Home is where your cat is..

DATELINE: 31.07.09 BOSTON, MA

I'm back. Back stateside. Back in Boston. Back in my apt in Somerville, MA. I'm exhausted. Beyond exhausted. I'm happy to see all of you, dear friends. I love you quite truly. But I am having a really hard time with being back.

After getting home tonight (after an obsurdly long ride on the chinatown bus and a short ride with DJ who SO SO graciously picked my very late ass up) I went to the grocery store to buy something to eat. Granted I was tired. I was overwhelmed. I was hungry. But I don't think those are exactly all the reason why I found myself walking the isles of Shaw's Supermarket nearly in tears.

I think that there are places in this world that fit us like a favorite pair of shoes. Where we arrive and slide in, finding a comfortable and familiar fit like an old and well loved pair of jeans. Places where the hardships we find do not sour but only "season" our relationship with the place. Cities where we find ourself feeling endless space to grow and become, despite cramped quarters, cramped streets, cramped buses and metro cars. Places where we are completely at home, despite being complete strangers to the city. Places that for all their little idiosyncrases and elements that make you nuts (like being a target for the constant harassment which is tolerated by the authorities and other members of the society), you love the city and feel she loves you back.

I think that Paris has been such a place for me. It is not just the city of love, it is also a city that is incredibly easy to love.

It is not that I completely dislike Boston. There is much that I like about Boston, and I have fantastic friends here whom I love very dearly. But the truth is that Boston had an expiration date for me, and that date came and went a long time ago. I am struggling with my return to Boston, where I felt no such struggle upon my departure and settling into Paris.

It is a strange feeling - as it no longer feels at all like home to me. I am waiting with baited breath to hear of my acceptance to Lesley University. Because if I don't get in, I mean no offense but I am going to sell off my belongings and my cat and I are going to return together to Paris. This time I cannot leave her behind, because home is where your cat is...

In the company of me, myself, and I

[This is an old post from mid June, but I couldn't get the images to upload before so I was waiting on publishing it]

DATELINE: 12.07.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Going places alone is one of my great challenges in life. I don't mean picking up and moving to another country alone - sure! That one was easy! No, I mean going out alone - like going to concerts, going to exhibits, going to events and activities. For some reason driving across the US alone? No problem. Moving to France alone? No problem (though to be honest I had quite a safety net here). A concert? A club? A show? That freaks me out.

To say it freaks me out is actually not quite accurate. Somehow it just makes me feel exceptionally shy, and anxious. I can think only because it makes me feel a bit lonely. But what is really interesting is that this only holds true *before* I have arrived there and am doing, all by myself, that which I wanted to go do.

Today there was a music festival, a really small one, down in Parc André Cintroën along the south western part of the Seine in Paris. All morning I was trying to get anyone and everyone I know here in Paris to join me there. All those who would have joined me are either simply out of town right now, or have already left France. And so I kicked myself in the arse, got myself out the door, and went alone. And would you know it, I had a great time all by myself.

It's a funny realization that I come by every time this happens. I often do have a great time when I go and do things alone. Getting myself past the "oh it's so lonely" feeling and resolving to go even in the absence of a companion is so hard, and yet, once I'm there I am sometimes very grateful that no one has come with me. Today I wandered through the stands, I listened to the bands, I lounged in the grass and wrote post cards (yes, 16 days before I leave France I am finally sending out cards). I even made a new friend (though I had no interest in anything more than the little 5 minutes conversation we had). When he struck up the conversation with me, though, I felt like somehow he was interfering (if I actually was interested in his company I might have felt otherwise). It was as though I had resolved to go to this alone, found myself enjoying it alone, and then didn't want to change that by joining up with anyone else.

I realized that had someone come with me, I would have been worried that they didn't like the music. I'd have been worried that I was somehow holding up what they wanted to do when I stopped to take 20 photos of kids playing in the fountain. I'd have been too concerned with whether they were enjoying the day to enjoy the day myself.

That this realization has come to me before many times over, and still it is hard for me to get myself to go do things alone is something that baffles me. I think I need to have a little recording that will play every time I think of bailing out of something I want to do just because there is no one to come with me. It will be me reminding myself that in fact when I go it alone, I am never actually alone, and I always have a great time with myself.

Here's some pics and video from today:

Just a crazy and beautiful cloud on my way home. It's about 10pm at this time.

