A Moveable Beast

Are you there, Paris? It's me, Moveable Beast.

2011-09-04T16:30:00.007-04:00

Photo by Gustavo Weiss Deleu Nogueira

Moveable Beast is starting to look very dated compared to all the highfalutin blogs out there these days, but I've always been somewhat of a Luddite, so that's how it will remain.

In the meantime, I am in mega missing-Paris mode, so much so that I can't really bear to read certain books or blogs or see movies for fear that they will evoke this vicious sense of, "Why aren't I there?"

My very own Paris effect has come back to haunt me. So, here and now, I'm vowing to live there again, or as a last resort, to retire there.

Given my current age and life circumstances, I suppose the next logical question is: Is 30 an unreasonable age to retire?

Girls Who Stand on Corners

2011-05-23T16:25:00.006-04:00

Photo by Eugène Atget, 1940

It was around this time last year when an old French guy accused me of being a prostitute.

But let's back up.

I had taken yet another impulsive jaunt under the guise of professional necessity, but I can now admit, I was blatantly there to see a boy. While there, we decided to take a road trip to Normandy. We woke up early and strolled up his street on the Ile St. Louis.

Before hopping onto the bus, G dodged into a tabac and I lingered on the corner. Okay, I supposed I might have leaned against the sign post on the corner, and it's possible my posture may have suggested that this was, in fact, my place of work. Suddenly, an old, super stereotypical French man (long white beard, fisherman's cap, pipe in mouth, paper in hand) approached me, eyes sparkling with mischief. I waited to see what kind of Frenchism he was about to unleash on me.

"Back in my day," he laughed, "if a woman stood on the corner..."

I was on the verge of coming up with some incredibly zingy comeback, when G came out of the store and swooped me away.

"What was that?"

"Oh, just an old guy who thought I was a whore." Nothing new there.

Although, I was wearing a very demure navy and white striped mariner dress, and looked more like I was about to board a schooner than commit some lewd sexual act. But I suppose girls who stand on corners are inherently suspect, no matter how stripe-ily they're dressed. Lesson learned.

Carine Roitfeld Remembered My Hair

2011-03-02T11:38:00.009-05:00

Don't fear the Roitfeld.

I remember my first Fashion Week in Paris. I ambled into the Tuileries (oblivious to the fact that it was Fashion Week) and suddenly found myself surrounded by long-legged, designer-bedecked, blow-dried, sleek, shiny, glittering people. Parisians generally look good, but this was above and beyond. It was only then that I noticed the tents, and the PR people who—clipboards in hand—looked at me as if to say, “You’re at the wrong party, frump.” And indeed I was, which was fine with me.

At that point, I never imagined that I would someday be involved in the champagne-sipping, stiletto-teetering madness that is Fashion Week, that I would hold tickets to shows in my trembling little hands, that my name would actually be on some of those PR lists.

Don't worry—I'll never be a fashion insider. The industry makes it pretty impossible for any half-way rational person to take most of it seriously, especially when they start sending hoodarfs down the runway. But my skepticism didn't stop me from masquerading as a fashion reporter during February's New York Fashion Week, when I hit the town on behalf of New York Magazine.

Over the course of 9 days, I experienced quite a few "Who do I think I am?" moments. I chatted with Woody Allen about his prolific career, I stood awestruck in the glow of Bill Clinton's magical aura (it really is magical), I asked Cate Blanchett about her hobbit-related rituals, and I tried to remain nonchalant as I chatted with models and fashion-y people and sassy comedian Aziz Ansari.

But for some reason, the moment that stands out, the moment that really got me, was when Carine Roitfeld (former editor of French Vogue and all-around badass) remembered my hair. I had briefly interviewed her the night before about her post-Vogue plans (she was decked out in Givenchy couture; I was wearing some rag and trying to pass it off as classy, as is my custom), so when I spotted her at her son's art opening, I chatted her up again.

From afar, she's pretty terrifying—whippet thin, fiercely stylish and undeniably cool. But in fact, she's quite forthcoming, and I now suspect that she might even be human. When I re-introduced myself, she said, "I remember. You wore your hair down last night."

OMG... Carine Roitfeld has taken note of my hair, for better or worse.

When I resumed breathing and was actually able to form sentences, we chatted about her friendship with Tom Ford and her preferred drink (vodka). "I'm Russian, you know," she held up her glass. "Never mix."

And then I thought back to that moment in the Tuileries, my clunky boots covered in limestone dust, sure I was the dowdiest girl ever to have walked the face of the earth. I'm not sure how I got from there to exchanging quips with Carine Roitfeld over vodka cocktails, but sometimes life takes mysterious turns, and sometimes the most bumbling of writers moonlight as fashion reporters.

And why not? Fake it 'til you make it.

