I am sitting, typing in my exercise gear as today was The Day. The day, after four months of having let my gym membership lapse, and probably just as many pounds around the middle, I was going to suck it up and pay the 230 euro for a one-month membership back at my beloved gym.
I had put off renewing for so long because of the inflated cost. As a testament to how little I comprehended the dollar-euro exchange my first year here, I blithely handed over the 1400 last summer to join Klay. Even now, after the calculations, I don’t regret it. It’s a super gym: brand new, modern, clean, a sauna, hamman and small pool, exercise and weight equipment… yoga. I loved it.
When I inquired about my re-sign options at the end of July, I was told it was 1000 for six months, 650 for three months and 280 for a month’s membership. Zut! That’s alotta centimes.
I rationalized I could do extra Velb’ing for a couple months. Plus, it being summer, I was traveling a bit. Why have a pricey gym membership when you’re not going to go to the gym? I figured I’d splurge on the three-month membership in September. Or October.
Well, here it is, the end of November, and I finally decided my body and my psyche would be so happy to be back in downward dog. To take a quick sauna from time to time. To feel strong again.
So I set my alarm and trotted over to the gym with 230 euro. On the way, I realized, merde, was it 280?? Would I still splurge for 280? Was it worth it? You see, I can be so carefree with money on some things (shoes, bags, fancy hotels) and so cheap with others (makeup, transportation, and, apparently, gym memberships).
Oui, I’d do it! I deserved it! I would feel so good, back in an exercise regime!
But apparently the prices have augmenter. One month, in fact, costs 350 euro.
“Trois cent cinquante??” I asked. Twice. Just to make sure I was doing the translation and the math right. I was.
So I trotted back out into the misty morning. By my crude calculations, 350 euro could get me:
• Month upon month of Velib rides
• A fabulous Lululemon ensemble and some new baskets
• Five or six great dinners in the next month
• A round of 10 champagne cocktails at the Ritz
• A night at, say, the Regent Grand Hotel in Bordeaux or the Savoy in London
• A cut and highlights, and a massage or facial
• One Christian Louboutin shoe
• An LV makeup bag (which, oui, I also want)
What would you do with 350 euro? Cough it up in the name of physical health and mental sanity? Or put it towards an extra special treat?
Showing posts with label Merde. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Merde. Show all posts
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Paris, I love you, you know I do, but…
I can no longer turn my head to certain behaviors, and this makes me really sad.
• Homelessness. Sad, sick, old people, camped out and propped up on seemingly every corner. This is no way to treat our own, is it?
• Graffiti. Cool street art is one thing; obnoxious spray can scrawl on private property, historic buildings and magical landmarks is disgraceful.
• Merde. It’s true. Everyone poops. Including dogs. But since when is it okay to leave your dog’s crap on the sidewalk, in the street, near the garbage, under the tree—anywhere in public??
• Homelessness. Sad, sick, old people, camped out and propped up on seemingly every corner. This is no way to treat our own, is it?
• Graffiti. Cool street art is one thing; obnoxious spray can scrawl on private property, historic buildings and magical landmarks is disgraceful.
• Merde. It’s true. Everyone poops. Including dogs. But since when is it okay to leave your dog’s crap on the sidewalk, in the street, near the garbage, under the tree—anywhere in public??
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Getting gyped comes in threes
The fucking French. Pardon my French, but really.
Thursday night, it was the taxi driver. I don’t often take cabs here but I would say at least 20% of time when I do, they try to take me for a ride. On Thursday, my driver turned right off rue Saint-Honoré, towards the Louvre in order to bring me to Boulevard Sebastopol. I asked him why we were going towards the Left Bank instead of continuing on, straight, and he started freaking out, they way defensive taxi drivers do, so I started freaking out back at him. But, at the end of the day, I’m the jerk who doesn’t speak the language and doesn’t know the street names. It’s hard to win an argument when the other person can't understand you.
Then last night, I had an appointment at a new hair salon. Don’t ask me why I didn’t go back to the place, Coiffure & Nature, where I’ve been twice and had good cuts. For some reason, I’m never satisfied. I always think there’s something better, so I decided to try Jean Louis Déforges, which I had walked by a few times.
I came prepared for my 6 o’clock appointment with my notes: “une coupe e’entretien avec des dégradées.” It worked at the other salon—they understood that I wanted a trim with layers. But this hair stylist told me, “non.” He jabbed his hand at my shoulder, indicating where he wanted to cut my hair. We all know how long it takes to grow hair. I wasn’t interested in cutting it that short. I wanted to keep my length. I tried explaining this to him and kept pointing to my notes and repeating out loud: “une coupe e’entretien avec des dégradées.” We were glaring at each other in the mirror.
Then the artistic director came over, who luckily spoke English pretty well. He had a really nice disposition and calmly pointed out that my hair was thin and therefore straggly in the back. It could use a little less length. He’d recommend doing more than a trim. When I told him I wanted to keep the length, he asked why I was there, then. What was I doing getting my hair cut? I couldn’t believe these two hairdressers were basically refusing me the cut that I wanted. It was so outrageous. And I was like a (furious) deer in headlights. I had already waited too long to make the appointment (I put off every little action here in Paris—everything is too difficult and requires to much effort. Although, I am finally going for my follow-up doctor appointment this week and really, really hope to replace those glasses that I lost in June by the end of the year because it’s really hard to see sometimes. But I digress.), and knew this week was going to be hell and I wouldn’t have a chance to make another hair appointment. I convinced myself that, hey, you’re in France. They’re style gods. Let this man do what he thinks is right. He was quite convincing and was telling me he'd cut my hair and he wouldn’t take too much off. I finally succumbed.