Mini DJs

The Poop Report

DATELINE: 07.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

Exclusive exposé, tonight on... THE POOP REPORT!

As we have learned previously, poop goes in the potty. This, we took for granted. This, we took as fact. However, tonight in a shocking candid moment with Alex, age 2, we will learn that in fact, we have been fooled.

Exclusive story, tonight at 11.

Actually, make that at 11:45..or Midnight.. or 1 am. 

I've been feeling for quite some time that easily 1/2 my job as a babysitter is to report on the status of each childs bowel movements. At the end of each session, as I perform what I've come to think of as "the hand-off" to the parent, I give them a little oral report on how their child had been during our time together. Were they fussy? Did they eat? Did they sleep? How much? How long? How many diapers? And the most fun of all: Were there poopy diapers? How did it look? Was there a lot of it? Did it seem painful? Did it cause any irritation? 

The parents will also give me a similar run-down, involving info as to whether or not their child has pooped yet that day, when handing their kid off to me.  I've taken to referring to this as The Poop Report.

When changing diapers I am always reminded of an old bit from Robin Williams' stand-up routine. When talking about becoming a father for the first time and changing his infant son's diapers, he exclaims: "Jesus christ! Did that shit go to Cleveland before it reached his diaper?!" I have wondered this on way, way too many occasions. Except I think it went to 3-Mile Island, not Cleveland. 

I've remarked on being shocked by the varying vibrant colors of dog-poop I have seen planted strategically in the dead center of the sidewalks in Paris. These diapers make that look like child's play (oh, all puns intended). I have seen diapers that suggest this child has been drinking gallon jugs of food coloring, that made me wonder if that kid perhaps is more precocious than she seems and managed to open a can of spinach and dump it into her diaper while I wasn't looking, or if this other kid is perhaps radioactive. 

Alex, my adorable 2yr old little pal, will resist diaper changes at all cost and insist that he has only "peepee" in his diaper even while it is bursting at the seems with chunky rank poo. Sophie, who is not yet 2yrs old but is larger than the average 5yr old, will run around with 5lbs of poop weighing her diapers down. Her parents apply packing tape to the waistband of her diapers - they say to prevent her from pulling them off, but I think it might also be to keep them from falling off due to unusually heavy loads (sidenote: if your kid is the size of a 5yr old at age 2 and seems to be expressing interest in potty-training, please for the love of god, teach the child to use a potty and stop making her run around in 5lb of her own feces). Ellenor, age 6mo, produces the most brightly colored poops - bright green, bright orange, purple... you name it, she's expelled it. At one point I was wondering if we might get a "Napoleon" style, like a 3 flavor box of ice cream.

Today, I had to change Sophie's diaper twice. It was traumatic. I nearly wretched. They were within only a few hours of each other and were totally distinct. The second had bits of undigested food. With the first, we were playing when she suddenly squatted and scrunched up her face. When asked, "Sophie are you pooping?", she would either deny it or simply change the subject. Moments later, you could smell it from three rooms away.  If I were this child and I was running around caked in my own feces, I'd be pulling my diapers off too.

So this evening, after such a wonderously poop filled afternoon, I was taking care of Alex. One may argue that Alex is in denial of his participation in this particular bodily function or he may be confused by the different terms applied in English and French. In any case, whenever I go to take off his diaper to put him into his bath, when he smells to high heavens of a poopy diaper, or when I ask if he has a dirty diaper, he insists that it is only "pee-pee." Even when I pull a diaper off and it is overflowing with "caca", he still says, "No. Pee-pee." 

Tonight I am giving him his bath. He is playing with his boats and the bubbles and generally enjoying himself. I am feeling thankful that he has stopped fighting tooth-and-nail to avoid taking his bath. I am thinking how it's been such a good evening and how easily everything has gone. 

Alex is sitting sort of in a squat playing with his boats. Suddenly he looks at me and says, "Uh oh." I say, "Uh oh? What's 'uh oh' for buddy? Why do you say 'uh oh.'?" He stands up suddenly and turns around as if something has bit him in the rear, and I see what the "uh oh" was for. I have counted my chickens before they have hatched, and Alex has pooped in his bath. Twice. 

I pull him out as fast as I can and plop him on his little potty, hoping to avoid further contamination. While he sits there insisting that it is only pee-pee, I go through the process of fishing all the little bits out of the bath, draining the bath, and sanitizing the tub, before refilling it and starting bath time all over again.