Announcement! I Have a Website

2011-02-21T20:59:00.004-05:00

After three years of intending to make a website, I finally got around to doing it. It links back to Moveable Beast, of course (where it all began), but also directs interested parties to my other writing endeavors. Whether or not those interested parties will remain interested is anyone's guess.

Anyway, enjoy: toryhoen.com

Live from New York

2010-12-15T16:14:00.003-05:00

When I'm not in Paris, I'm stalking celebrities on various red carpets around New York. Here's some recent work for New York magazine:

Marc Jacobs

Elle Fanning

And you can read all of my NY Mag work here.

Winter in Paris: Pleasure or Pain?

2010-12-05T15:12:00.014-05:00

Photo: trekearth.com

I'm beginning to understand that I'm a bit of a masochist. I'm bored by things / people / places that make life too easy, which is probably why I like ornery cats, most fictional villains, winter and (if I'm being honest) the French.

To clarify, I have nothing against Golden Retrievers, damsels in distress, summer or ... who's fun and non-controversial?... the Swedish. It's just that I also like a challenge. I like to be initially offended but ultimately won over. I like things that don't care if I like them or not.

And thus, I love winter in Paris. It provides a dark, dismal, unapologetic, multi-month challenge that pushes you to your breaking point, but offers various olive branches along the way—pretty hanging lights, vin chaud, chocolat a l'ancienne, and a great excuse to drink serious red wines and then crawl into bed.

Philosophically speaking, Epicurus saw pleasure as the absence of pain, and Descartes considered the two to be linked on a continuous spectrum. I have to agree. Getting caught in a freak hail storm a few weeks ago (while wearing ballet flats) made arriving home to our cozy apartment on the Ile St. Louis that much more of a triumph. And going days (weeks?) without seeing the sun makes me feel totally justified in my decision to devote entire afternoons to the following "indulgent" activities:

Lighting a fire (if you have a fireplace... otherwise, probably not a good idea)
Putting on a nice gnossienne by Erik Satie (the ultimate snowy mood music)
Popping open a bottle of deep red Cahors
Eating (excessive amounts of) Saint Marcellin, and perhaps some Lindt Chocolate with Fleur de Sel
Reading a book / writing nonsense in a journal
Browsing through Le Fooding and planning my next epicurean adventure

Because making pleasure out of pain is the best way to beat winter at its own game... especially in Paris.

Top-Secret Paris Séjour

2010-08-28T13:25:00.011-04:00

Musee de la Chasse et de la Nature.

Surprise! I made a super-quick trip to Paris earlier this month. I only told a handful of friends that I was going, since I had just 6 days to do what I do in Paris: which is nothing, blissfully. Or at least, nothing planned.

Per usual, I didn't look at my watch (my figurative watch... I don't actually have one) the whole week. I floated around and remembered how much I love Paris in August, because it's quiet and empty, and it feels as if the city is resting, breathing and lying in wait. At night, you can walk and walk and walk and not see a soul. There's a stillness in the air—a non-energy—that makes me feel like I've entered an alternate Paris. It kind of feels like that scene in Disney's Sleeping Beauty where everyone around the castle is dozing (I love Disney... but only the old-school, politically incorrect stuff).

The fact that many of my go-to spots are closed in August also led to two seriously huge discoveries. The first was Aux Deux Amis, a wonderfully understated neighborhood wine bar and resto that embodies everything I love about eating in Paris. The regularly-shifting menu is written in chalk, the waiters offer candid advice about what's good and what's even better, the place is full (but not annoyingly so), and we left feeling healthier, happier, and somehow lighter (the paradoxical effect of good French cuisine).

Discovery number two was the mind-blowingly awesome Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature (Museum of Hunting and Nature). I really have no excuse for not visiting earlier: The moment I stepped inside, I felt like the place had been constructed, designed, and curated for me and me alone. Its lavish interiors are filled with taxidermy animals of all shapes and sizes (fox! polar bear! owl faces on the ceiling!), ornate weaponry and other "curiosities." And you can touch things! I've been accused of saying this too often, but it's my new favorite place in Paris. For real this time.

So as usual, I returned from Paris with the renewed feeling that planning nothing is the perfect way to uncover an abundance of unexpected awesomeness.

Around now, I'm sure the energy of la rentrée is palpable in the Parisian air, and the French are returning from their summer retreats, oblivious to what they've missed. Let's keep it that way.

Paris Broke My Heart Again

2010-06-14T09:03:00.004-04:00

I'm back in New York, suffering from a particularly agonizing bout of Paris withdrawal. And the question that keeps rising to the surface of my mind is: "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"

But no sooner do I ask it than I know the answer: Because I'm in love. Unfortunately, I'm in love with an abusive city that looks shiny from the outside but is—behind closed doors—deceitful and cruel. Paris will charm you one moment and then disparage you the next, but once you've lived there, you know that you will never cease to be lured back. Because from a distance, you only remember the charming parts. So you allow yourself to be manipulated, because you kind of like it, because a little Paris is better than no Paris, because you're American and your Paris obsession is as American as apple pie (but a lot more delicious).