Silly girl.
One of the assistants washed my hair (which, as always, was heaven. Ah, I love a scalp massage) and brought me back to the chair. Where I sat, waiting, with a wet head, for nearly 45 minutes. I was irate. And to make matters worse, I had a date at 7:30 to meet the woman who’s potentially minding Milo and the treehouse when I’m in New York. It was nearly 7 o’clock, I was on the other side of town, and I was freaking out.
Finally, the artistic director came over and started trimming my hair. And then the layers came. He cut the shit out of my hair. At 7:20—with me, red-faced, but just wanting to get the hell out of there—he asked one of the assistants to dry my hair with the diffuser. I told him I was late and had to go and he said, “Just a leetle, just a leetle.” So the girl blew out my hair, upside down, with a diffuser (Are you asking yourself what the hell is wrong with me?? Why was I still there? Because I was asking myself that the whole time, muttering like a crazy old lady). I sprang up and, voila! An afro! Thank you, Jean Louis Déforges, thank you so much!
I gritted my teeth, paid my 60 euros and bolted from the salon. I really wanted to cry, but I didn’t have time—I had to find a taxi to usher me to my date in the Marais, for which I was now late. But of course there were no taxis. It was one of those hours when they’re all unavailable. So I ran. I ran past l’eglise Saint-Germain, I ran to the Seine, and I ran across the bridge (pretty views, at least). I ran to the Louvre-Rivoli Metro stop, took one train, transferred in the hell that is Chatelet, took another train, and then ran from Arts et Metiers to rue Bretagne. I had a frizzy afro, sweaty face and no breath when I finally busted through the door of Café Charlot.
Luckily, the woman whom I was meeting, Nicole, was great. Hopefully things will work out with the apartment, so after a couple glasses of wine, we decided to go to Hotel Costes. Pourquoi pas? I mean, I looked and felt so chic, why not take that haircut out for a walk? (Kidding, of course. By now, my hair was back in what I was hoping looked like a French updo.)
Hotel Costes on a Saturday night was like being at Hotel Gansevoort on a Saturday night. That is, cool if you like fake tans, muscle-y men and total posturing. But no matter—Nicole and I had a great time. I ordered a sidecar for 19 euros, Nicole got a 19-euros glass of champagne, and we plunked ourselves down at the small bar. The drinks went down quickly and easily and the atmosphere was lively and we had no other agenda. We ordered another round, with me switching to champagne. Sometime later, I turned and the bartender—who was channeling Tom Cruise in Cocktail all night—was refilling our glasses. Zut—my fifth drink of the night, without any supper in my belly. Not good. But hey, who am I to refuse a free glass of champagne?
Except that it wasn’t free. Even though we didn’t ask for that last round, he still charged us, making my grand total for the three drinks nearly 60 euros—the same price of my fabulous haircut.
The f'ing French.
Thursday night, it was the taxi driver. I don’t often take cabs here but I would say at least 20% of time when I do, they try to take me for a ride. On Thursday, my driver turned right off rue Saint-Honoré, towards the Louvre in order to bring me to Boulevard Sebastopol. I asked him why we were going towards the Left Bank instead of continuing on, straight, and he started freaking out, they way defensive taxi drivers do, so I started freaking out back at him. But, at the end of the day, I’m the jerk who doesn’t speak the language and doesn’t know the street names. It’s hard to win an argument when the other person can't understand you.
Then last night, I had an appointment at a new hair salon. Don’t ask me why I didn’t go back to the place, Coiffure & Nature, where I’ve been twice and had good cuts. For some reason, I’m never satisfied. I always think there’s something better, so I decided to try Jean Louis Déforges, which I had walked by a few times.
I came prepared for my 6 o’clock appointment with my notes: “une coupe e’entretien avec des dégradées.” It worked at the other salon—they understood that I wanted a trim with layers. But this hair stylist told me, “non.” He jabbed his hand at my shoulder, indicating where he wanted to cut my hair. We all know how long it takes to grow hair. I wasn’t interested in cutting it that short. I wanted to keep my length. I tried explaining this to him and kept pointing to my notes and repeating out loud: “une coupe e’entretien avec des dégradées.” We were glaring at each other in the mirror.
Then the artistic director came over, who luckily spoke English pretty well. He had a really nice disposition and calmly pointed out that my hair was thin and therefore straggly in the back. It could use a little less length. He’d recommend doing more than a trim. When I told him I wanted to keep the length, he asked why I was there, then. What was I doing getting my hair cut? I couldn’t believe these two hairdressers were basically refusing me the cut that I wanted. It was so outrageous. And I was like a (furious) deer in headlights. I had already waited too long to make the appointment (I put off every little action here in Paris—everything is too difficult and requires to much effort. Although, I am finally going for my follow-up doctor appointment this week and really, really hope to replace those glasses that I lost in June by the end of the year because it’s really hard to see sometimes. But I digress.), and knew this week was going to be hell and I wouldn’t have a chance to make another hair appointment. I convinced myself that, hey, you’re in France. They’re style gods. Let this man do what he thinks is right. He was quite convincing and was telling me he'd cut my hair and he wouldn’t take too much off. I finally succumbed.
