Take two of these and call me in the morning

Do you ever go to the doctor and want something to be wrong with you just so you won’t feel crazy? I’m not a hypochondriac at all, but I’ve been having certain health issues this past year for which I’ve been to my GP a couple times as well as a couple specialists. It seems like every time I go, the news is totally different—sometimes positive, other times, scary— which has resulted in a total emotional roller coaster ride.

I had an appointment with a specialist this morning and truthfully wasn’t expecting the news to be good. But it was. Which is great, of course. Except… I was so ready for bad news that I almost can’t relax and believe the doctor’s advice. But no matter. I can and will do it.

But the visit was a classic French experience. She wasn’t the warmest of doctors and at the end of our thorough discussion of my current issues and symptoms, my and my family’s health histories, blood test results, etc. her prognosis was quite simple and delivered with complete and utter confidence: “Profiter d’etre à Paris.”

That’s it! Just enjoy being in Paris! It seems my internal stressing has caused my system to go a little nutty. But if I could just relax and enjoy being here—the theater, the food, the arts… after all, so many people would love to be in my position…. This was literally her advice to me. I couldn’t help but giggle.

Yet when I separate myself from my American crybaby ways, it does make sense. Packing it up at the age of 36, leaving my good friends and dear family and safe job and happy life in New York to dive into a world of uncertainty, insecurity and enormous and trivial challenges was no small thing. All my external tough girl posturing could very well mask some serious internal stressing—even from myself.

So I’m willing to accept her good news and optimistic prognosis. 2010 is going to be the year je profite d’etre à Paris, c’est certain. It’s also going to be the year of splurging on good moisturizers. Her other piece of advice was to take care of my skin as it’s ultra dehydrated.

Past present

Incredibly, I was here in Paris one year ago for holiday with no idea that I would end up living here.

I had decided to return to Paris for a week’s vacation after the 800th request to do an apartment swap on homeexchange.com. I finally figured, pourquoi pas? I’d never been to Paris in the summer. I had no weddings or reunions or other travel obligations. Why not visit my favorite city in the world for a second time in one year?

Needless to say, it was an amazing trip. The city is definitely different in the summer, just as it’s different when you’re alone. I loved that it was light out until 10 o’clock. I was excited to discover new neighborhoods like Bercy and Canal Saint-Martin. I ate at Le Verre Volé and Le Comptoir du Relais. I got sucked into the sales and hooked on the Velibs. And then there were all those chocolatiers. It was a memorable trip indeed.

It’s funny now to come across some of the places that I visited last summer and see them with more of a local’s eye. It could be a café, a boutique or just a street corner, but suddenly, I’m remembering last summer and that delicious feeling that comes from traveling alone. It was hot. It was indulgent. I was free.

It just goes to show that a lot can happen in a year. You never know where life will take you. Although, with this whole experience and the benefits of hindsight, I will say that even if you don’t know, you sort of do. More and more, I’m thinking that we steer our own fate. We know on some level what we want and what makes us happy. Sometimes it’s attainable, sometimes it’s just unfeasible, but it’s always eye-opening, always nerve-wracking, always an adventure.

One month in

I landed a month ago today. (C’est fou, non?) If life is all the little moments that make you happy, here are the ones I’d handpick to remember:

• Seeing the office for the first time
• Wandering the Louis Vuitton flagship
• Biking through the tunnel
• Getting the keys my apartment
• Eating my first (and only, so far, I might add) Nutella crepe
• Strolling down Rue de Martyrs, bear claw in hand
• Walking up Montmartre’s hill on a Sunday evening
• Spying the Pompidou from my shower
• Training to London
• Sprinting along the Seine and strolling down Ile Saint-Louis
• Connecting with everyone on this blog

One cher pussycat

I’m sure most pet owners pause sometimes to consider how much their pets cost them. The kibbles, bits and toys can really add up. A few people asked about Milo’s expenses during the move and I finally got around to tallying up the bills.

Vet appointments for microchip, vaccinations, Cretificate of Good Health and (thank god) sedatives: $501
Airline-approved cat carrier, harness and leash: $109
USDA fee: $24
Air France animal fee: $150
Citadines hotel animal fee: $174
Temporary cat litter box for hotel: $13
Permanent cat litter box for home: $39

Grand total? $1,010. Merde.

