A very Français Easter

The French are absolutely mad about Easter. It is impossible to walk down the rues without being bombarded by chocolate chickens, bunnies and delicately constructed eggs. They may not do peeps, but they definitely have enough golden lindt bunnies hanging around to build/and or fuel and army. 

This Easter marked a very special event in the Acket (family whom I work for) Family. Alexis' Baptême fell on Easter Sunday, sending Eloise into a tailspin of party planning. The family (all 25 of us) would attend the ceremony and then return chez Acket for Apéritifs, champagne, finger foods and lunch. 

I wish I had taken more photos of the delicate appetizers and snacks, 
as they were very equisite and I managed to eat my weight in finger 
sandwhichs before lunch even began. I was the only "non-family"member there, 
as well as the only english speaker. Though I was timid in the beginning, I found 
myself falling into the family dynamic and teasing Gauthier and the kidsin french
 without hesitation. 

It was also my first time attending a Baptism. It was quite

a gift to attend this ceremony not only in French, but also in a very old church 
in Louvciennes, France. This quaint town has decided to forgo all traces of
modernity and remain tucked away in the 18th century (at least the town center). 

The ceremony was short and lovely; Alexis took 

it extremely seriously and was extremely proud to
 sign his name in the book all by himself. 

After the ceremony we ran (literally) to the cars, as the church had no heating 
and it was absolutely freezing, drove five minutes back to the Acket's, popped
 open champagne and let the celebrating begin. I was stuffed after the first course.
 I don't think I will ever keep up with the French and their marathon meals. 

 Traditional Baptism candies

 The Boys

 Foie Gras and toast

les femmes âgées

Once a week I tutor an elderly French woman named Eliane. She is a widow and lives all alone in a big apartment in Bastille. Her daughter and grand children live in Pennsylvania and she wanted to improve her english so she could talk to her grand kids. Over the months I became more of her personal assistant/odd-job do-er than tutor. Today we had to compose an email to an eye institute in Los Angeles explaining her condition and establishing me as her contact person.

Her friend arrived halfway through to photograph her apartment for a rental agency. Eliane then asked me to help her put the photos on her computer. I explained to her, and to her elderly friend, that it would be much faster and easier if I uploaded them on my computer and did the email from there. But of course, being the stubborn French woman that she is, Eliane insisted we do it on her computer.

So the three of us meander to the back room and I have a feeling I know what I am getting myself into. The laptop (which I am pretty sure was purchased in the 90's, early 2000's at best) is dusty and slow as hell, not to mention French. We wait (for about 5 minutes) for the thing to start up. Eliane (who is almost blind) painstakingly accesses her email by using a gigantic magnifying glass, while her friend peaks over her shoulder to help her find the right one that we need to respond to. I then have to write down the email address and person's name so both of them don't forget. Once this huge task is accomplished, they have me settle down and begin to write the email...

Eliane decides she wants to share the chair with me so she can see better. So the two of us are squeezed together and I have to lean to the left in order to avoid her magnifying glass and protruding elbow as she leans in, nose almost touching the screen, as well as try and type this email. Both of them start telling me what to say (in rapid French) and then arguing over the content/placement of the sentences. Meanwhile, I am typing all of this, and rapidly deleting, because the French keyboard is extremely different and I have to pause and make sure I am on the right letters. Eliane sees this and thinks I don't know how to spell the words. So she starts  saying each letter, like "Merci. M, E, R..." I say, "Eliane, I know how to spell 'Merci,' I just keep hitting the wrong keys." But then she forgets a few sentences later and starts spelling the letters again, while her friend is leaning over me with her breasts pressed against my back so she can see what is going on and also make sure I am writing everything correctly. Once the body of the email has been fought over and agreed upon, we move on to downloading the photos. Guess how long that takes? 5 minutes. We sit there.

Once the photos have been retrieved we have to attach them. Let me inform you that this is a PC (of course) and I have a mac. So I am dealing with a slow, dusty, French PC circa 1900's and two old, blind french woman pressed against me telling me how to work it. I cannot figure out how save the photos on the computer and then find and attach them to this godforsaken email that has taken twenty minutes to do. So all three of us are talking at once, pouring over this ancient computer, and this random woman's breasts keep rubbing up and down my back and Eliane keeps taking the mouse from me and hitting me with her elbow. Long story short, Eliane realized that I had been there for 30 extra minutes, felt terrible, and shooed me out the door. I am pretty sure they are still there, huddled over that PC, arguing over how to get the pictures onto the email, noses and magnifying glass pressed to the screen.