I guess poop does not always go in the potty 

(thinking back now, I remember from my childhood years a little boy of 4 or 5 who shall remain nameless, who pooped out of a second story window of a house... it wasn't his fault - older boys, also to remain nameless, dared him to do it.).

Three Thoughts for Wednesday

DATELINE: 01.07.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I have three thoughts that I would like to share with you tonight, which occurred in precisely the following order:

I love love love my neighborhood Fromagier. They have great cheese. Good prices. And are always such a pleasure to visit. I also love having a little bit of cash that I feel I can allow myself to spend 8€ on cheeses.

The film crew is back. With a vengeance. This evening they were filming a scene at Cafe Turgot. Like all good french films there are a lot of scenes in this movie outside of cafes. Of course, that is assuming that all the times I have seen the film crew in my neighborhood it has been for the same film. I have got to figure out what the title of the film they are shooting is.

God Damned Stupid Fucking Pigeon!! Fucking pigeon shit on me! At the bar a few doors down where they lend me a wet rag with which to wash my arm (thankfully it was mostly on my arm) the attractive young bartender tells me that it means I am going to win money. Yeah? Well I'll be waiting, but... Make it snappy!

What Are These...?

DATELINE: 29.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I may have mentioned before how much I adore the children that I take care of here. They are really such distinct personalities, often quite a handful, but truly in the end a lot of fun. It's interesting to be seeing the different stages of development and discovery they are each at.

A few nights ago I was taking care of Ellenor, the roughly 6mo old girl that I usually watch during the days, and her older brother, Julien. Julien is exactly 4 years old, is very precocious, very talkative and energetic, completely obsessed with anything related to pirates, and totally adorable. I only watch him on occasion. This was one such occasion.

At some point in the evening after feeding Julien and Ellenor dinner I was changing Ellenor's diaper. Julien was looking on.

Completely out of thin air he says to me, "Do you have a baby in your belly?"
"No, I don't. Why do you ask?"
"Because your belly is not flat."
(I'm thinking, "watch yourself, kid.") I reply, "Oh no, Julien. My shirt is not flat, but my tummy is, I promise."
"No it's not. My tummy is flat. You have nipples."
What could I do but laugh. "Ahh, I see. Yes, in fact this is true. I have breasts, and breasts have nipples."
"Why?"
"Well, when little girls like your sister Ellenor grow up to be big girls like your mommy and I, they have breasts."
"Why?"
"For feeding babies."
"But you don't have a baby in your belly."
(sharp kid.) "We have them even when we don't have babies in our bellies."
"Why?"
"So that they are ready for when we do have babies in our bellies."
"ooohhhh. So you might have a baby in your belly?"
"Not yet, kiddo."

We then promptly returned to far more important matters: Pirates.

This evening I was watching my little friend Alex, age 2 years. Alex is really precocious for a 2 year old. He is verbal on a level more like a 4yr old, very independent, sly, and well aware that he is cute as hell. When he is trying to get out of something he doesn't want to do or get out of being in trouble for having done something he shouldn't have done, he likes to go around the living room pointing out all of the portraits of himself and mama & pappa. He always goes first to the photo of himself and exclaims, "That's me!" He then replicates the huge grin he is wearing in the photo.

Tonight he is trying to get out of eating his dinner. He has, as of late, had decreasing interest in eating dinner until mama & papa are home. But feeding him his dinner is part of my job, so I have to at least try. So he is trying to weasel out of it, slide off his chair, and return to playing. I'm standing next to his chair to prevent him from exiting. He is running through all manner of distractions and excuses for getting down out of his chair, but they don't work as well as they used to. I too am a quick learner.

At this point he looks up at me and asks, "What are these?"
I look down to see where he is pointing. He is pointing at my breasts.
Before I can respond he asks, "Bubbies?"
He is now halfway out of his chair.
I cannot help but laugh.
"Yes." I reply, "Now eat your dinner."

But I am too late. He has slid off his chair while I was distracted by his question.

Dammit!, you're good at this game, kid.

Princess Fluffy

DATELINE: 25.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

I saw the most astounding thing today. I was on my way home from the Boulangerie and saw a woman walking towards me who looked to be in her late 50s, possibly older. She had her dog with her.