Crash and burn

After a couple weeks of elation, energy and enthusiasm, what I am now is exhausted. Oh. My. God.

Apparently nobody knew that I’m not actually supposed to work while I’m here.

It’s been an intense week. Between getting to know my accounts, understanding new processes, overcoming language barriers with technology and people, and actually trying to be creative, my brain is drained.

And that’s just at the office. I’m still trying to unpack and settle into my apartment, figure out my commute, get to know my neighborhood, study French, write…

I know, poor me.

I think it’s magic

When I was in Paris last New Year’s, I found myself walking through the quartier Montorgueil. I had no idea what it was, much less what it was called, but I was charmed by the narrow little streets and the indie shops and bars that were on them. And then I came across the actual rue Montorgueil with all the boulangeries, fromageries, florists, cafes, epiceries, etc. and—forget it—I was smitten.

When I returned in the summer, I sought out the neighborhood. I wanted to walk through the streets again. I snacked all over rue Montorgueil and did some window shopping. And now I’m living here. It’s just crazy. It makes me really happy. But I think we all have to be aware of these things that make us, if not happy, then at least sit up and take notice. Why do they do that? What does it mean? I think if we all think about things that really matter to us, even if it’s on the most subconscious level, they have a way of reappearing and entering and sometimes even changing our lives.

No more hotel – hooray

My hands are all pruney from the crazy cleaning I’ve been doing and my legs are protesting the multiple trips up and down the six flights of stairs, but thank god I’m out of the hotel.

When I look at the view I had there, I tell myself that it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t—the view, I mean. It was quite nice.




The problem was, I couldn’t perch myself in the window all the time. The rest of the room was pretty much the shits.



It also overlooked the Montmartre Cemetery, which was cool. But, I swear, there were ghosts. Sometimes Milo would go bonkers, looking up at the ceiling, all over the walls, chasing invisible things across the room.



Usually though, he just parked it on those nappy hotel blankets. Those blankets were so gross. I always made sure that only the sheets touched my face.

I am in!

I’ve been off the computer for a couple days due to moving in: cleaning, schlepping, unpacking, arranging, settling in. I have a long way to go.

But I am sitting atop Paris in my little apartment! I love it.

This is the view out the big south-facing window.



And so you can see the Pomipou, I zoomed in. (The funky looking mass in the background.)



That’s my kitchen window. Isn’t it so cute?



How awesome are Parisian rooftops? And chimneys??

(More soon. The apartment itself is a bit of a disaster at the moment.)

Demain, rue Grenata

Tomorrow is moving day! Photos, updates and hopefully a happy girl soon...

Will there be a Parisian dream pad?

So, I had a good day of apartment hunting. An exhausting day. But I guess since I’m trying to decide between three apartments, I’m in good shape.

The day was cold and rainy, not exactly inspiring, but I trudged along with the real estate agent and an Ogilvy HR person, both of whom were super. Since we made the rounds to 11 apartments, I won’t bore you with the blow-by-blow. But, of the 11 places:

• Seven were on the right bank, three were on the left bank, and one was on the Ile St Louis. (Oh, if only that space had had a better layout, I would be living in the epicenter of Paris!)
• Five were walk-ups, the other had lifts.
• One was especially enormous, three were too sad to contemplate; a top-contender isn’t available until April 8; and all the others were okay, but eclipsed by my top three choices.

I’m basically trying to decide between a magical top-floor space that’s like living in a little treehouse above Paris (Look! You can see the Pompidou Centre from that window! Look! Le Sacre Coeur is out that one!); a huge one-bedroom that has more space than I would know what to do with (along with a comfy couch and flat-screen tv that’s bigger than anything I’ll ever own); and a cool, but somewhat dingy apartment (it has a loft, overlooks a courtyard and is owned by a New Yorker) in the Marais, my dream neighborhood.

Alas, nothing was perfect but to have three good options is not too shabby. I’m going to sleep on it and let the agent know first thing in the morning what my preferences are, and then we'll take it from there. I will be happy with any of them.

