I Lost My Keys!

Quite some time ago, a friend of mine gave me a necklace/cord with an attachment for my cell phone. I never used it because my phone didn’t fit onto the “hook” at the end of the cord (I have to admit I’ve been lazy about replacing my phone – I assume it’s simply too outdated to fit the latest hook). So, the necklace/cord sat in my drawer taking up space since I inherited an important quality from my parents: “You never know what’s going to happen in this world, so save everything even if it takes up too much space.”

Finally, I had an inspiration: “Why, not put your keys on it and wear them around your neck instead of having them float in your pocket or belt pack and possibly fall out?.” I have to explain that I haven’t been using my purse lately when I walk around the ‘hood which is why I either put stuff in my pockets or use my belt pack. I figured it would be a lot more secure to wear my keys around my neck.

Last Saturday I went for one of my walks around the ‘hood – it was sunny for the first time in weeks. “Wow – a blue sky!” It was a great walk, and as I got to my front door I felt very satisfied. But not for long. As I reached for my keys, I found – NOTHING. Not even the necklace/cord.. What a disaster (quelle catastophe)! I couldn’t even get into the building, let alone my apartment. One good thing is that I had remembered to bring my cell phone with me. So I took a chance and called the gardien or building supervisor to whom I had given a set of keys to my apartment when I moved in. However, it was a chance, because he doesn’t work on Saturday afternoons – would he even pick up the phone? To my great relief – he did. And was willing to come to the office and give me my keys. And once I was in my apartment, I found my duplicate set of keys, so all was well. Well, not quite. It really bugged me how I could have missed the necklace dropping with a set of keys that should have clunked on the sidewalk. What was going on?

At this point, I decided to pray to St Anthony, the patron saint of lost objects. Okay, okay, I’m Jewish. But I don’t think St Anthony really cares about that. He certainly has helped me in the past to find things I had lost or misplaced. Whatever works, right? (Now – that’s a Jewish attitude.) The next day, Sunday, I decided to retrace my steps to see if maybe I could find the keys curled up in their necklace/cord on the sidewalk, or whatever. Of course I didn’t find anything. BUT – just before entering my apartment building, I saw a sign (a real one), printed, that basically said (in French): “I found a set of keys on this street on Saturday”, followed by a cell phone number. Wow – could those be my keys? So I copied the number and phoned, only to fall upon an answering machine with a male voice saying, “Leave a message.” Which I did. And phoned several time more, finally connecting with a real human being.

“I live at 34 rue de Torcy and I’ll be there in 15 minutes. I’ll call you when I get there”
“I live there too! I’ll wait for your call.”

It turns out that he and his wife live in my very own building (!) and when I went up to their apartment – there were my keys!

“Thank you, Saint Anthony!”

Canterbury Rails

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…

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

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.