys.

Back on the blog

2008-08-02T04:42:00.003Z

It's hard to believe that it's been almost a year since I've written a blog! What happened is that last September I started a part time (but intense and ALMOST full time) job as a business communication consultant in a large auditing firm just outside Paris. Plus I taught courses at an excellent university called "Sciences Po". In short, I was totally overloaded with work from September until mid-July. I'm just now coming back to "normal" (whatever that is) after 3 weeks of vacation (vive la France!). One thing I can tell you is that Paris is crumbling - something I've noticed since i've started wandering around again. Also, I'm now into photography. Above are two of my photos. You can see more on:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/jeanne-feldman/

Second Wind

2007-08-26T16:24:00.000Z

Who would have thought that I would ever get into aerobic exercise? I remember back in high school there was a 600-yard walk/run. What torture that was for the couch potato I was then! I was almost dead by the time we arrived at the finish line. France has changed all that. Or rather, being unemployed in France has changed all that. When I arrived in France I had a job. Now I have a job. In between I was unemployed ("en chomage"). Which is a bummer. Maybe that is why the French government gives unemployed people ("chomeurs") bunches of benefits. (Sometimes you wonder if maybe you should stay unemployed to keep up all the benefits – but no, no! Don't listen to me. I'm still a good American who works, works, works). These include free admittance to most museums. And free entry to all the municipal swimming pools of Paris! For awhile, I had a lot of time on my hands, so I decided to try it. I got hooked on lap swimming.

Even now that I'm working again, I still go to the pool and swim for 30 minutes without stopping. When I begin the laps, I can swim about six strokes without breathing. Then it hits - heavy breathing, or having to breathe with each stroke. Then, breathing every other stroke. Finally, after about 20 to 25 minutes I get into what I call "second wind". My breathing slows down; I feel really centered; and I go even faster than before. Wow! I think of it as a reward for busting my gut and suffering. Justice! Long live second wind. If you'd like to find out more about swimming in Paris, take a look at my E-Book, "Life in Paris: The Real Thing".

Riding a Bike in Paris

2007-08-10T11:49:00.000Z

I have just returned from riding my bike, and once again I thank my lucky stars that I am still alive. Riding a bike in Paris ain't for sissies. BB (Before Bike), I dreamed of floating along Parisian streets as I once did on the bike paths along the beach in Santa Monica and Venice, CA. About two years ago I got lucky, and a friend of mine actually gave me a mountain bike that had been used by one of his sons, now gone to university. "It just needs a bit of touching up" he said. Little did I know that this was the beginning of a whole series of challenges and obstacles to overcome in my life.

The first challenge was getting the bike from my friend's place to mine. He lives in the suburbs of Paris, about 45 minutes from the center by intra-city train. So, I took the train from the nearest train station back to Paris. The cars are pretty big, so getting a bike onto one wasn't a problem. I don't even remember how I got through the turnstiles, but obviously somehow I did. And managed to ride the bike home. This was my first introduction to riding a bike in the city. It was awful. Really awful. When there's no bike lane, the streets are often really narrow. This does not stop Parisian cars from winging by you with about 5 centimeters to spare (I may be exaggerating a bit here, but not much). And whoever designed the one-way street system should be time traveled back to 1789 and guillotined. You will often find yourself trying to turn off a main street to the right, and every street you cross is one-way to the left! Or you're going along peacefully, when suddenly your street becomes one way in the opposite direction!

I have finally discovered the way to go. Take major roads where the bus lane is also a bike lane. This is especially good when you're in a poorer part of Paris (which is where I am) because there won't be many busses to crush you along the bike path.

Since California (c. 15 years ago), I literally hadn't ridden a bike. "Just like riding a bike," they say. "Yeah, right."

First I had to replace both tires, and add a rear light. I figured that the best store for all that was Decathlon, a major sporting goods chain in France where in the past I've found great sports clothes. One of the first things I bought was a helmet, strictly for safety reasons. Unfortunately, the helmet makes me look like a "real biker", which I am not! Amazingly, most Parisians do not wear a helmet, so I really stand out. What I really need is a banner (in French) saying something to the effect of "I am wearing a helmet for safety reasons only. Do not be surprised if I go very slowly and I stop at red lights, since I'm not at all sure what I'm doing. Do not expect more of me."