The Pamp

Wow, has it been a while. Obviously I have been on a blog hiatus for almost two months. I sunk into a funk (rhyme!) and did not have the heart to blog. I was stuck in my anxiety about the future: graduate school, student loans, my desire to be in Los Angeles, marathon training, etc. I had been doing that thing again--forgetting I was living in Paris for probably the last time in my life.

And with that, spring fell over Paris and I was re-inspired. But what exactly was it that pushed me to enter my blog in the search bar and compose a new post? Our adopted cat, Monsieur Pamplemousse.

I was feeling frustrated after a rather tough run yesterday and decided that all I wanted to do was sit and forget about everything. I went out to our garden, tilted my body up towards the sun and began to read. A few minutes later I felt something rubbing against my legs and saw the Pamp himself, curled around my feet. We don't know whose cat he is, where he lives, but he is a continuous presence and lovably fat, so he must be doing ok. Mr. Pamp meowed a bit at me, like usual, and then laid down next to me and spread out, in all his fat glory, and took a nap under the sun. He stayed like this for a whole hour. Doing nothing but basking, and every once in a while would look up at me. Regard:

I need to be more like this cat. Eating well (not as well, maybe), lounging, and enjoying my days in Paris. So Mr. Pamp and I basked together for a while, worrying about nothing but the oncoming shadows and the occasional bug that landed on our faces. 

This morning I opened the front door and found him sitting there, perhaps waiting for me. He whined at me, turned over and demanded that I rub his belly. This little cat brings me such happiness that I might try and steal him. But I think he would make my suitcase overweight...

Baking with kids...

Let's just say it was an experience. An adorable one, but kind of a disaster.

I had been missing my weekly routine of baking chocolate chip cookie and decided that a rainy Tuesday afternoon was the perfect time for my first baking excursion in Paris. I told Hector and Alexis the plan and they were ecstatic, way more than I thought they would be, which should have been a sign.

I set out all the ingredients, but could not find any measuring utensils or vanilla extract (they use vanilla sugar powder a lot here). No worries, I thought, I'll eyeball it. We also had to use spreadable butter and a chocolate bar in lieu of stick butter and chocolate chips:

The boys took this project extremely seriously, claiming who poured, measured and spooned what. Cracking the eggs was the ultimate prize, and luckily I had two, otherwise there would have been a war. 

I explained that we had to be very careful about measuring everything, otherwise the cookies might explode (had to elaborate a bit to get them to listen). Yet, as soon as I turned my back, Alexis dumped piles of sugar into the bowl...and it went downhill from there:

Hector cracked the egg (and shells) into the bowl and I had to fish them out because he was extremely disgusted by the consistency of the yolk. 

Alexis and Hector battled over who would stir the mixture, knocking half the flour out of the bowl. 

Alexis dipped his finger into the salt, baking soda and flour mixture and almost spit up everything back into the bowl. He did this a few more times, even after I told him that it would still be disgusting after the first time. 

The highlights:

Alexis face when he tasted cookie dough for the first time: 

Then Alexis kept eating the chocolate out of the dough. Alexis' face when I told him he had to stop:

When asked what music we should listen to, Hector enthusiastically shouted, "ROCK AND ROLL." So we jammed out to the likes of Kings of Leon, Robyn, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Train, Jay Z, and The Killers. Hector surprisingly knew most of the beats and broke it down on the kitchen floor. 

The cookie dough was incredible. A dessert in itself, thanks to the immense amount of brown sugar and chocolate bar pieces. I should have just left it at that and not even bothered putting it in the oven. 

The boys loved baking. We had a wonderful rainy afternoon dancing and cooking and they begged to do it again. Little did I know we would have to, since the cookies (if you could call them that) were an ultimate failure. 

