Recent Stories with tag reluctant parisienne

Pro tip: A laptop aids in the pounds-per-hour to kilograms, and Fahrenheit to Celcius conversion.

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

Holidays abroad can be lonely. When a holiday rolls around, we ache a little and talk about home a lot. We put on happy smiles for the Skype session involving every relative we have, plus a few we didn't know existed, all of them crammed into one room chatting and laughing and having drunken angry fistfights while we suffer the family togetherness from too far away. Then we crawl into the corner to cry and drink wine.

Thanksgiving, especially, can be bleak because it's a non-event here in pilgrim-free France. Christmas and New Year's are happy times because the city is full of fellow revelers but for Thanksgiving, you're on your own. You still have to go to work and you don't get the long weekend to eat cold turkey sandwiches and buy bigger pants.

Last year, determined to make Thanksgiving happen in the middle of Paris, we banded together with a group of fellow American ex-pats. New York Mom was in charge of procuring and cooking the bird. The butcher's eyes widened when she said she wanted to purchase the grandest turkey in all of France. He frowned and said the turkey she wanted was way too big for seven adults and a handful of children. She said, Duh, that was the point. He unhappily sold her the bird, probably assuming most of it would go to waste, but he doesn't know Americans like we know Americans. 

I was in charge of my specialty, midwestern cheesy potatoes--"midwestern" because the recipe calls for a can of cream of mushroom soup and a crunchy corn flake topping. I was also responsible for tracking down a jar of cranberry sauce. No one in our group liked cranberry sauce but we agreed it should still be present on the table, preferably plopped into a bowl and still in the shape of the can like mama used to make.... (more)

Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years with her husband and two kids. Her daily life does not include romantic walks along the Seine, champagne picnics on the Pont des Arts, or five-star gourmet dinners. For a realistic take on life in a fantasy place, visit her blog, An American Mom in Paris.

France is mad as hell and blah blah blah something about not putting up with this crap anymore. The country known for its strike culture is knocking itself out with daily manifestations and ongoing disruptions in metro/bus/plane/boat/hot-air-balloon/bobsled service. Walking service will be reduced next; two out of three people will have to slither around on their bellies.

The main issue sparking the unrest is the upping of the retirement age from 60 to 62. It's pissed off a whole bunch of people (who may or may not understand math) and they are expressing their discontent by refusing to do many things. There are gas shortages because no one's working the refineries and rumored food shortages in the near future.

Just work your extra two years, dammit, French people. I need my corn flakes.

Strikes are a regular part of life here and we've gotten used to disrupted transportation service and canceled school days. Last year, however, going on strike surfaced in the most unlikely of places.

We'd been in Paris about six months when we went to our son's end-of-year preschool play. For the record, watching three-year-olds mill around onstage is as awkwardly entertaining here as it is anywhere. The confused wandering, the blank stares, the teachers whispering loudly and gesturing madly from the wings--the cluelessness of the three-year old is the same despite all our cultural differences.

The theme of the show was "The Sea." Our son was dressed as a windmill and helped demonstrate why the ocean is salty. I think it was something about a magic, salty windmill. Those precocious kids were speaking French so the subtleties, or even the generalities, of the tale were lost on me.... (more)

Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years with her husband and two kids. Her daily life does not include romantic walks along the Seine, champagne picnics on the Pont des Arts, or five-star gourmet dinners. For a realistic take on life in a fantasy place, visit her blog, An American Mom in Paris.

Our troubles enrolling in the French health care system happened at the same time the health care reform bill was being angrily debated at home. If anyone from the States asked us how that dang socialist health care was treating us, we responded, "Fine."

We didn’t want to bemoan a system that, while not flawless, is certainly better than most. We were also afraid our frustrations would be used as ammunition at one of those town hall meetings where everyone yelled a lot.

French people are very happy with their health care system. They were therefore confused when an Obama is Hitler! poster made the front page of a French magazine. The French knew Hitler up close and personal and the French know universal health care. I don't think they got the connection. (I told as many who would listen that I don't know any Americans who got the connection, either.) 

But this isn’t a diatribe on health care reform, or a serious article on how to construct a perfect health care system with a few rubber bands and a can-do attitude. It's also a waste of time if you're looking for a comprehensive overview of the French system, or really any type of insight whatsoever. It's just what happened to us. 

We hadn’t even gotten our cable hooked up yet when I discovered I was pregnant. Getting pregnant moments after landing in Paris hadn’t been the plan but sometimes a bottle of celebratory French wine contributes to the complete forgetting of the plan.  

I was suddenly, miserably afflicted with intense nausea and sensitivity to smells in the land of stinky cheese, cigarette smoke and open-air fish markets. I attempted to speak French but mid-sentence decided I didn’t care and laid down on the floor to sleep. Harshest of all, just a few weeks into our lives in France, I could no longer partake in two of my favorite French activities: eating odiferous unpasteurized French cheeses and drinking the very French wine that had been complicit in my becoming unable to drink it. Is that irony? I’ve never admitted this to anyone but I don’t know the difference between "irony" and "a big bummer."... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris. Previously in Reluctant Parisienne posts.