Silly girl.
One of the assistants washed my hair (which, as always, was heaven. Ah, I love a scalp massage) and brought me back to the chair. Where I sat, waiting, with a wet head, for nearly 45 minutes. I was irate. And to make matters worse, I had a date at 7:30 to meet the woman who’s potentially minding Milo and the treehouse when I’m in New York. It was nearly 7 o’clock, I was on the other side of town, and I was freaking out.
Finally, the artistic director came over and started trimming my hair. And then the layers came. He cut the shit out of my hair. At 7:20—with me, red-faced, but just wanting to get the hell out of there—he asked one of the assistants to dry my hair with the diffuser. I told him I was late and had to go and he said, “Just a leetle, just a leetle.” So the girl blew out my hair, upside down, with a diffuser (Are you asking yourself what the hell is wrong with me?? Why was I still there? Because I was asking myself that the whole time, muttering like a crazy old lady). I sprang up and, voila! An afro! Thank you, Jean Louis Déforges, thank you so much!
I gritted my teeth, paid my 60 euros and bolted from the salon. I really wanted to cry, but I didn’t have time—I had to find a taxi to usher me to my date in the Marais, for which I was now late. But of course there were no taxis. It was one of those hours when they’re all unavailable. So I ran. I ran past l’eglise Saint-Germain, I ran to the Seine, and I ran across the bridge (pretty views, at least). I ran to the Louvre-Rivoli Metro stop, took one train, transferred in the hell that is Chatelet, took another train, and then ran from Arts et Metiers to rue Bretagne. I had a frizzy afro, sweaty face and no breath when I finally busted through the door of Café Charlot.
Luckily, the woman whom I was meeting, Nicole, was great. Hopefully things will work out with the apartment, so after a couple glasses of wine, we decided to go to Hotel Costes. Pourquoi pas? I mean, I looked and felt so chic, why not take that haircut out for a walk? (Kidding, of course. By now, my hair was back in what I was hoping looked like a French updo.)
Hotel Costes on a Saturday night was like being at Hotel Gansevoort on a Saturday night. That is, cool if you like fake tans, muscle-y men and total posturing. But no matter—Nicole and I had a great time. I ordered a sidecar for 19 euros, Nicole got a 19-euros glass of champagne, and we plunked ourselves down at the small bar. The drinks went down quickly and easily and the atmosphere was lively and we had no other agenda. We ordered another round, with me switching to champagne. Sometime later, I turned and the bartender—who was channeling Tom Cruise in Cocktail all night—was refilling our glasses. Zut—my fifth drink of the night, without any supper in my belly. Not good. But hey, who am I to refuse a free glass of champagne?
Except that it wasn’t free. Even though we didn’t ask for that last round, he still charged us, making my grand total for the three drinks nearly 60 euros—the same price of my fabulous haircut.
The f'ing French.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Weather check: it was fun while it lasted
I just want to pause and admire this photo; the warmth and beauty in which it was taken.
Because the forecast for the next week is rainy and cold. Merde.
Because the forecast for the next week is rainy and cold. Merde.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
French word of the day: rater
Depending on which dictionary you consult…
Def: to misfire, flub or otherwise bungle something
Def: to make a mess of, to fail, to go wrong
Either way, it pretty much sums me up lately.
I ruined my grey jeans over the weekend. And on Monday, I ruined my fancy, new grey leather Sigerson Morrison heels. Water splashed out from the sink and onto my right foot, staining the leather. This, after I treated them with leather protector and didn’t wear them all last week because of the rain. I mean, what’s wrong with me? They weren’t inexpensive shoes. Nor were the Robert Clergerie platforms I ruined after one wear. Then there are the eyeglasses and earrings I lost in Cannes. I’m feeling horribly clumsy and inept lately. Please, please, please, make the “rater” go away.
Def: to misfire, flub or otherwise bungle something
Def: to make a mess of, to fail, to go wrong
Either way, it pretty much sums me up lately.
I ruined my grey jeans over the weekend. And on Monday, I ruined my fancy, new grey leather Sigerson Morrison heels. Water splashed out from the sink and onto my right foot, staining the leather. This, after I treated them with leather protector and didn’t wear them all last week because of the rain. I mean, what’s wrong with me? They weren’t inexpensive shoes. Nor were the Robert Clergerie platforms I ruined after one wear. Then there are the eyeglasses and earrings I lost in Cannes. I’m feeling horribly clumsy and inept lately. Please, please, please, make the “rater” go away.
Friday, October 2, 2009
To the vet's!
I’m generally pretty comfortable and confident living and traveling solo. But when I moved to Paris, I had a few fears:
• That I’d have a seizure somewhere out in the streets and be totally incommunicado when I came to beneath a crowd of stylish Frenchies and/or ambulance EMTs, muttering merde, merde.
• That I’d lose my fake teeth and walk around like a crazy gap-toothed lady.
• That I’d have some sort of apartment catastrophe: a break-in, flood, fire… or just get locked out and have no one to call.