Nonetheless, my heart feels dead, and I think it might stay that way until I plan my next séjour.

I'm in Paris, Planning My Staycation

2010-06-02T02:53:00.002-04:00

As often happens when I get to Paris, I forget all of my responsibilities and spend the first five days (at least) sitting in parks and cafes, doing absolutely nothing—but feeling quite productive doing it. It seems like New York doesn't exist anymore, but apparently it does. And apparently the publishing industry is still churning, so here's my latest from Time Out. When I get home from my real vacation, I think a French staycation will be in order.

http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/own-this-city/86199/france-staycation

Enjoy!

Cycle of Cultural Confusion

2010-05-22T17:20:00.003-04:00

When I'm in France, I write about being an American in Paris. And when I'm in New York, it seems logical to write about being French in New York (Time Out article to come in a few weeks). I've managed to ingratiate myself with a good number of French restaurant / shop owners in New York, and it's almost as good as being in Paris. (Except not at all).

So I don't really know where I fit, but seeing as I'm both a faux Parisian and a faux New Yorker, I have become quite comfortable faking my way on both sides of the Atlantic.

Anyway, I'm gearing up to head to Paris this week, but in the meantime, here's a recent post I wrote for Hip Paris—as usual, not to be taken too seriously.

How To Be a Parisienne: Ten Golden Rules

Nolita = Little Paris

2010-05-02T22:10:00.009-04:00

Sea of Euros at Cafe Gitane.

I think all of New York is conspiring to send me back to Paris. It seems I can't walk five feet in this city without running into a French tourist, or a French family, or just a French person who has claimed New York as his / her own. It probably doesn't help that I spend most of my time in Nolita and the Lower East Side, where all of transplanted Europe seems to convene to walk around looking painfully stylish. Cafe Gitane has a way of making me feel like an out-of-place foreigner in my own city, so obviously I am obsessed with it and have vowed to go there as often as possible until I have sufficiently "assimilated." Plus, their avocado toast is out-of-control good.

But seriously, New York is awash with French people, and many of them are inexplicably enamored with Abercrombie & Fitch (they don't know it's not cool, which I find endearing... like the one chink in their otherwise intimidatingly sleek armor). But as I was saying, if you stand at the corner of Mott and Prince Streets, the English evaporates and you might as well be standing at the corner of rue Vieille du Temple and rue des Francs Bourgeois.

Every time I find myself next to a French speaker, I want to tell them all about how I used to live in Paris, but then I realize, they're French and they don't give a f*ck—which makes me like them even more.

But the fact that French people are as obsessed with New York as we are with Paris seems to provide some kind of cultural reckoning—or at least mutual affirmation. As maladroit as I sometimes feel when I'm in Paris, it all balances itself out when I see a perfectly nice looking French boy sporting a hideously branded A&F t-shirt here in New York. It's not OK, but since you're French, je te pardonnerai. I'll let it go.

Impulse Buy

2010-04-26T23:05:00.006-04:00

Winter sunset in Belleville.

I've done it again: bought a plane ticket to Paris in a fitful moment of impulse-romanticism-instinct-recklessness-happiness. (I know better than to try to disentangle those emotions by now). They're all part and parcel of a larger force that keeps pulling me back to Paris. This is the third time in the past two years that I've found myself buying a ticket in the middle of the night, and it's looking like it won't be the last. In fact, I'd be quite happy to think that this adrenaline-fueled, late-night ticket-purchasing habit will become a regular occurrence in my life. Better than sleep-walking out of a window, right?

It's inevitable really, seeing as my heart is a magnet and Paris is its polar opposite. Or maybe my stomach is the magnet, and St. Marcellin is its polar opposite. Or maybe my closet is a magnet, and Le Bon Marché is its polar opposite? Who cares.

No matter, I'm going back to Paris a month from today. I wonder what kind of outfits the Parisian dogs are sporting this season, and when the peaches and cherries will start rolling into the markets, and what time the sun is setting these days, and what kind of random, cracked-out adventures await me. Rest assured, I'll keep you posted.

My Local Drug Dealers

2010-04-10T16:05:00.012-04:00

Ever-changing graffiti near my Belleville apartment

As much as I love my current neighborhood in New York (the Lower East Side), it doesn't have nearly enough drug dealers for my taste. There's something about having a stable crew of pushers outside my door that just makes me feel secure, and this winter in Paris, I had just that.

I realize it might sound strange to admit that I derive comfort from knowing that there is criminal activity occurring a stone's throw from where I sleep, but if you simply think of the dealers as unofficial doormen, it's really quite nice having them there.