I have to admit that gradually I am getting more comfortable on my bike. And I'm really luck that my apartment building has a "locaux des velos" which is an entire room on the ground floor to store bikes in bike racks. All you have to do is get a key made by the guardien and you're "in". Of course, nobody will tell you this outright. You have to know, as you do for most things in France.

I have also discovered a better place to repair and upkeep my bike. Fairly near my place is "Oh Velos" – a one-man bike repair stop. The guy who runs it is really good, really French (if he's in a bad mood, he doesn’t hide it), and totally obsessive about one thing: YOU MAY NOT KEEP YOUR BIKE THERE OVERNIGHT. Forbidden. Nada. Interdit. But I can live with that. I just had him replace the rear inner tube because there was a leak. There's now a slight difference that makes all the difference. The drag is gone. I'm free. I can now peddle at medium speed instead of dragging behind everyone. I'm getting more comfortable gliding in and out of traffic. I'm sticking to those bus-bike paths where I feel a bit less threatened. So, it's better. I'm biking in Paris.

Hats

2007-06-28T14:07:00.000Z

It all started with my sister's birthday. I live in Paris. She lives in The Hague in Holland. Her daughter, my niece, lives in Canterbury in England where she just graduated from university with a degree in theater arts and literature. Yeah, yeah – we're kind of an international family. (My parents and brother still live in New Jersey.)

I emailed my niece in Canterbury for suggestions for my sister's gift. In the past she has been very helpful, and she was yet again.

"She wants a rain hat."

"Hmm. I'm not really sure what that means, but I accept the challenge."

And challenge it was. I started looking, first in my own neighborhood in Paris. Nada. Then in other stores. All too expensive for my budget. I hate to admit this, but her birthday came and went. I did, however, phone her to sing happy birthday and let her know that her present would come when I found it. That was cool and ironic at the same time since she is the professional jazz singer in the family.

Finally came the flash. H&M. (Hennes and Mauritz), the Ikea of clothing stores. I went to the most convenient branch. In fact, it was something of a treat to be in the store during the week so you could actually walk through the aisles without bumping into 50 teenagers shoveling through tee-shirts. And I found the birthday hat for my sister. I'm not revealing the price, but suffice it to say even I on my restricted budget could afford it.

But, just before I found the birthday hat, there was something else. Another hat was waiting there just for me. It was a black fedora, also affordable, that was oh so stylish, like the hats they used to wear in those black and white films from the 30s. On a whim I bought it too. (Both hats were made in China, so at least I know the country whose slave labor I am supporting.)

I then thought of all my other hats stuffed inside my closet where I have hidden them and never wear them. Hey – maybe I'll start to wear my hats!

This is NOT a decision inspired by Parisian fashion. French women do not wear hats. Muslim women wear their headscarves and some African women wear hats. French women do not, or very rarely. In fact, my true inspiration is an expat friend of mine from Alabama. SHE wears hats and looks stunning. And, I am inspired by my new sense of style, not based on what others wear, but on what looks good, and dramatic, on me. This is definitely inspired by the French. After all, I have the right to design how I look in terms of color and shapes just as an interior designer designs a room. So, why not take the hats "out of the closet", and adorn myself?

I hope my sister likes her new hat. Mine is fabulous.

The Red Dress

2007-06-20T11:23:00.000Z

Allow me tell you the tale of "The Red Dress". It began the other day when I needed to buy thread, and I decided to visit my favorite notions store on the Place Saint-Pierre, within sight of Sacré Coeur. I guess it's something left over from the Middle Ages, but Paris often has the same kinds of stores all grouped together along one or two streets. This is definitely the case for sewing material and notions stores. There are scads of them on Rue de Steinkerque, leading up from the Metro Anvers towards Sacré Coeur and onto the Place Saint Pierre, within sight of the cathedral. This was my goal – thread. However, as we all know life sometimes presents us with surprises along the way.

Just as I exited the Metro Anvers, opposite the Rue de Steinkerque, I noticed Sympa. Sympa in French is the familiar form of "sympathique", or nice. When you say, "C'est très sympa," what you're really saying is something like, "Hey, that's really cool." In this vein, Sympa, the store, is the discount store of discount stores. We're talkin' bins, baby. Piles of French ready-to-wear clothing heaped in containers along the sidewalk. And low prices. But – brands. You gotta know them French brands. I do because I am the "Best Buys and Bargains in Paris" lady (for more info you can look up my shopping guide on Amazon). I gladly take on the duty – and challenge – of maintaining my Best Buy skills in Paris.