• Or that Milo would be stricken with some illness and I wouldn’t be able to find a vet or communicate my crazy cat’s woes.
A couple of these are warranted: Thanks to ‘abnormal brainwave activity’ and the loss of two front teeth in a bizarre accident in Ramallah (seriously), I always have those first two fears lurking in the back of my mind.
And the apartment and cat things are just from feeling more vulnerable in a city and home that’s not my own. Back in New York, Amee was my emergency contact, and she had a set of keys to my apartment. So did my doormen and super. And I had a roster of doctors, a dentist and veterinarian whom I knew and trusted. I knew I always had back-up, come fire, flood or medical mishap.
Lucky for me, the first fear that’s actually been realized here in Paris had to do with Milo. (I’m horrible.) When I came back from New York, I noticed a few clumps of fur around the apartment—like, major clumps. It was bizarre. And a little gross. The next day I came home from work, there was more fur. And then more and more and more. My cat has suddenly taken to ripping out giant tufts of his fur, and it’s absolutely disconcerting.
I Googled “cat pulling out hair like crazy” to find some likely causes, of which there are several. It could be an allergy—to something in the air or food. It could be a parasite, mites or fleas (ew, I hope not). Or it could be stress—a cat with ocd. Wtf.
Admittedly, I kept putting off finding a vet. I did some Google searches and asking around, which didn’t yield the magical “bilingual vet in the second arrondisement” results that I was hoping for. I didn’t know what to do. But then a lovely colleague who has a couple cats jumped in and found the name of a vet right in my neighborhood. I walked in one morning—so much easier for me to speak face-to-face than try to communicate over the phone—and explained that my French was horrible but my cat was even worse and I needed their help. Two days later, I had Milo on the examination table, with the vet and her assistant explaining to me in Franglais all the different possibilities that I had found online. But their disposition and medicine-dispensing capabilities made me feel so much better.
It will be a process of elimination, figuring out why Milo is pulling out his fur. But at least I have some professional guidance and meds to make it more pleasant for mon cher pussycat. And at least I’ve confronted one of my fears and it’s not as bad as I originally thought it would be.
• That I’d have a seizure somewhere out in the streets and be totally incommunicado when I came to beneath a crowd of stylish Frenchies and/or ambulance EMTs, muttering merde, merde.
• That I’d lose my fake teeth and walk around like a crazy gap-toothed lady.
• That I’d have some sort of apartment catastrophe: a break-in, flood, fire… or just get locked out and have no one to call.
• Or that Milo would be stricken with some illness and I wouldn’t be able to find a vet or communicate my crazy cat’s woes.
A couple of these are warranted: Thanks to ‘abnormal brainwave activity’ and the loss of two front teeth in a bizarre accident in Ramallah (seriously), I always have those first two fears lurking in the back of my mind.
And the apartment and cat things are just from feeling more vulnerable in a city and home that’s not my own. Back in New York, Amee was my emergency contact, and she had a set of keys to my apartment. So did my doormen and super. And I had a roster of doctors, a dentist and veterinarian whom I knew and trusted. I knew I always had back-up, come fire, flood or medical mishap.
Lucky for me, the first fear that’s actually been realized here in Paris had to do with Milo. (I’m horrible.) When I came back from New York, I noticed a few clumps of fur around the apartment—like, major clumps. It was bizarre. And a little gross. The next day I came home from work, there was more fur. And then more and more and more. My cat has suddenly taken to ripping out giant tufts of his fur, and it’s absolutely disconcerting.
I Googled “cat pulling out hair like crazy” to find some likely causes, of which there are several. It could be an allergy—to something in the air or food. It could be a parasite, mites or fleas (ew, I hope not). Or it could be stress—a cat with ocd. Wtf.
Admittedly, I kept putting off finding a vet. I did some Google searches and asking around, which didn’t yield the magical “bilingual vet in the second arrondisement” results that I was hoping for. I didn’t know what to do. But then a lovely colleague who has a couple cats jumped in and found the name of a vet right in my neighborhood. I walked in one morning—so much easier for me to speak face-to-face than try to communicate over the phone—and explained that my French was horrible but my cat was even worse and I needed their help. Two days later, I had Milo on the examination table, with the vet and her assistant explaining to me in Franglais all the different possibilities that I had found online. But their disposition and medicine-dispensing capabilities made me feel so much better.
It will be a process of elimination, figuring out why Milo is pulling out his fur. But at least I have some professional guidance and meds to make it more pleasant for mon cher pussycat. And at least I’ve confronted one of my fears and it’s not as bad as I originally thought it would be.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Please don’t doo that
The one thing I don’t like about our offices is the bathrooms. I detest that there are no paper towels or air dryers for drying your hands, but rather those big, grody spools of cloth towels that you roll out like a mangy vertical conveyer belt. They remind me of the ’70s—when they should have been put to rest with polyester pantsuits—and make me feel so skeeved out that I want to wash my hands all over again.
I also hate that there are just two bathrooms, one for the men and one for the women. While I’m happy that men handily outnumber women in the office, the men will often use the ladies’ room. Yes, they’re marked—with those international symbols for “man” and “woman” that I needed to confirm when I first started to make sure everyone wasn’t laughing at me for using the men’s room. But this doesn’t deter the men. Nope, they’ll go into the women’s room, piss all over the floor, leave the seat up, leave the light on, and then barrel out of there like they were using a porta-potty at a Radiohead concert.