The Paris apartment I'm referring to was in Belleville—not a dangerous neighborhood by any means, but certainly well off the bourgeois map. Let's just say, I can imagine the face my mother would have made had she seen my block which, luckily, she never did. But, as is exemplified by the fact that I lived there, Belleville is quickly gentrifying, so check it out ASAP if you haven't already.

But back to my local drug dealers, they were there when I came home in the evening, when I went back out for the night, and when I came back late night. They tended to take the mornings off, understandably; none of us can work 'round the clock.

After about a week, they got to know me. They would say hi, they would part like the Red Sea to let me through, they would push each other out of the way if one was blocking my door. Dare I say they were gentlemanly? I could call it an arrangement of mutual tolerance, but in fact, it was more than tolerance (at least, on my side). I think I loved them.

On the rare occasions when I came home and they weren't there, the silence on the street was deafening. Well, maybe not deafening, but noticeable. I had grown to like them and to count on them. And I knew that—unless one of them killed me—I was extra safe for their presence.

So now you understand why it's somewhat boring to come home to my building in New York—it's so sterile, so yuppified, so free of loiterers. It makes me think about my doorway in Belleville, where I know my dealers are still keeping watch, doing their thing, night after night.

I guess it's a bit unsettling to think that the reliability of those drug dealers was one of the more consistent elements of my recent life, but voila, there it is. As we learn again and again, life works in mysterious ways.

The Rolling Dog of Place Monge

2010-04-05T23:42:00.012-04:00

When I lived in the 5th arrondissement, it was hard for me to go five minutes without laughing. Everything from the shop owners to the school kids to the traveling minstrels made my day. But there was one particular discovery that really pushed me over the edge— into the realm of pure, unadulterated elation:

A real, live dog on wheels.

These specimens had long existed in my imagination, but to find one in my neighborhood was almost too much excitement for one person to take. In addition to being... how can I put it nicely?... "infirm," this dog looked mangy, unkempt and completely down-n-out. To his credit, he didn't seem to know it.

He wheeled around Place Monge like he owned the place, which maybe he did. Who am I to know? I'm just an ex-pat interloper. This is clearly his terrain.

This winter, I was retracing my old steps, when whom did I see? None other than my dog on wheels, zipping around (ok, plodding along in little jolts), just like in the good old days!

How refreshing it is to learn that I can leave, move across the world, come back and find that Old Mr. Wheels is still charting the same daily course across the Place.

My excitement soon gave way to calmness, to a settling of my heart rate, to an organic feeling that things are in balance, that there is order in the world. If this ratty little dog strapped to a mobile harness contraption doesn't symbolize something good, I don't know what does. All I know is: everything's going to be ok. I have rolling proof.

Picnic in the Metro

2010-04-02T03:28:00.005-04:00

I can't sleep, and on nights like this, my thoughts naturally turn to Parisian vagrants—one of my favorite topics. It's not that I take homelessness lightly; it's just that Paris has such a distinctive and wily set of street-dwellers, I can't help but be amazed, amused, enthralled... whatever you want to call it.

I'm recalling a particular evening about a year ago when I was darting through the Metro and came across a woman who had set up camp on a tiled ledge. She had the usual accoutrements: sleeping bag, clothing layers, a few plastic bags full of stuff. But more importantly, she had set up a little picnic that (among other things) included a glass of rosé. Not only was it in a proper wine glass but, upon closer inspection, seemed to have some kind of garnish going on. Wait... wait a minute... yes... two elegant and very fresh-looking raspberries bobbed in the lovely glass. For a moment, I was genuinely jealous.

Then, reality check. I think it's time for my Paris-goggles to be adjusted when I literally start to envy the cocktails of people who live in the Metro. But she did have quite a spread, and those raspberries...

Where to live...

2010-03-31T00:25:00.005-04:00

Karl Lagerfeld shooting a Chanel ad on Orchard Street last week

It's disconcerting how often I think of Paris (every 15-20 minutes), even though I've been back in New York for almost a month. Everything that strikes me here leads to an automatic comparison: "That would never happen in Paris," "That's sort of like what happened in Paris, except..."

I think it's time for me to give New York a break. And Paris a break, for that matter. Tonight, over drinks (Cote du Rhone... duh), a friend said to me: "These are not boyfriends; they're cities." And it's true. I talk about both New York and Paris as if I'm dating them, as if they're supposed to be living up to some expectation, accommodating me somehow. The truth is, I'm lucky to have lived in either place. I'm lucky to have jumped between them. And whatever comes next, it's safe to say, I'm lucky to experience it.

That said, if I had to choose a city as my boyfriend, it's Paris all the way. Sorry, New York.