As I said, I was on my way to buy a spool of thread, but given my status as Paris Best Buy Shopper, I thought I'd give the piles a go through (protecting my face from the protruding elbows of all the other ladies madly sorting through the bins at the same time). Suddenly, in the second Sympa store along the block, in the last bin, I saw it. The Red Dress. One of the sexiest red dresses I have ever seen in my life. Another lady and I saw it at the same time and we both fell under its spell. Fortunately, she was a larger size than me. It turned out to be her lucky day too. After I pounced on mine, she grabbed the only other red dress – 5 sizes larger. We both had been blessed by the Best Buy Fairy, and we were grateful.

I suppose, apart from the slit up to thigh level, it was the color. Bright red. We've all got all kinds of emotional reactions to bright red. And there it was, in a size that normally is one size too small. I decided to buy it, even though I didn't try it on. There are, in fact, two dressing rooms at the back of the store, if you can manage to slip through the store aisle the width of one person, with one person standing in it grabbing at clothes. But I had good reason to take a chance on that dress. The price. Would you believe that the price was exactly ONE EURO! Including tax. Heck, if it didn't fit, I'd give it away to a friend. It was at this point that the "look through the bins" feeling stopped. I had found what I was meant to find (or put it another way, it was my Best Buy fix of the month).

Now the challenge is where to wear the dress. Teaching one of my university classes in front of 18 twenty-year old students, more than half male? Nope – don't think so. Business Seminar Breakfast at the British Embassy? Don't think so either. This is the challenge of bargain shopping! You've simply got to wear the item at an appropriate time and place in order to justify its purchase. Hard work, but this is what makes the difference between the red dress I bought for one euro and the wool skirt I found in the trash bin of my building. (see my blog "I can't believe it!").

I will let you know when I wear the dress, and how it went!

Subjunctivity

2007-06-11T16:49:00.000Z

When I first arrived in Paris, it was to fulfill a job offer working in non-fiction video distribution. That job did not work out, (they dumped me), and as many expats do, I fell into teaching English as a second language. It's a hard road to follow. Low pay, unreliable hours, intense work that sucks up all your energy. After a couple of years, I simply became tired of being a zombie – and a low paid zombie to boot. Which is why I am now writing about life in Paris and training French executives in communication skills (what do you do once you know English, but have to actually work with it?). I suppose it must have been some sense of desperation that convinced me to join TESOL (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages), an international non-profit association. It's supposed to help us (no – them!) grow professionally and to distribute information about English teaching and research.

I must admit that occasionally, they do come up with interesting workshops. Last Saturday was one of them. They had a fantastic speaker on Neuro Linguistic Programming (NLP), a method that teaches the theory and practice of communications – not English per se. And the most important thing was – it was free for members! A done deal for me.

As is often the case, I got the biggest "flash" during lunch in a local restaurant. I ended up eating with three other trainers, one of whom was French and who teaches English within the French university system (actually, I do too now – but it's only to get my foot in the door and teach French-American Intercultural Communication next October!). She spoke about grammar. (Sorry, but please keep reading). She reminded me that in French, you use the subjunctive tense quite a bit. Without boring you about the details from the grammar books, the most pertinent description says:

"The subjunctive is the name of a special group of verb forms which are used in a few cases to talk about events which are not certain to happen." * It goes on to say that "The subjunctive is not very common in modern British English…" (or American I might add). As a matter of fact, out of four English grammar books that I have hoarded from the old days, only two mentioned it at all. And only one in depth.

So what does this all mean? The other trainer continued: In languages such as English where you don't have the subjunctive tense, the tendency is to believe that you're either right or wrong, good or bad – that there's a basic conflict between two extremes. One is light and good, and the other is dark and evil. Latin languages such as French, Italian and Spanish, which all have the subjunctive tense, see the world as more good and bad mixed together.

Have you seen the movie Spiderman Three? I think she's right.

Vive subjunctivity!