Sometimes they even drop their babies off at the pool.
Now, as far as I’m concerned going number two is something that should be done in the privacy of your own home. Unless something you ate for lunch doesn’t agree with you. Maybe I’m being prissy, but I think it’s a courtesy to your fellow colleagues not to pollute the shared bathroom. To each their own, but c’mon.
This morning, I needed to wash my water glass but both bathroom doors for the ladies’ room were closed (there is one outer door, and another floor-to-ceiling stall door). I knew some dude was in there, taking a dump, I just knew it. So I sat outside and waited. Sure enough, after a few minutes, some guy who I had never seen before came out, quickly averted his gaze, and hurried by. God, it stank. Disgusting. Then I saw this guy being lead into a meeting. So not only did he take the liberty of taking a crap in the ladies’ room, but he’s not even an employee. Can you imagine going to an office for an appointment and doing your business in the bathroom before you’ve done proper business in the conference room?? How could he not be horrified? Gawd.
I also hate that there are just two bathrooms, one for the men and one for the women. While I’m happy that men handily outnumber women in the office, the men will often use the ladies’ room. Yes, they’re marked—with those international symbols for “man” and “woman” that I needed to confirm when I first started to make sure everyone wasn’t laughing at me for using the men’s room. But this doesn’t deter the men. Nope, they’ll go into the women’s room, piss all over the floor, leave the seat up, leave the light on, and then barrel out of there like they were using a porta-potty at a Radiohead concert.
Sometimes they even drop their babies off at the pool.
Now, as far as I’m concerned going number two is something that should be done in the privacy of your own home. Unless something you ate for lunch doesn’t agree with you. Maybe I’m being prissy, but I think it’s a courtesy to your fellow colleagues not to pollute the shared bathroom. To each their own, but c’mon.
This morning, I needed to wash my water glass but both bathroom doors for the ladies’ room were closed (there is one outer door, and another floor-to-ceiling stall door). I knew some dude was in there, taking a dump, I just knew it. So I sat outside and waited. Sure enough, after a few minutes, some guy who I had never seen before came out, quickly averted his gaze, and hurried by. God, it stank. Disgusting. Then I saw this guy being lead into a meeting. So not only did he take the liberty of taking a crap in the ladies’ room, but he’s not even an employee. Can you imagine going to an office for an appointment and doing your business in the bathroom before you’ve done proper business in the conference room?? How could he not be horrified? Gawd.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Weather check: poo
I know I said yesterday that grey skies and cold temperatures wouldn’t bring me down. But I lied. Apparently winter happened while I was in New York, and winter is no friend of mine.
I am wearing a cashmere sweater and leather jacket today. My shoulders are hunched against the damp air. Ah, and my lovely red nose is cold and tres red.
I’m wondering where summer went, and I’m hoping for a spot of sunshine soon.
I am wearing a cashmere sweater and leather jacket today. My shoulders are hunched against the damp air. Ah, and my lovely red nose is cold and tres red.
I’m wondering where summer went, and I’m hoping for a spot of sunshine soon.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
The medical mysteries of acclimating to a new city
I had to get some blood drawn today (by the cutest, plumpest old lady), and it got me thinking.
Since I've been in Paris, I went flying over my handlebars, and flying down a flight of stairs. I was accosted by a taxi driver, and I accidentally got drunker than I've been in years. I lost my glasses, a pair of nice earrings, and I broke my watch.
I've never exactly been a study of grace, but what's all that about? There must be some sort of neurological explanation, or at least a crackpot theory, about the high incidence of accidents when you're new to a city.
Since I've been in Paris, I went flying over my handlebars, and flying down a flight of stairs. I was accosted by a taxi driver, and I accidentally got drunker than I've been in years. I lost my glasses, a pair of nice earrings, and I broke my watch.
I've never exactly been a study of grace, but what's all that about? There must be some sort of neurological explanation, or at least a crackpot theory, about the high incidence of accidents when you're new to a city.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Confession
I’m so ashamed. I just went to McDonald’s. I haven’t been in probably about four years—my last recollection was stopping at one with Aim as we were driving home, hung-over, from some Babson reunion. I think I just got fries—I can’t even remember the last time I had anything else there.
But there is a McDonald’s right outside our office. And there aren’t many places in the neighborhood for snacks. The thought of a vanilla soft-serve crosses my mind from time to time, especially on a sunny day like today. And well, I finally gave in.
McDonald’s in Paris is a funny thing. Before you walk by the stank of the bathrooms to get to the counter way, way in the back, there’s a “McCafe” where they sell macarons, croissants and espresso. Classic. Only in Paris.
I had another only in Paris moment last night—I, um, also went to Starbucks. This was my first visit to a Starbucks in probably seven or eight months and the only reason I went is because we had a meeting for work—a Sunday evening meeting before the madness of this week began. Just like New York, Starbucks are everywhere in Paris and they’re a convenient and logical meeting place. Except this one had twenty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Probably faux-crystal, but still, it was funny to be sucking on a raspberry frappaccino in such grandeur.
But I am really not meant to eat at these places—once in awhile in the states, maybe, but never in Paris. For there I was, out on the Champs-Elysée, enjoying my McDonald’s ice cream, when something fell on me. Sure enough, a pigeon shat on me. A sign.