Paris 2.0

2010-02-28T05:31:00.003-05:00

Photo: Robert Doisneau

I've been in Paris for five weeks and have (clearly) totally neglected Moveable Beast. It's inexcusable, but part of the reason is because I've been doing a bunch of writing for other outlets. You can check out some of my recent posts here:

"Fables - Photographies" for Dossier Journal

Readjusting to Life in Paris

De-Coding French-isms

Robert Doisneau's Paris

Street Art in Belleville

Macaron War Rages On

Mini French Street Style

Why I Love February in Paris

Packing for Paris -- The Anticipation Builds

L'Institut du Monde Arabe

Adrenaline

2009-12-12T17:09:00.004-05:00

Travel rush! There's nothing like the thrill of hitting the "Finish" button when booking plane tickets online... especially when said tickets will send me back to Paris for a month! My fingers are still trembling...

I must admit, though I'm loving life in New York, I am always--quietly and not so quietly--pining for Paris. It's the little things that I really miss: pas trop cuit baguettes (crunchy outside, soft inside), sunsets over the Seine, vodka pomme on command...

It's not that you can't find fresh bread in New York, it's just that you have to put in some effort to do so. And recently it has become abundantly clear: I am lazy. I will eat a jar of peanut butter for dinner if it's the only thing in the cupboard, which it often is. Whoa, I'm gross and lazy.

Anyway, this Moveable Beast can't wait to get back to Paris (where I will probably start pining for real peanut butter as soon as I arrive). I guess the grass is always greener. But from here, the Parisian grass is looking really, really absurdly green...

No Shame in a Little Vodka Pomme

2009-12-07T02:37:00.005-05:00

I picked up a little trick when I lived in Paris... a little trick known as the Vodka Pomme. It's smooth, not hangover-inducing, makes me happy, and is totally non-controversial. Yes, it's vodka and apple juice, but it never felt juvenile... at least, until I came to New York.

Since I've been back, I've attempted to order the Vodka Pomme multiple times to no avail. Last week alone I was shot down by three bartenders. I suppose the problem is that I often lead with, "Do you have any apple juice?" which usually inspires raised eyebrows, if not blatant disgust.

When I posed this question on Friday, the bartender responded, "This is a bar for adults." It didn't help that my friend had just ordered red wine in a "normal glass," which was tantamount to asking for it in a sippy cup. Apparently, it's not acceptable to request drinks that evoke memories of the sandbox. It's all dirty martinis and Maker's Mark and everything else that is just soooooooo cool.

I'm not deterred. In fact, I'm more determined than ever to find a New York bar that will make me a proper Vodka Pomme without judgment or fanfare. Until then, I'm going to carry a flask full of apple juice at all times. I have no choice.

In Celebration of Pants

2009-11-25T10:55:00.003-05:00

Last week’s headline in The Telegraph read: “A decree banning women from wearing trousers in Paris is still technically in force, it emerged on Monday, making the laissez-faire French capital theoretically stricter than hardline Sudan in the fashion stakes.”

The article went on to describe the origin of this law and its evolution over time.

1800: Law stipulates that “any Parisienne wishing to dress like a man ‘must present herself to Paris' main police station to obtain authorization’”

1892: Amendment to the law states that trousers are permitted “as long as the woman is holding the reins of a horse"

1909: An extra clause is added to allow women to wear trousers when "on a bicycle or holding it by the handlebars"

Despite the fact that this law is still in place, it's safe to say that pants (and the women who love them) are alive and well in Paris. Thanks to icons like Coco Chanel (who did her part for women's lib by championing sportswear as a viable—not to mention stylish—wardrobe option for women in the early part of the 20^th century), today’s Parisiennes can be seen strutting the streets in styles as diverse as the uber-chic “skinny jean” to the borderline-laughable “harem pant.” And they wear them well, albeit defiantly---very few of today’s pant-wearers can be found holding the requisite “reins of a horse.”

But illegal or not, pants are here to stay. Here’s the proof (photos: thesartorialist.com):

Verre Volé--Tu me manques!

2009-11-14T13:02:00.001-05:00

Reminiscing about drunken afternoons and evenings at the Verre Volé...

French Unicorns

2009-11-09T12:29:00.002-05:00

From http://blog.theblakewright.com/

My Family Hates Me

2009-10-14T23:30:00.015-04:00

A new annual event has started occurring in my life in recent years. It happened for the first time when I was a sophomore in college. I was stuck on campus over Columbus Day weekend, probably holed up writing a paper on the genocide presided over by Columbus (or something equally ironic given the occasion). I took a break from working to call home to gripe a little bit, to have my parents confirm that their empty nest was totally boring, and to bask in a little praise for being such a dedicated scholar.

Instead, I called to discover that my family was celebrating Thanksgiving—without me. And not just any Thanksgiving—Canadian Thanksgiving, which happens to fall on America’s Columbus Day weekend. I'm not sure why the Canadian version is so much earlier than the American. Perhaps it's because, by late November, Canada is already buried in snow and there's nothing left to be thankful for.