Now, I have seen various sizes of dogs being carried in the arms or "slung" over the shoulder, like one may carry a small child. I have seen dogs being carried in carriers that are nearly identical to a Baby Bjorn. I have seen dogs being carried in purses and in recent months in bags made specifically for carrying your pet that are made to look like this infamous Burkin Bag.

But this, this was a new one. This one takes the cake.

This woman was carrying her little dog in arms outstretched, upon.... (drum roll please!)...

Upon a SATIN PILLOW (with lacy trim). 

She held the little shiny satin pillow the way the ring-bearer in a wedding might carry the pillow upon which rest the wedding rings, or the way a maitradi at an exceptionally expensive restaurant might carry the tray upon which rests your bill: with two hands, the pillow resting on her forearms, arms are slightly outstretched, balancing the precious pup as though she were afraid with every step that she might disturb it. Fluffy lay curled upon the pillow snoozing, looking sleepily out at the scene on the street.

People, you have all gone mad! It's. A. Dog! If nature didn't want this creature to walk on the ground, it'd have grown wings!! 

I mean, seriously?? Seriously?! A satin pillow??!

Pas Bon: A Recipe

DATELINE: 21.06.09 PARIS, FRANCE

1 Young Blond

1 Late Night Subway Ride

20+ Drunk Men

4 Large RATP Sécurité Guards

1 Extra Large Ill Tempered German Shepherd

The hour: 3am. The "Blond": me (I'm considered blond here)

Yesterday was a huge party all over Paris. It happens every year to celebrate the summer solstice, the first official day of summer.  It's called the Fête de la Musique. In every square, many street corners, and pretty much anywhere else someone could put up a sound system, there is live music. All throughout the day and well into the night, there were people in the streets drinking, dancing, enjoying. For this festival the metro continued to run through the night (usually it stops at 12:30am on a Sunday and then you have to catch the rare passage of the Noctilien bus). 

Last night I went to the festival with "the Mexicans": Alex & Ivan, Naomi & Juan, Raymundo, and a number of their friends. The plan had originally been to go salsa dancing. I was stoked and had prepped myself accordingly (but thankfully had remembered to wear sneakers this time). After waiting at the rendezvous point for the longest 5 minutes in human history (which according to all other accounts was an hour and 15 minutes), I met up with Alex & Ivan and learned what "Mexican Time" is (they said it! not me!). Anyone who thinks I'm bad when I'm 20 minutes late, you ain't seen nothin'!!

After getting ourselves repeatedly lost lost within less than an 8 block radius (no, no substances to blame it on, either), we finally managed to connect with Naomi, Juan, & Ray. We then headed toward what I thought was our butt-shakin' destination (pour fair du salsa!). Like the blob that ate Chicago, along the way we picked up another several people, and eventually staked our claim on the edge of a square not far from the metro station Belleville. There was at first a sort of African music playing, and then that gave way to dueling Brazilian drum troops (there is a specific name for this intense kind of rhythm, but for the life of me I can't remember). While the drums were great and a lot of fun, sadly, it seemed salsa dancing had been abandoned. 

After a few hours the drums stopped and the party broke up. Everyone began making their way for the metro. I got on the line that would take me straight home (thankfully did not have to deal with switching trains) and Naomi, Juan, & Ray walked home. 

Now, if I may say in my own defense, traveling home alone at 3am had not been on my agenda for the evening.  Alex lives along the same route as I do and I had assumed that I would travel at least part of the way with she and Ivan. However, they took off before we even arrived at our destination. The other members of our party live in the opposite direction from me.  So there I found myself, at 3am after the Fete de la Musique, alone on the metro.

Well, not exactly alone. Much to my dismay, upon boarding the train I realized that the car I had boarded was full of a group of drunken men. Most of whom seemed to be part of the same group. I took the one open seat and prayed they wouldn't take note of me. I was not so lucky. 

Now, a bit of an aside - there is something that happens to me often here, in broad daylight, in all places, at all times. I think that because I am "blond" (I'm a readhead, dammit! A redhead!), and most French women are not, I stick out like a soar thumb. It's as if I am wearing a large flashing arrow above my head that screams: "Hey! This one here is a foreigner!" However, it is not the typical "frenchman" who perpetrates this harassment, so this is not a typical "French" behavior.  In the interest of not perpetuating any sort of stereotypes about any particular ethnic groups I will refrain from singling any out by specifying. 