*Practical English Usage by Michael Swan

Pumpernickel in Paris

2007-05-28T07:52:00.000Z

Imagine my surprise. One day I'm doing my weekly shopping in the local Chinese supermarket. It's really great because they not only sell Chinese specialties such as fresh tofu, but most foods you could imagine in a regular supermarket. I was buying my soymilk that I drink for breakfast and which is placed at the end of the aisle on the lowest shelf. I suddenly realized that just next to the soymilk, also hidden away on the bottom shelf where you can't really see it, was a pile of pumpernickel bread. REAL German pumpernickel bread – actually made in Germany!

Don’t' get me wrong. I love French bread. Sometimes I even stand in line at the best bakery in our neighborhood, behind at least 15 other Parisians (if I'm idiot enough to shop in Saturday). But this is different. I remember when I was a kid in New Jersey that my Mom bought real dark pumpernickel bread at the deli counter of the supermarket. It was almost black, moist, with a sort of sourdough taste. I suppose it reminded her of HER childhood since she grew up in Vienna, Austria and ate German bread while she was growing up.

I'm still trying to figure out why they put it there. Because, the next week, all 5 loaves disappeared! (Are there other pumpernickel lovers in the neighborhood? Would love to meet them!) It was replaced by German brown bread, ALMOST as good as pumpernickel, but not quite. So far those loaves are still there. Which proves that I am probably the only person in Paris who has discovered the German bread hidden on the lowest shelf where you can't see if of the Chinese supermarket, next to the soymilk.

Life continues to be amazing in Paris.

Public Service

2007-05-21T13:30:00.000Z

Sunday, May 20, 2007

"Hey, what's that?"

It's 4:30 in the morning, and my telephone is making a funny beep. I reach over to switch on the light to see what's going on.

It was at that point I discovered there was no electricity in the entire apartment! We had had outages in the past, quickly repaired. But this was different. No lights in the hallway, no elevator. The whole building was down

"Oh brother, why does this always happen on the weekend!"

I finally managed to get back to sleep, but when I woke up, still no electricity. It was at that point that it hit me how much we rely on electricity in our daily lives. It's like an invisible thread woven everywhere. We simply don't notice it until it disappears! What this means in reality was that I couldn't take a bath (no hot water). Couldn't listen to the radio. Couldn’t drink tea or coffee for breakfast (no stove). Couldn't go into my bathroom without a flashlight (no windows or outside source of light in the bathroom and you can't see worth diddly squat even if it's bright and sunny outside). Couldn't use the telephone (the cordless phone bases didn't work). Couldn't check my emails on the computer. Plus, insult added to injury, I ended up leaving a flashlight on in the bathroom and burned out both double D batteries. Goodbye flashlight.

At 8:30 that morning (at least my battery operated watches were still telling time), I went down (i.e. climbed down the stairs) to check out what was going on with the couple who are the "guardians" or building managers. Just as I arrived, they were phoning EDF (Electricité de France) which manages all the electricity for private residences. It seems that some major cable somewhere had blown out. Not only was our building down, but the entire block was without electricity! At 9 am I had my breakfast, or what you can call assembled room temperature items. I tried not to open the fridge door.

"Don’t even think about what's in the freezer."

I was real glad that I'm a regular swimmer at the local neighborhood pool where at least I could take a shower and wash my hair. And get away from the complete and utter silence of my apartment. "Ugh."

Just as I returned from the swimming pool, EDF arrived in force. An entire team disembarked with their trucks and tools and then proceeded literally to rip open the sidewalk to get to the cable. And they fixed it. Right there on Sunday morning they repaired a cable five feet underground in front of our building. When they left, they even had to leave a few team members behind to act as guards to make sure nobody fell into the hole or jumped in and sabotaged the repairs. But they did it. Electricity back on. Modern life back to normal.

That, my friends, is public service. How it's going to be affected by our new President Nicholas Sarkozy, I don’t' know. But at least we've got it now. Vive EDF!

I can't believe it!