My parents had recently moved from Connecticut to Montreal. They were retired and, more importantly, fed up with the Bush administration, so they migrated north, lured by the promise of level-headedness and poutine. We are dual citizens, but I’m not a real Canadian, and we had certainly never celebrated any Canadian holidays.

“Is that you, Tor?” my mom asked, her voice drowned out by something sizzling in the background. “We’re just about to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner.”

I stared at the desolate screen of my laptop, which glowed with a slow, cold, silver indifference. “Excuse me?” I said in disbelief.

“What?” My mother asked, sounding innocent but pressed for time. Perhaps there was gravy to be stirred.

“You’re having Thanksgiving, and you didn’t even invite me?”

My mother laughed. “Oh come on! You’re too busy to come up here.”

Too busy to stuff my face with pie? Let’s get serious, here.

I imagined my family crowded around the turkey without me. For the record, none of us actually get along that well, but in my vision, they were all rosy-cheeked and grinning, patting each others' shoulders and exchanging self-satisfied winks as they anticipated the feast to come.

I asked if my brothers were there. My mother confirmed that they were, as was my uncle, his lady friend, and some neighbors. In other words, the whole crew... plus some extras.

“Sounds like Thanksgiving to me,” I said.

“Mmmm,” my mother made a distracted noise, and I heard some kitchen tool being tapped against the side of a pan.

“We are talking about Thanksgiving, right? The third-most important holiday after Christmas and my birthday?” I asked. “I’m thinking of the right one, right?”

“Oh, Tor,” my mother said, “we can do the American one later, if you want, but you can’t do it all. You’re in college and you’re bi-national. You simply cannot do it all.”

I reflected: if doing it all meant eating two giant feasts every Fall, I was pretty sure I could, in fact, do it all.

“You do it all,” I retorted. “But apparently I only get invited to half of it. The stupid American half.” Suddenly Canadian Thanksgiving sounded so much more delicious and rugged than the American version.

“Oh please,” my mother replied, her mouth full of something. “We’re about to sit down. Study hard, and we miss you so much.”

You do? I thought. Because if you missed me that much, you might have thought to invite me to Thanksgiving. I ate a bowl of Cheerios, finished my genocide paper, and fell asleep beneath the icy glow of my laptop.

* * *

I had no idea then that being excluded from secret Canadian Thanksgivings would become a recurring theme in my life. Each year, I managed to forget about the Columbus Day / Canadian Thanksgiving link, until I would call home to ask a question or to check in, only to discover the family—once again—living it up without me.

It happened again the next year when I was studying abroad in Prague, the next year when I was back at school, the following year when I had my first job in New York City, and two years later when I lived in Paris. That was the year my mother said, “We miss you so much but this year we put butter under the skin of the turkey and I really need to focus right now.”

It became a running joke among some of my friends that my family had turned Canadian without telling me, and it was funny—I guess—because it was completely true.

It happened again this year, when I called home to ask if my mother knew where my squash racquet was. No, she didn’t, but she knew exactly where every other member of my family was: crowded around the dining room table with visions of tryptophan in their eyes.

I laughed, amazed at how this cycle had become so reliable. Not many other factors in my life are fixed right now: my address changes every few months, my freelance jobs are “shady,” and no one really knows what I do all day (including me). But if there’s one thing that we can all count on, it is that I won’t be invited to my family’s Canadian Thanksgiving. At least, not until I give in and become a real Canadian. But that’s not happening anytime soon. I’m Parisian, remember?

NY - Paris - Montreal - NY

2009-09-27T11:56:00.000-04:00

Photo by Virginia Jones

I am living every Parisian's dream, i.e., I am living in New York. After over a year in Paris and a few months in Montreal, I am back where I began, albeit with a much different perspective on just about everything. Since getting back, I've been delighted to find that you can't go too far in New York without hearing some French. I find myself aggressively eavesdropping on French conversations I hear in the subway and lingering a little longer on corners where French people are chatting, just in case they need my input on the matter at hand.

Part of me expects that they will see me and just sense that I've been in Paris and that, therefore, I get it--whatever it might be. I was stopped in the subway the other day by a French woman who wanted to take a photo of my book (Save the Cat) for her friend, Cat. I obliged with delight.

Friday night, I attended Le Fooding d'Amour at P.S.1 with Lizzie, an American whom I met in Paris. At a certain point, we were both overcome with a familiar feeling: uncoolness. Even on this side of the Atlantic, Parisians have the ability to make me feel totally maladroit, and for this, they have my undying respect.

A Few Thoughts on Marriage

2009-09-18T16:01:00.001-04:00

You can read my latest at GradSpot:

Marriage as Response to Economic Crisis: Don't Do It!

Montreal: Crazy Exists Here Too!

2009-07-13T16:48:00.000-04:00

I always think it's really funny when Americans talk about how Montreal is so "European." I understand that a year spent in Paris does not give me the right to be snooty about Quebec, but I do have a bit more perspective than I used to, and I must tell you, Quebec is not France.