They were sugar bricks. Thin, rock hard, and basically just baked brown sugar and butter. I threw out the entire batch, after breaking a sweat trying to break the welded rock mess into individual cookies. However, as a chocolate chip cookie connoisseur I couldn't end on that note, particularly since the boys were not the biggest fans. So we baked them again on Friday and they were delicious... except this time I learned my lesson and pre-measured everything into individual ziplock bags. Somehow they still fought over these. Oh baking with kids...

Alexis measuring brown sugar before giving up and dumping in the whole thing

Hector scooping up some sugar

Hector took over photography duties

Boys mixing

Dough and chocolate bars

Alexis sneaking cookie dough

 Final product

Hey Hemingway

For the first time in a very, very long time I have the chance to read as much and as long as I want. My french class is over, applications are in (almost) and my work has died down a bit for the online magazine. I've been through three books since arriving back in Paris and am now onto the fourth, ironically titled "The Paris Wife." I picked it up over break, intrigued by its Paris location and the story of Hemingway's (one of my favorite poets) first wife. 

So I am lying in bed, reading, and along comes the address of their first apartment: 74 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. I couldn't believe it. It was right by my old place and two seconds away from my favorite American bakery where I basically lived my first two months here. Furthermore, the book also delved into how poor and gritty the area was at the time, full of peasants and commoners, and far removed from the intellectual expat scene that Hemingway eventually wound his way into. Ironically that area is now one of the most famous and beautiful in Paris, though it has barely changed. 

Mclain (author) related how Hemingway interacted with Ezra Pound and Gertrude Stein and that Gertrude Stein had visited Hemingway at 74 Cardinal Lemoine. GERTRUDE STEIN. On that street. I couldn't get over it. 

 Mclain also details Hadley's (Hemingway's first wife) wanderings through the streets of the Fifth, over Pont Sully, around Notre Dame and the tiny cobblestoned side streets where bodies huddled under piles of rags, sleeping off their drunk: the Paris homeless. I smiled at how little had changed, particularly the piles of rags sleeping off the night before. Sadly they fill the streets here at the same frequency as Boulangeries. 

I decided to go find 74 Rue du Cardinal Lemoine, mapping my run for the day around it. I hadn't been to my old area very much--even though I adore it--for fear of memories. I've learned that the overwhelming power of nostalgia can taint the way you view a city, particularly when a prior version of yourself, and your life, had found such happiness in one neighborhood. So in order to see Paris with new eyes and move on from the other life I had made here a few years ago, I avoided that area unless absolutely necessary. 

Winding my way past my old metro, apartment, and farmers market, up Rue Monge, past my old favorite bakery and down towards the Notre Dame put me in a daze and I was happy to veer off down some tiny street I had never seen. I imagined Hemingway and Hadley walking past the same doors and stones, as cheesy as it sounds, and to complete the picture a homeless man was curled up in a corner sleeping deeply with a half filled bottle of wine placed beside him. 

I doubled back and up Cardinal Lemoine to number 74. I had indeed walked by this building, multiple times. There was a huge plaque and a store beside it named, "Under Hemingway." I chuckled at how I had missed this blatant historical thing, and that it was right up the street from the American coffee shop where I had studied so intently and worked on my own poems and writings. It's funny how blind you can be at times. 

The old blue door was just like any other Paris apartment entrance: small, a bit weathered, heavy, but beautiful in its own right. I read the plaque, despite being interrupted by a crazy old woman smoking a cigarette and screaming horsely in my ear about God knows what, puffing her smoke into my face and jutting her teeth. She finally stopped once I took several giant steps to the side and put in my headphones. I watched her meander off, talking to herself and gesturing at the sky. Paris is always full of surprises. 

A failed attempt at the Rose

I get restless on Sundays. The problem is Saturdays. Saturdays hold promise; a long list of to-do's, social endeavors, and lots of red wine. Saturdays pull me through the week. But then, its Sunday. Now what. Most everything is closed in Paris on Sunday, and after a gloriously packed Saturday, I feel a bit despondent and lost.

This Sunday, which followed a Saturday consisting of a 9 mile run, cleaning the house, shopping, grocery shopping, cooking, having a gigantic Mexican themed fiesta chez nous, and going out, I awoke anxious and dreading the start of another long Monday. So I decided to find a purpose: discover a soy latte in Paris that is not from Starbucks. For those of you who don't know Paris that well, this is actually a difficult quest.