Mel? Alex? WTF? What is going on with me and the pigeons?
But there is a McDonald’s right outside our office. And there aren’t many places in the neighborhood for snacks. The thought of a vanilla soft-serve crosses my mind from time to time, especially on a sunny day like today. And well, I finally gave in.
McDonald’s in Paris is a funny thing. Before you walk by the stank of the bathrooms to get to the counter way, way in the back, there’s a “McCafe” where they sell macarons, croissants and espresso. Classic. Only in Paris.
I had another only in Paris moment last night—I, um, also went to Starbucks. This was my first visit to a Starbucks in probably seven or eight months and the only reason I went is because we had a meeting for work—a Sunday evening meeting before the madness of this week began. Just like New York, Starbucks are everywhere in Paris and they’re a convenient and logical meeting place. Except this one had twenty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers. Probably faux-crystal, but still, it was funny to be sucking on a raspberry frappaccino in such grandeur.
But I am really not meant to eat at these places—once in awhile in the states, maybe, but never in Paris. For there I was, out on the Champs-Elysée, enjoying my McDonald’s ice cream, when something fell on me. Sure enough, a pigeon shat on me. A sign.
Mel? Alex? WTF? What is going on with me and the pigeons?
Monday, August 3, 2009
Restoration
This weekend was just what the médicin ordered. I think I finally shook that dark cosmic cloud that’s been haunting me.
I slept and relaxed.
I got a haircut, a pedicure and joined the gym.
I had lots of solo time in which I read Memoirs of Montparnasse and started watching Season 1 of The Wire. (Both thoroughly addictive.)
As much qt solo time as I had, I also had two great dates—brunch with Melissa and an apero with Jo. (New friend alert! Jo’s an Australian art director I met at one of the Ogilvy parties, and she’s awesome.)
I ate well and didn’t drink (save for the one apero).
I feel refreshed and human again. It’s a good thing, too. This week, and this month, promise to be shitstorms.
I slept and relaxed.
I got a haircut, a pedicure and joined the gym.
I had lots of solo time in which I read Memoirs of Montparnasse and started watching Season 1 of The Wire. (Both thoroughly addictive.)
As much qt solo time as I had, I also had two great dates—brunch with Melissa and an apero with Jo. (New friend alert! Jo’s an Australian art director I met at one of the Ogilvy parties, and she’s awesome.)
I ate well and didn’t drink (save for the one apero).
I feel refreshed and human again. It’s a good thing, too. This week, and this month, promise to be shitstorms.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Not the best weekend
It wasn’t my brightest weekend in the City of Light.
• Friday night, I fell on a staircase in a store and a) embarrassed myself (it was a not-so-graceful fall) b) *killed* my knee along with my ankle and butt (I was limping all day Saturday), but worst of all c) I ruined the fabulous new pair of Robert Clergerie platform heels that I was wearing for the first time. So sad.
• I had to work both days.
• I didn’t get enough sleep.
• And I was practically assaulted by a taxi driver. I was biking into work on Sunday and tapped this cab on the window as he kept drifting toward the curb. It was my friendly way of letting him know I was there as he wasn’t responding to my bike bell. As soon as I touched his precious taxi van, however, he pulled over, stopped me in the middle of the street and grabbed me by the arm. The bike fell in the middle of the road and I start freaking out, yelling at him to take his f’ing hands off me. Then he grabbed my bag out of the bike basket and wouldn't give it back to me. It was all so infuriating. I finally got my bag back, when he took the overpriced salad I was bringing for lunch instead. As soon as I had my bag and arm back, I took off, blood boiling, onlookers scratching their heads and telling this man he was “malade” and cooled off/hid on a side street for a few minutes. Then I got to go to work. I mean, wtf??
• The weekend’s final insult was getting home at 8 o’clock on Sunday night, after a weekend mostly spent at the office, and stopping by the Italian sandwich shop I like for my beautiful pressed mozzarella and tomato sandwich. By the time I get these home to eat, the cheese and olive oil and basil has melded to the sweet tomatoes and crunchy bread in this perfect dinner of deliciousness. But when I got home and sat down to eat last night, I saw they had given me the wrong sandwich: it was ham. I couldn’t eat it.
It wasn’t all disastrous, however. On a positive note…
• I had the most delicious lobster roll and goose fat French fries at Daniel Rose’s Spring restaurant. The lobster roll was a beautiful summer feast—which made me very happy and a little nostalgic for Connecticut—but the fries were otherworldly. And not because of the goose fat, though that indeed made a delicious difference. But he grated orange and lime zest over them, giving them a light, slightly tart accent—sublime, I tell you. Give it a try (Meghan).
• I had another fun night with Mel: good food and conversation at Hotel du Nord followed by a Parisian house party. Crazy cats in this city.
• I got to see the finish of the Tour de France: an epic experience here in Paris.
• Friday night, I fell on a staircase in a store and a) embarrassed myself (it was a not-so-graceful fall) b) *killed* my knee along with my ankle and butt (I was limping all day Saturday), but worst of all c) I ruined the fabulous new pair of Robert Clergerie platform heels that I was wearing for the first time. So sad.
• I had to work both days.
• I didn’t get enough sleep.