Yes, people speak French, but it's not like any French I knew on the other side of the Atlantic. This morning, it took 5 replays of a voicemail message for me to grasp that something we ordered "has arrived" and "have a good day." I still don't know what we ordered, where it has arrived, or what I'm supposed to do about it. Despite having been exposed to it from an early age, Quebecois French still sounds crazy to me. Vowels get stretched in strange directions; syllables appear where they need not be; the language has its own counter-intuitive rhythm. To me, it sounds like normal French, but drunk... and on a trampoline.

But language aside, there are plenty of other reasons why Montreal does not equal Paris. Namely:

And:

You will not find these things in France, which is probably for the best. And there are plenty of French things that you will not find in Canada. This is how it should be. One France is enough. One Canada is enough.

There is overlap, however. For example, yesterday I was at a stop light in Montreal. I heard a quiet, high-pitched voice begin to chirp from the car next to mine. It started low, and then got louder and more persistent. It wanted attention. I tried to stay focused and ignore whatever madness was going on beside me, but I finally gave in and looked over. It was a taxi driver, and he was on a roll. Delighted by the attention, he began to coo with even more zeal... it was a mysterious melody that blurred the line between classical opera and reggae. And then it happened... I experienced that old familiar thrill I used to feel in Paris when I was harassed by a crazy person, or when a drunk guy singled me out on a crowded street. It felt amazing.

So, no, I'm not in Paris anymore. But the good news is, crazy guys are a global commodity, and absurdity is a universal truth. I'm sure Montreal has its fair share of both of these things, and I can't wait to uncover them... one taxi driver at a time.

On a different note, who do you think would win in a fight between a Parisian Roller-Cop and a Canadian Mounty?

Paris---> Montreal

2009-07-06T07:59:00.000-04:00

After a splendid year in the City of Light, I have traded Paris for Montreal (the Paris of Canada). This has been a slightly traumatizing experience.

What I've lost: cheap delicious wine, bridges, parks, sunset at 10:30pm, interesting street style, tiny dogs everywhere, daily interactions with insane hobos, fondue-peddling neighbors, Velibs, cultural refinement, green markets, cobblestones, cigarette smoke, joie de vivre.

What I've gained: rugged Canadian attitude, "quality" time with my cat Sprocket, coniferous trees.

If anyone is still reading this, I can't believe it, but thank you! Moveable Beast is not necessarily done forever, but it will be changing forms.

My quarter-life crisis may be on the move but, luckily for you, it's still going strong!

Cat Love

2009-06-28T03:51:00.000-04:00

These anti-animal-abandonment ads are all over the metros. This is obviously my favorite:

In reference to being adopted by his owner, this cat (Sasha) says: "I don't know what came over him, yet I loved him."

I want a homeless cat to say that about me! Although despite being adopted, it sounds like Sasha still has some self-esteem issues.

Good-bye Scuba Cop, Roller Cop, Gas Mask Cop...

2009-06-26T13:20:00.000-04:00

I'm leaving Paris on Tuesday--for the summer, for the for-seeable future, maybe forever.

Why?

There are plenty of legal, spiritual, psychological, and unexplainable factors involved. Mostly, the law is weighing heavily on my soul. My international reputation is in peril. All year, the sight of a police officer has given me a little jolt of excited terror. And, oh, the variety of police officers here is unparalleled...

There is a tribute to all of them on the side of the prefecture de police on the Ile de la Cite. So here is my tribute to that tribute:

Chocolate and Playtime and Food Blogging

2009-06-11T03:20:00.000-04:00

Some work I've done recently for other blogs:

David Lebovitz's Sweet Life in Paris

Following the Chocolate in Paris

Playtime in Saint Germain

It Will Never Be Normal

2009-06-09T13:13:00.000-04:00

I've been at a loss for what to blog about lately. For a moment, I started to think my life here had become too normal to write about. But as usual, I was wrong. I have simply become accustomed to the absurdity of it all... and now, the absurdity itself has become normal.

I need to remember that the frequency with which absurd things happen does not make them less noteworthy.

Last weekend, I was caught far from home sometime between 2:00-5:30am... I don't know when exactly, but the point is, the metro was closed. So I caught a taxi and, as often happens, was treated to the wisdom of the driver on the way home. Upon pulling up to my door, the taxi driver noted its discreet appearance. "You're smart," he said. "The only way to live happily is to live in hiding."

I'm still trying to figure out what that means, but apparently I'm doing something right.

This past weekend, the strange encounters continued. On Friday night, I made the responsible decision to go home early but, on my way, I was lured into what I can only describe as a vampire's lair. It was actually the fondue restaurant below my apartment, but it was all dark and the proprietor was looking more Draculesque than ever. Contrary to what I had previously thought, he's not really from Transylvania, nor is he from Armenia, nor Greece, but from Albania. Tricky! Many glasses of wine later, I'd learned more about Albania--and the fondue business--than I ever thought I would know. We even reminisced about the flood, which had threatened to sabotage our neighborly relations when I first moved into this apartment 8 months ago. Apparently fondue heals all wounds with time.