I did some research and came across Rose Bakery (originally in the 9th, now also in the 3rd). People raved about its coffee (yes, even soy lattes), brunch, pastries, and lunch. I also read they had internet. Of course this bakery is of Anglo heritage and sells organic granola, chocolate, gluten free goodies and other things the States have in abundance. Where else in Paris would I find a soy latte but at an English  cafe?

Sunday to-do achieved: Go to the Rose Bakery, eat a pastry, drink a soy latte, read, work, be happy.

If only I could find it. I wandered around the area--computer, snacks, and book in tow--completely mystified with a map glued to my face. Paris streets have a way of appearing, disappearing or just curving into obnoxiously contrived directions. Rue Debelleyme (located in a very trendy part of the 3rd) was shaped like a small half moon behind a few main streets and an intersection. Not to mention it has the most unassuming entrance without a sign, or address. But I found it. Of course it is packed, and it is more of a talk-and-laugh-loudly-with-friends cafe than a relax-in-a-cozy-chair-tout-seul cafe. My heart sank--all I had been wanting was to make the most of my solitary day with a fat muffin, book, and my happy place (soy latte).

Despite my moroseness, Rose Bakery is actually a very cool looking place. Squeezed in-between very expensive clothing stores, its simple, yet breathtaking all glass front leads into a narrow one roomed restaurant full of noisy patrons and small tables pushed to the left. They are pushed to the left because the counter encompasses the entire right side. And what is left in the middle? A walkway the width of my two feet. There are actually tables in the kitchen, that is how squeezed this place is. Not much room for cozy chairs.

The wait is too long for me to muster, and besides, I would be the only person in the entire jovial one room alone, on a computer, or reading. This Rose Bakery is the place to go with friends, to eat, drink and be merrily squeezed on top of everyone else who is with friends, eating, drinking and being merry. Since I was basically sitting on tables while waiting for one, I had the opportunity to smell and take in everyone's meals. The brunch smelled hearty and wonderful, and the bread looked perfect--too thick for French bread though, must be an English recipe.

The bakery is famous for their cakes, particularly the carrot. I overheard some say that the "icing was to die for,"  and it looked delectable. I also saw pancakes and some amazing looking salads. I decided to grab a pastry to-go and head to a Starbucks...at least I tried. I landed on a fig bar, which looked like the offspring of a fig newton and berry crumble. I asked for a slice (just a little one) and it ended up costing me 6.50 euro. For a fig bar. I almost died.

After winding my way through the 3rd, taking in the sales and throngs of people out on Sunday, I arrived at a Starbucks. The line was out the door. So I just ended up grabbing a seat, pulling out my book, and giving up on my quest for a soy latte. Guess I know what I am doing next Sunday.

(The bar wasn't bad. Tasted like a fig-newton with granola on top. Good but nothing special. Ari also said she had been and the food was overpriced, but good.)

So the question remains, to ditch or make another go at the Rose? If I go I am definitely bringing a large, extremely happy group of friends.

Mexican: take two

Candelaria:
la taqueria, 3rd arrdt.

Ecstatic about the news that Chipotle was making its debut in Paris the 16th of January, I had mexican on the brain all week. We planned to go to Chipotle for dinner. I was thinking burrito, chicken, guac, salsa, beans, mouth watering goodness. However, when someone actually looked up Chipotle and saw that it wasn't going to be open for another 1-2 months, we were at a loss of what to do. We started planning a making our own Mexican night, but then a friend suggested Candelaria and (as a fellow Californian) vouched for its authenticity and flavor.

I was the first one to arrive and had to walk by it a few times to make sure I was at the right location. The place was the size of a large closet. It had one table and 7 stools around a counter. The kitchen was behind it and two Hispanic people were bustling making tortillas and serving guac. You have got to be kidding, I thought to myself. We were a party of five, we would practically overflow the small space.