• And I was practically assaulted by a taxi driver. I was biking into work on Sunday and tapped this cab on the window as he kept drifting toward the curb. It was my friendly way of letting him know I was there as he wasn’t responding to my bike bell. As soon as I touched his precious taxi van, however, he pulled over, stopped me in the middle of the street and grabbed me by the arm. The bike fell in the middle of the road and I start freaking out, yelling at him to take his f’ing hands off me. Then he grabbed my bag out of the bike basket and wouldn't give it back to me. It was all so infuriating. I finally got my bag back, when he took the overpriced salad I was bringing for lunch instead. As soon as I had my bag and arm back, I took off, blood boiling, onlookers scratching their heads and telling this man he was “malade” and cooled off/hid on a side street for a few minutes. Then I got to go to work. I mean, wtf??
• The weekend’s final insult was getting home at 8 o’clock on Sunday night, after a weekend mostly spent at the office, and stopping by the Italian sandwich shop I like for my beautiful pressed mozzarella and tomato sandwich. By the time I get these home to eat, the cheese and olive oil and basil has melded to the sweet tomatoes and crunchy bread in this perfect dinner of deliciousness. But when I got home and sat down to eat last night, I saw they had given me the wrong sandwich: it was ham. I couldn’t eat it.
It wasn’t all disastrous, however. On a positive note…
• I had the most delicious lobster roll and goose fat French fries at Daniel Rose’s Spring restaurant. The lobster roll was a beautiful summer feast—which made me very happy and a little nostalgic for Connecticut—but the fries were otherworldly. And not because of the goose fat, though that indeed made a delicious difference. But he grated orange and lime zest over them, giving them a light, slightly tart accent—sublime, I tell you. Give it a try (Meghan).
• I had another fun night with Mel: good food and conversation at Hotel du Nord followed by a Parisian house party. Crazy cats in this city.
• I got to see the finish of the Tour de France: an epic experience here in Paris.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
French women: ridiculous
Dang. I need to step it up. I sat outside at a café for une coupe de champagne last night, and my admiration for the fashionable French women skyrocketed to awe and then tipped to envy.
The (Anne Hathaway-looking) waitress had her hair up in a perfectly disheveled knot that would have taken me 90 minutes and an extra pair of hands to accomplish. Another woman sat, looking stunning in a backless top. Another looked like a YSL model circa ’79 with her belled jeans and fabulous belt. Everyone had something going on. So much style. The sweet and sexy dresses and skirts. The perfectly fitted jeans. The swishy shirts. The perfect hair. The bags, the shoes… I really need to step it up.
The (Anne Hathaway-looking) waitress had her hair up in a perfectly disheveled knot that would have taken me 90 minutes and an extra pair of hands to accomplish. Another woman sat, looking stunning in a backless top. Another looked like a YSL model circa ’79 with her belled jeans and fabulous belt. Everyone had something going on. So much style. The sweet and sexy dresses and skirts. The perfectly fitted jeans. The swishy shirts. The perfect hair. The bags, the shoes… I really need to step it up.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Am I dating?
I’ve been here four months and everyone always asks. I like this question for two reasons.
For one, it’s a conversation stopper. In a word, no, I’m not.
But on the other hand, it’s a conversation starter: well, why not?? I’m single. It’s the city of loooove. I came in the spring, and now it’s summer. All of these factors should be aligning to create a sizzling dating season with infinite opportunities.
So I have to examine why I’m still single. It’s certainly not by choice. God, I would love to meet someone. But so far, I’ve only met three twenty-somethings, none of whom seems to be an appropriate match.
There was the infamous 28-year-old Swede.
Then, on holiday with Mel, I met a 26-year-old Brit. He’s a doll. But he’s 10 years younger than me. And he lives in another country.
And then there’s the young one at work. Adorable. Sweet. But adorable, sweet, young, and a colleague.
So I keep trying. There was the guy at the Pretenders concert, who was older than me. I thought that could have been something. But now he’s on a month-long vacation with his 11-year-old daughter so I’m pretty sure that’s going nowhere.
I also met an intriguing guy—my age—at an art gallery party over the weekend. But I suspect he is more fascinated with himself than by me. Another dead end.
So, no, I’m not dating. Which I find both funny and pathetic. But c’est la vie.
For one, it’s a conversation stopper. In a word, no, I’m not.
But on the other hand, it’s a conversation starter: well, why not?? I’m single. It’s the city of loooove. I came in the spring, and now it’s summer. All of these factors should be aligning to create a sizzling dating season with infinite opportunities.
So I have to examine why I’m still single. It’s certainly not by choice. God, I would love to meet someone. But so far, I’ve only met three twenty-somethings, none of whom seems to be an appropriate match.
There was the infamous 28-year-old Swede.
Then, on holiday with Mel, I met a 26-year-old Brit. He’s a doll. But he’s 10 years younger than me. And he lives in another country.
And then there’s the young one at work. Adorable. Sweet. But adorable, sweet, young, and a colleague.
So I keep trying. There was the guy at the Pretenders concert, who was older than me. I thought that could have been something. But now he’s on a month-long vacation with his 11-year-old daughter so I’m pretty sure that’s going nowhere.
I also met an intriguing guy—my age—at an art gallery party over the weekend. But I suspect he is more fascinated with himself than by me. Another dead end.