2007-05-08T14:04:00.000Z

I can't believe it! Yesterday I went down to empty the trash - I took the elevator down to the basement as usual. Down in the basement, to the left of the elevator are two garbage bins and to the right are two recycle bins. I lifted the lid of one of the garbage bins. To my astonishment I saw – a pile of women's clothing – I mean the whole garbage bin was stuffed with skirts, blouses, a coat and pants. How do I know this list? I was so astonished that I pulled it all out. And it was all in perfect condition. Incredible! In the NOT to be recycled bin meant for rotten bananas I found fabulous French women's clothes. All in my size. Fortunately there are two garbage bins. The one to the left gets filled up right away. The one to the right, where the clothing was, does not. They weren't even dirty! So I pulled all the clothing out and took it back up to my apartment. I kept two 100% wool skirts (!) and bagged the rest which I took to the Emmaüs bin. (Emmaüs is the French equivalent of the Salvation Army.) Then I took the two skirts to the Cambodian dry cleaners. When I got the skirts back, I had to admit that one really didn't look good on me, so I took that to the bin as well. But the one I kept is adorable. Totally.

The Trip From Purgatory

2006-08-24T09:25:00.000Z

A few days before my trip, I began to have intimations of disaster. It was just a feeling that something, somewhere could go wrong, like locking myself out of my apartment. Nothing happened. I was about to take my semi-annual trip to the States to visit my folks. As a matter of fact, it was their 60th wedding anniversary, and two celebratory meals had been planned.

The trip to the States this time consisted of two flights on two separate airlines because that was the only way I could get a decent airfare. The first flight was on Air France, leaving Paris at 6 pm and arriving at Heathrow at 6:16 pm London time. The next flight was on Virgin Atlantic leaving Heathrow at 8:30 pm. That seemed pretty foolproof and left me all day to pack. I left for the airport at 3 pm, and I remember that my trip to the airport was totally uneventful. I even managed to drag my heavy suitcase on and off the public bus without straining my back – a major feat. I then managed to catch a direct train to Charles de Gaulle airport – what luck I said to myself. Hah.

I arrived at the airport in plenty of time for my flight to London and checked my bag – it was tagged direct to Newark, New Jersey. Great. And then things began to veer "off". The Air France flight arrived at Heathrow one and one-half hours late. I was really worried about making the Virgin Atlantic flight. And even if I did, would my suitcase? So, I took the precaution of having the Air France gate person in Paris contact Virgin Atlantic to make sure they knew I was coming.

The plane arrived in London at 7:45 pm London time. By 8 pm I was at the Virgin Atlantic desk to check in. They refused me! I can't believe it, but even with half an hour and having been notified, they refused to allow me onto the plane. I was then sent back to Air France, the original culprit.

Unfortunately all the flights to Newark and New York were full that evening, so Air France booked me on a British Air flight leaving the next morning. They assured me they would put me up in a hotel, with taxi service to and from the airport, plus give me an international phone card to alert my friend who was planning to pick me up in Newark.

Enter purgatory: "a place or state of temporary punishment". It was pretty obvious that Virgin Atlantic was hell. British Air turned out to be heaven, and Air France was a very apt organizer of purgatory.

By hook and by crook I found the special Air France counter that took care of homeless waifs like me. They did indeed give me a voucher for a hotel near the airport, including dinner and breakfast. But, no taxi service. I was given vouchers for a shuttle bus to and from the hotel. Then, "Sorry, no phone cards. You'll have to send in for a reimbursement later". Right. More purgatorial glitches turned up when I arrived at the hotel. Dinner was just closing. Well, I had just about had it. I quickly entered the restaurant at the last moment and threw what I could onto my plate, gathering this and that from various bins. Next glitch: the shuttle bus did not go directly to the BA terminal. Therefore, I had to leave for the airport the next morning on the 6:07 am shuttle bus, followed by a train. The restaurant opened for breakfast at 6 am! I decided to order a "breakfast box" from room service, and I requested delivery at 5:30 am. At 5 am I received a phone call. "I have your breakfast and I will deliver it now." Good thing I was ready. I was not ready, however, for the breakfast box. It was inedible. I'm sorry, but I do not eat chocolate for breakfast. Or sugar pretending to be cereal.