We were stunned and slightly embarrassed. Considering my familiarity with Paris, Alex’s first language being French, and our hilarious overconfidence in our abilities, we assumed we would handle our move to France with enviable grace and flexibility. We knew it would not be effortless, of course, but we thought it would be effort-not-bad, and perhaps even effort-fun.

False. No matter who you are and where you go, an international move is like being a newborn baby without a mommy. Your surroundings are new and confusing, no one makes any sense  and you cry easily and often, without shame. Thankfully the need for diapers doesn’t creep back in, which was surprising in our case considering public toilets in Paris are as elusive as berets on native French speakers.

After the first painful month, the haze lifted just a tiny bit. I learned to accept the sinking heart feeling when I tried to speak French and got only forehead creases and blank faces in response. My jaw stopped dropping when I saw how much I owed for groceries. I made a new friend when I accidentally told our building maintenance man I loved him. “Je t’aime” is one of the phrases that comes easily to me in French and thus slips out at inopportune times, especially when I’m flustered.

Big personality!

There were bigger things that were more intense. Lucien got scary sick and I didn’t know who to call for help. (I’ve since tattooed the French emergency numbers on my phone-dialing finger.)

Alex’s job turned out to be more demanding than he’d anticipated and he worked longer hours than in Seattle.  When we asked a French friend about the much ballyhooed French 35-hour work week, she laughed and told us that only applies to jobs that “do not matter.” Alex did not take comfort in the fact that he mattered, and apparently mattered a lot.

We moved into our permanent apartment, an apartment for which we’d fought desperately a few months earlier on our pre-move apartment scouting trip.

Apartment hunting in Paris is a competitive, tedious and humbling process. Even with a relocation company advocate by our side and Alex’s employer paying the rent, our dossier was rejected a couple dozen times before we were tossed a bone. But what a bone. She’s small but what she lacks in size, she makes up in personality.  ... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

This is a photo to let you know that Mindy is really in Paris.

Welcome to the next chapter of our wind-swept saga of love, life, partial nudity, and toilet paper in Paris.

The immigration people summoned us. Alex and I needed official medical exams before we could receive our carte de sejours. We arrived at the austere government building prepared for our delousing, or whatever they were going to do to ensure we didn’t infect the French with terrible things, and were ushered into a waiting room full of sweaty and nervous people.

Lucien was with us, of course, which is always a challenge in any waiting room scenario. Our kid was born with an intense desire to entertain those who do not wish to be entertained.

I was led into a tiny changing room and instructed to take everything off from the waist up and "wait." I did this and while I'm no puritan, I looked around the room wildly like, "Are you kidding me? No GOWN?" Then a second door flew open and I was faced with a large room full of people. They were people in white coats, but still, people in white coats I hadn’t invited to a private sexy dance.  

I walked across the room to the lung x-ray machine. I was nervous so I walked fast with shoulders hunched and forgot to swing my arms. I may or may not have looked like an ape. After the x-ray I tried to saunter more casually back to the changing room, to prove America’s totally cool with nudity and not uptight at all, but my true feelings betrayed me and I quickly became a prudish American blur. I hate playing into stereotype.  

They asked if I wanted to keep my lung x-ray. I said no. Everybody says no except for Alex, who came walking down the hall, grinning and waving a super-sized manila envelope over his head. “You took it?” I asked in disbelief. Al responded, a bit defensively, “I may need it someday,” and clutched it possessively to his lungs. We came home and hung it in our window. It’s a creepy piece of art but it was free.  ... (more)

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

When we last heard from the Reluctant Parisienne, she was jet-lagged, befuddled by her appliances, and eating baguettes while spying on rich people. This time, she encounters what is to become her nemesis throughout her time in France--the French grocery store.

The inevitable day came when Alex went to work. I did not enjoy watching my French-speaking husband walk out the door, but I forced myself to feel optimistic. My French was decent, right? I’d studied it in high school and college and could still sing the French alphabet song. How badly could I screw up? (See below.)

Lucien and I began our first solo day by taking a long walk around our neighborhood. I was quickly intoxicated by the undeniable charm and beauty of Paris. The French people we passed on the narrow sidewalks smiled at Lucien and nodded at me with polite "Bonjours." I was feeling quite good about the whole thing.

We entered the grocery store. My Paris-drunk buzz faded to confusion as I scanned the shelves and didn’t recognize a single item. I started putting things in my basket just because I knew what they were. I didn’t need laundry detergent and I don’t like yogurt, but the Tide box was so cheery and the Yoplait suddenly so maternal and comforting.  

I set my basket on the belt at checkout and smiled brightly at the checkout girl. She looked briefly at my basket then said something in rapid-fire French. I totally froze, FROZE. And despite all my super productive years of French instruction, do you know what I said back to her? "Trois." That's right, I SAID "THREE."

She stared at me blankly. I desperately wanted to salvage our relationship so I threw out another gem--"Moi." Let’s recap. I said "trois," then "moi," and then I stood there smiling at her like goddamn Carol Channing. I knew I was dangerously close to singing the French alphabet song.... (more)