So, no, I’m not dating. Which I find both funny and pathetic. But c’est la vie.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Out of left field
I arrived back in Paris last night around 11 (more on the fun, fun, fun trip later) and had my French lesson at 8:30 this morning. I knew I was setting myself up for a long day. But within the first 30 minutes of work I had three surprises.
The first was seeing an old boss from the New York office. I knew he was coming to town, but thought it was later in the month. This was a nice surprise—he’s a great person on the personal front and a strong leader on the professional. I’ll be seeing a lot of him over the next month or two, which is cool.
The reasons why he is here bring up surprises two and three.
Right before I left last week, I found out we have a pretty significant new business pitch coming up. I found out this morning that it’s in three weeks. Merde. Not a lot of time. Surprise number two.
And the third surprise? My boss is leaving. The guy who brought me over to Paris, as fate would have it, is moving to New York. Holy merde.
This totally took me off guard. I don’t think this is going to impact my position here. The little we talked, it seems as though I’ll be able to easily renew my contract before it’s set to expire in September. But, wow. Not even an hour into the workday and already my summer is taking a new direction.
The first was seeing an old boss from the New York office. I knew he was coming to town, but thought it was later in the month. This was a nice surprise—he’s a great person on the personal front and a strong leader on the professional. I’ll be seeing a lot of him over the next month or two, which is cool.
The reasons why he is here bring up surprises two and three.
Right before I left last week, I found out we have a pretty significant new business pitch coming up. I found out this morning that it’s in three weeks. Merde. Not a lot of time. Surprise number two.
And the third surprise? My boss is leaving. The guy who brought me over to Paris, as fate would have it, is moving to New York. Holy merde.
This totally took me off guard. I don’t think this is going to impact my position here. The little we talked, it seems as though I’ll be able to easily renew my contract before it’s set to expire in September. But, wow. Not even an hour into the workday and already my summer is taking a new direction.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Drink that chocolate
Thank god for the Louvre. It’s a classic Paris thing “to do” when the weather is merde.
But even more than the Louvre, thank god for Angelina. My back goes into spasms if I spend more than a couple hours strolling around looking at art. What better antidote than sitting at a salon de thé?
Mom, Bob and I made a break from the Louvre and went to Angelina. While we sampled some of the pretty-as-picture pastries and cakes, I can say that it’s only the hot chocolate that’s worth the hype. Velvety and rich, it’s thick enough to coat your tongue, but not so thick that it sticks to your teeth. It’s served in a small pitcher with a side of freshly whipped cream. This is hot chocolate that is worth coming to Paris for.
But even more than the Louvre, thank god for Angelina. My back goes into spasms if I spend more than a couple hours strolling around looking at art. What better antidote than sitting at a salon de thé?
Mom, Bob and I made a break from the Louvre and went to Angelina. While we sampled some of the pretty-as-picture pastries and cakes, I can say that it’s only the hot chocolate that’s worth the hype. Velvety and rich, it’s thick enough to coat your tongue, but not so thick that it sticks to your teeth. It’s served in a small pitcher with a side of freshly whipped cream. This is hot chocolate that is worth coming to Paris for.
Friday, April 10, 2009
More metaphors
When you fall down in life, you have to stand up and dust yourself off. And when you faceplant from your Velib, same thing: you just have to get right back up.
Yep. I bit it on the bike yesterday. I knew it was going to happen, too. I was biking home from work on a gorgeous spring evening. I had just laughed out loud because, as I was passing through a rotary, I looked up and there was the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. The air and the light were perfect. I had one of my My god, this is my life?! moments. As I approached the entrance to this nice bike path along the Seine, I noticed its lip was not flat enough; it was not a full curb, but it was also not insignificant. I needed to approach it head-on, but I was going at an angle; I needed speed, but I was only coasting. So in one of those slow-motion Merde, this is going to happen moments, the bike refused to go up and over the edge… so I went up and over the bike.
Luckily, no clothes were torn and no teeth were lost. I was surprisingly unhurt and unembarrassed, even though I wiped out in front of a mass of people.
But, carrying on with the metaphor, when you fall down, you have to learn from your mistake and not let it stop you from trying again. So, today I returned to the Velib, but I also donned my very un-chic bike helmet. And, indeed, I nipped my commute to 15 minutes.
Yep. I bit it on the bike yesterday. I knew it was going to happen, too. I was biking home from work on a gorgeous spring evening. I had just laughed out loud because, as I was passing through a rotary, I looked up and there was the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. The air and the light were perfect. I had one of my My god, this is my life?! moments. As I approached the entrance to this nice bike path along the Seine, I noticed its lip was not flat enough; it was not a full curb, but it was also not insignificant. I needed to approach it head-on, but I was going at an angle; I needed speed, but I was only coasting. So in one of those slow-motion Merde, this is going to happen moments, the bike refused to go up and over the edge… so I went up and over the bike.
Luckily, no clothes were torn and no teeth were lost. I was surprisingly unhurt and unembarrassed, even though I wiped out in front of a mass of people.
But, carrying on with the metaphor, when you fall down, you have to learn from your mistake and not let it stop you from trying again. So, today I returned to the Velib, but I also donned my very un-chic bike helmet. And, indeed, I nipped my commute to 15 minutes.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
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.
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.
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