Then I had an idea. I emptied out the "breakfast" box and took the container down to the restaurant when I left the room. I had 7 minutes. This being Britain, the restaurant opened exactly on time and I tried to rush in. Obstacle no. 1. No hand luggage allowed into the restaurant. It must be left at the concierge's desk. Quick run and search for the concierge. Dump luggage. Obstacle no. 2. No takeout allowed. Being now a savvy half French person, I acquiesced. "Fine. Please show me my table". I then took a plate and rushed to find the food. Dumped what I could onto the plate. Then back to the table where I flung everything into the box and ran out the door pronto just in time to make the 6:07 bus (after having quickly snatched my suitcase from the concierge). I did end up having a nice breakfast at Heathrow from my "box" along with freshly brewed English tea.

Next glitch: I made it, but what about the luggage that had been checked through to Newark? No one seemed to know, although the BA staff was consistently friendly and helpful. Just before our flight took off, I was given the news: my bag did not make the BA flight. Welcome to purgatory fulltime.

After landing in Newark Thursday morning, I went directly to the BA lost luggage claims office where a nice lady took down all my info. She then gave me a piece of paper with the reference code and phone number. The very helpful steward who had alerted me about the lost bags had warned me above all to get this phone number, just in case. No one could say anything about the lost bag.

At my parents' house, the next day I went onto the BA website to see if anything came up. It was a good thing I did. For the delivery address, the nice lady had written down the wrong town in a different part of the state! And the BA phone number was simply an automated number with automated choices. When I tried to leave a message for the airport, no answer. In order to speak to a human being, I phoned the regular BA customer service 800 number and succeeded! The agent was very helpful and corrected the address. After that, as I had nothing to lose in purgatory, I experimented with different possibilities. I phoned again and a miracle occurred: I actually ended up speaking with a human being. In fact, it was the lost luggage department and the lady who had registered my lost bag. Still no news about my lost suitcase.

The next day, I went onto the website again as it was a lot easier than phoning and choosing option, option, option. "Your reference number does not exist." What? Phoned again. Got through and was told that the file was in "suspension" and that this MIGHT mean that they had found the bag and were shipping it. Maybe. Probably. More purgatory.

In the meantime, it was time to attend my parents' 60thwedding anniversary dinner. No suitcase. No clothes. No toilet articles. No nice shoes. No presents. By some miracle, I had packed my vitamins in my hand luggage. Plus one jar of hand cream. I also blessed my dentist from long ago in Los Angeles who had convinced me to brush my teeth after every meal. Therefore, I always have a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse. And since I was staying with my parents, I knew that my mom would pull me through. She did. She lent me a beautiful outfit for the dinner that I wore again the next day for lunch. (different people – no one noticed)

After being in purgatory for awhile, I began to see how attached I am to all my "things". Just think about it – our lives are supported by manufactured products from dozens of stores: drug stores, cosmetics stores, clothing stores, shoe stores, other stores. Without the cushion of all my "things", I really did feel cast adrift and floating in the Sea of Purgatory. But it also showed me how much support I have around me, usually hidden and not appreciated. After all, the intent of purgatory is to purge you of your earthly sins and attachments. I certainly had a good purge in the earthly attachment department.

By then it was Saturday evening, and I was rehearsing in my mind how to yell at BA on Monday.

At 9 pm Saturday night, we received a phone call. He had my bag. Could he deliver it that evening? Like at 1 am? After gently explaining that we were in a retirement home and that was just a wee bit late, he agreed to deliver the bag the next day, Sunday between 11 and 11:30 am. It was at this stage I knew I was no longer in France.

Sunday morning about 9 am I went down to the retirement home office to let them know the bag was coming. It was already there! Covered with leaves and partly opened, but there. I quickly wheeled it to my parents' apartment where I proceeded to pull everything out of the suitcase. Yes! There were the presents, including one pound of French cheese a bit ripe, but still edible.

Wait – the reason the suitcase was slightly open was because there was a terrific dent in the front. It wouldn't close because the metal front was bent out of shape. How could I get home with a bag that wouldn't close? Then I had an inspired thought. It just needed a guy to fix it. And there was one available. My brother. He took a hammer and whacked that puppy back into its original shape. 99% anyway.

By then, I was sure I had left purgatory. But, as I was packing to return to Paris, I noticed that the handle had been whacked off my suitcase! When I phoned British Air in New York about it, the rep told me that they were not responsible for broken handles! Yesterday I sent a long letter to the British Airways Baggage Claims Unit in England. Maybe they can help me finally leave purgatory. I am still waiting.