There will be photos soon

I took a picture of the gorgeous Pont Neuf with my digital camera. But of course my camera cord is packed in some box traversing the Atlantic right now so I have no way of uploading it to my computer. Sigh. After all my careful planning, organizing and packing, I blew it on a couple fronts: my camera cord and battery; a bunch of Paris guidebooks (I mean, *duh*); and the phone situation. But not having a phone is more of an Ogilvy thing — my Blackberry was supposed to work here — but alas, it doesn’t and I’m incommunicado. At least temporarily. And I have to say, it’s okay.

Bonjour mes amies

I made it. I'm here! The trip with Milo was sort of crazy, sort of funny, physically exhausting, but in the end, not as horrible as dreaded.

After all my mindful planning, I did run out of time on Wednesday and couldn’t get to everything I wanted (sorry the bathroom’s not spic and span, subletter). But after talking to Adam, it occurred to me that I should book a car service, which was the best decision of the day. The driver I had knew exactly where the USDA office was and was really nice and sweet, despite the demonic meows coming from the back seat.

I guess I should back up: in order to bring Milo to Paris, I had to have a microchip implanted under his skin and he had to get a couple vaccinations. That was right before the holidays. Then I had to go back to the vet right before departing to get a Certificate of Good Health, which basically says he’s healthy, not carrying any parasites, and not being used as a mini drug mule. Then that certificate has to be stamped by the USDA. It’s quite the process. Or at least it seems so when every visit entails carting an unhappy cat and paying a lot of cash.

Since I didn’t have time to send the certificate to the USDA (I got it on Sunday; was leaving on Wednesday), I had to make a pit-stop at their offices near JFK. They were surprisingly quick and friendly. My first good experience with a government office in quite awhile.

But the trip from the apartment to their JFK offices was heinous. Milo was squawking the whole way, despite the half the pill to sedate him I had given him a few hours prior. And when he freaks out in his carrier, he either pees, poops or vomits. This time, he pooped. So the whole ride there, I had him in his carrier on my lap, so I was basically sitting with the lovely smell and thoughts of cat crap in my lap. Amplified by his meows.

I scooped most of the turds out of the carrier at the USDA office (and, importantly, gave him another half-pill to sedate him). But one remained. Or he crapped again between the office and the airport. In any case, by the time I got to the security checkpoint, there was another turd in his carrier.

But this I did not know.

So after the mini-triumph of getting him past the Air France weigh-in at check-in (another back-story: Air France sets the limit at six kilos, or about 13 pounds, for carry-on pets. And that’s with the carrier. I lied to the agent’s face and said Milo was 13 pounds. She asked me to put him on the scale and I nonchalantly put the carrier on the scale. Either she didn’t have the heart to send him to cargo, she didn’t want to deal, or the scale was broken, but my fat cat passed! We were cleared for boarding.)

I had to take Milo out of his carrier and walk through the metal detector with him in my arms (for which he wore a snazzy purple harness and leash, just in case he tried to bolt. And I wore a crummy old sweater since I knew I was going to get cat crud all over). The carrier had to go through the x-ray machine.

Imagine the chaos of the security line from the last time you traveled. People are all rushed, the TSA employees can’t be bothered with you, they’re too busy gabbing with one another, and you’re on the grungy floor in your socks. Now imagine doing that with a terrified cat in your arms. Not fun.

I was trying to get my boots back on after walking through the metal detector, they were asking to look through my purse, and I noticed the carrier coming through the x-ray machine, turned upside down. And then, as I was bent over, trying to wrangle my boots on, Milo still clinging to me, I saw a turd on the floor! Oh, the horror. Everything was so frantic and in disarray, I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to just bolt. But all these innocent people in their socks! I couldn’t let them step in cat crap and then have to sit on a plane for six or eight hours. Nasty. I grabbed one of the wee wee pads from Milo’s bag (just because I’m moving to Paris doesn’t make me instantly chic) and cleaned it up. Got him in the bag, got my boots on, and got the hell out of there.

After I washed my hands and cat scratches (twice), I made my way to the gate, set Milo’s carrier down gently, collapsed into a seat, and just started laughing. Ridiculous.

From then on, Milo was a champ. Thanks to the sedative, he was pretty placid the entire flight and even the taxi ride from Charles de Gaulle to the hotel. Permanently scarred, for sure, but doing okay.