I walked in and grabbed a bar stool and waited. After a few minutes I noticed strangers walking in, waving, and then going through a tiny, unassuming door that looked like it led to a broom closet or bathroom. I asked if there was another room, they said yes. I decided to check it out and found myself in a dark, warm and bustling bar. I was duly impressed by its chicness, nonchalance, and amazing looking cocktails. Sadly there was no room for us, and they only served appetizers, so I headed back to the "main" area. My friends finally filed in and we were lucky to snag five bar stools.

I had been observing the "chef" and marveled at how delicately he prepared each dish. Though everything looked tiny (appetizer portion), each dish was a declared masterpiece.

We ordered and split three dishes of guac and chips. The guac was the best I've had here so far, though it was missing some salt and spice (like everything in Paris). I was slightly obsessed with the chips and asked for seconds. It was obvious they were homemade (like everything there) and I could not get enough.

I ordered a quesadilla and chicken tostada. Voila:

I so wish I could have photographed every one's dishes, but I only had my cellphone and everyone had plunged in before I could even ready my blackberry camera. 

Stella's food was ok. She got tacos carnita's and declared that for whatever reason, Parisians deem a taco acceptable with just the meat and some parsley (it should be cilantro) and nothing elese.

My quesadilla was amazing (filled with mushrooms and something else I could not distinguish). I could have eaten five. The tostada was also good, but lacked salt and a kick of something. 

However, it was very cool to watch this young man throw avocados into a plastic bowl and whip up guac; throw some homemade tortillas on his tiny stove and create gorgeous tostadas and queso frescos; and smell everything. 

Not to mention the margaritas looked phenomenal. I paid 10 euro and was pretty pleased. The reviews were mixed from my group, but I think it is the best Mexican food I have found here and the delicacy of every creation made me feel as if I was eating Mexican art, as well as some delicious beans and cheese. 

Cirque "Mulan"

When someone asks you if you want to see a circus show in Paris for 10 euro, you say yes; it doesn't matter if you have no idea what the thing is about, where it is, etc. It's10 euro. It's a show. It's in Paris. It's me getting off my butt on Sunday and doing something cultural.

Me, Stella and a few other girls bought tickets to Les Etoiles du Cirque de Pekin. I was told it was a show about Mulan (my favorite Disney movie of all time) so of course I was more than excited. I didn't stop to think how France would interpret Mulan, or if it would expel the same Disney magic that enthralls every one who sees it (aka me, who just watched it last month. By myself). 

The show started at 3 pm and lasted about 2 hours. It was in the 12th arrondissement by a lovely park, and despite the blistering wind, hangover and grumbling stomach, I was ready to be captivated by my favorite childhood film. Our seats weren't too bad for 10 euro, and it felt nice to be in a circus environment with hyper children running around and popcorn tumbling in large glass containers. It reminded me of my Cirque de Soleil outings with my parents and how everything appeared so large, ethereal and illuminated. Of course I had to buy popcorn (the thing was the size of my hand  and sweet instead of salty, but still worth it).

The show was like a muted down version of Cirque de Soleil, with a host of impressive acrobatics, stunts and costumes. Though the story resembled nothing of the Disney Mulan movie, or anything of Mulan, the spectacular performances help me get over it. 

One of the most peculiar, yet fascinating acts featured a group of women lying on their backs and spinning gourds, chairs, and drums on their feet in rapid motion. They would then toss these objects to each other (by their feet) without missing a beat, or a spin. It was probably the most random skill I have ever seen, but also one of the coolest. I debated going home and trying it, but as I live in a rented apartment with rented furniture, I thought otherwise. 

All of the performers came from China and were incredibly lithe and talented. It was a small-scale show compared to those in the US and I have learned that the French cheer in a much more refined fashion than my fellow countrymen across the pond. It was definitely an interesting circus experience and comparison, not to mention the entire thing was in french. 

For 10 euro my normal, lazy Sunday became quite cultural and unique; though I found myself missing the large stage presence of American shows. But again, 10 euro, you can't complain. I'll even let the whole lack of Mulan storyline thing go. 

Photos:

Ponies saying "hey" as we walked up to the tent

 View from our seats

 amazing rope stunt

 Women balancing on men while balancing spinning ceramic flowers. No big deal. 

 Chinese dragon

 Women doing handstands on a chair tower

 human tower