Ladies, if you think that the kind of cat-calls and obscenities sometimes slung at us as we walk down the street in the US are bad, you cannot begin to imagine what happens here. I have ben stopped on the sidewalk, stopped on escalators, stopped on the street - my path blocked as they ask me *in English* (_never_ do they even try French - clearly, my little blond self is not French): "Speak english? What's your name? Where you from? How you doing? Where you going?" I have been approached in grocery stores and on the metro. If I respond at all, even to just say "laissez-moi" (meaning leave me alone), they persist. On many occasions I have not responded at all and they proceed to profess their love for me ("it's OK, I love you. I love you."). I learned quickly to not respond at all, and if I am able, to simply keep walking (fast), or to get off the subway at the next stop and change cars. Once I was followed but thanks to an open seat next to someone who looked burly, the guy left me alone. I am so appalled at how common this is, I cannot tell you. I am baffled. Has this EVER been a successful tactic for ANYONE??? What is the point of this harassment? I would think it was meant to show off to their friends except most of the time, the guy appears to be alone. I would like to quote my childhood friend Shela: Boys, if you think for even a moment that this is a way to meet a woman, a way to get her attention and maybe her number, "Brother, you gotta be outchyer damn mind!" 

Ladies, if you journey to France, you must learn the phrase "Laissez-moi, canard." (Leave me alone, asshole) - but be careful with the "canard", I'm warned that these men can get really aggressive if you insult their egos. Mostly, just learn how to not respond when someone stands in your way and tries to get your attention.

So last night I sit down on the metro at 3am to find myself in a car full of drunk 20-something men. I hope to go unnoticed, but the odds were against me. I sit down in the only available seat, and a moment or two later two of the guys switch seats. The guy now next to me tries to engage me. He won't stop and I can't go anywhere else.  I am surrounded on all sides by his buddies. He persists and I eventually give him the talk-to-the-hand and say "laissez-moi! laissez-moi!". I kid you not, he simply laughs. Thankfully at that same time some kid sitting a seat behind us begins to projectile vomit. The perfect distraction, I head for the door as we pull into the station. This is not my stop but I will exit and change cars. 

Only, the train doesn't stop. Nor does it stop at the next one. I am getting a bit nervous that I cannot escape this group of drunk men and that the train also won't be stopping at *my* stop. I'm trying to remember anything I learned my self-defense classes, things taught to me by friends who studied martial arts, and from the few sessions of capoeira I took. I look further down the car and see that way on the other side of these guys is a group of security guards who are laughing as everyone begins dodging the vomit. I decide I am going to go stand next to them. 

The train stops, I open the door and slip out. I follow the guards who get on in the next car down. I get in behind them. There are very few people on the train now. The guards are 4 men in suits that say "RATP Sécurité". They are all well over 6 ft tall, all have shaved heads, broad shoulders, and chissled jaws (and let's not leave out, really nice butts). They have with them a large German Shepherd who is snarling at the crowds, and pulling at his leash.  Ahh, safety.

I get on and ask one of the guards what stations the train will be stopping at. He shows me the map and thankfully mine is among them, two stops up.  I position myself next to them, but behind angry fido. There is a guy sitting in the seat next to our canine friend who says to me "Beutiful dog". I say "Very big dog". He then procedes to try to pet this dog's behind!  Anyone with half a brain knows it is a very bad idea to try to pet a strange dog from behind, much less a very large, ornery, police dog!! Loud enough for the guards to hear it guards hear it, I say, "ne touches pas! ne touches pas!!"  That was when I realize this guy was also going to give me trouble. I'm like a damned magnet! 

But now the guards also have also taken note of him. He starts in with the "speak english? where you from? what's your name?". I ignore him and move so I am standing next to the door, in between two of the enormous guards. We arrive at my stop and I make a point of making myself known to the guards. I thank them for their help, wish them a good night, and exit the train.  I looked back to make sure that none of my unwelcome friends had exited at my station and saw the guards with snarling dog in hand keeping an eye in my direction (or maybe they were just checking out my ass - I don't know, but I think they saved my ass so if they want to check it out as I make my way thankfully safely home at 3:45 in the morning, that's fine by me). Thank god for the RATP and their huge dog!

To the RATP I would like to say: Thank you for making "enormous and intimidating" a requirement for joining the security force. To the RATP Sécurité guys and their snarling dog: Thanks for making my trip home a safe one.