And finally, on Saturday night, I was waiting for the metro when I heard a lovely little voice coming from across the tracks.... yes, a drunk person. He was dancing and singing a song that went "C'est le weekend, c'est le weekend, c'est le weekend..." I can only assume that he was not only the performer, but the composer of this song. There was a free-form dance that went along with it, and whenever anyone acknowledged him, he would stop both song and dance--letting the anticipation build--until finally giving in and resuming the act. As the train came, I considered letting it pass just to marvel a bit longer, but no need. If I've learned anything in Paris, it's that there is always another crazy person waiting just around the corner.

C'est le weekend indeed.

Feral Girl

2009-05-28T15:03:00.000-04:00

I am back in Paris!

Since I've been away, my hard drive exploded, causing me to lose all of my data--including all writing. As you can imagine, I now feel incredibly technologically "unencumbered." What's a year's worth of work, anyway?

In other more important news, a few friends have implied that I remind them of this recently discovered "feral siberian girl." I am honored.

Speaking of which, that cat I used to hang out with never comes around anymore. Maybe I'll look for him tomorrow.

Spring in Paris Makes You Lazy

2009-05-12T03:48:00.001-04:00

Hence, the recent Moveable Beast hiatus. I'm a bit blogged out... what with all the writing for other blogs:

Paris' Deyrolle Rises from the Ashes

Finally A Reason to Visit the 15th

Best of All Worlds

I'll be back at some point.

Roller-blades at the Ready

2009-04-25T05:19:00.000-04:00

As the owner of a pair of roller-blades, I can confidently say that there is nothing less cool than roller-blades. I am still conflicted about my own. Many years ago (back in the U.S.), I used to wear them around my neighborhood while kind of pretending I wasn't wearing them. Oh these? They're just my shoes. I could never reconcile my desire to roller-blade with the self-loathing that it inspired.

Parisians are not conflicted on this front. When it comes to their status as bladers, ils l'assument. They own it. It amuses me that a demographic that is generally so put together can throw all that style to the wind when it comes to roller-blading.

MC hammer pants (preferably denim)? Check.

Whatever shirt I happen to be wearing (even if it's a blazer)? Check.

Perhaps some type of strange head garb? Check.

Blades? Of course.

Good to go.

Now that spring is here, those who spent all winter long looking totally normal (walking, can you imagine?) have been reborn in all of their bladed glory. It's like monarchs emerging from cocoons.... no, it's like phoenixes rising from the ashes. And it is a sight to behold.

Where I come from, you can't really be a self-respecting citizen and a roller-blader. In Paris, it's quite the opposite. Take the roller-cops for example:

Blades = Respect

All this roller-madness reminds me of an encounter I had last fall. I was walking down the Rue de Rivoli and found myself crossing a few intersections at the same time as a roller-blader. Eventually he sped off, but then circled back and asked me if I wanted to have a coffee.

"Not with those things on your feet," I thought.

Foolishly, I didn't know then that roller-blades were the height of Parisian style. Live and learn.

Best of All Worlds

2009-04-20T05:17:00.000-04:00

Since I moved to Paris, a few of my friends back home have labeled me an America-hater, or more specifically, a New York-hater.

Not true and not true!

I am tired of being accused of urban infidelity. I refuse to choose. I am content to be an urban swinger if it means I can enjoy the best of both worlds. Are we not allowed to love two cities at once?

People who try to make me pledge my allegiance to a single city annoy me almost as much as people who insist that I choose between cats and dogs, which I've always thought is totally nonsensical and unnecessary. (Apologies to certain readers that I am inevitably offending). But just so you know: neither dogs nor cats are going anywhere. You can enjoy them both forever.

When I first met Renee and Theresa, two of my most glorious Paris friends, we had an epiphanous moment when we realized we all saw eye-to-eye on this issue. Dogs are fun. Cats are nice too. The world balances itself out. We don't have to choose. We became fast friends. (They get it.)

For me, the dog-cat-balance also applies to cities. If anything, my time in Paris has made me love New York even more, if only because I now objectify it in the same way I used to (and still often do) objectify Paris. And why not? There is no clear line between the reality of a city and your own image of it. A city is what you believe it is. Like a cat is what you believe it is-- a nice friend.

So, yes, when I visit New York in May, I will likely complain about the dearth of worthwhile bread, cheese and affordable French wine. My blood pressure will rise. I will roll my eyes at the newest speakeasies to hit the "underground" bar scene. But secretly, I will really, really like it, and I will remember why all Parisians think New York is soooooo cool.

Yesterday, I sat on the bank of the Seine for a long time, watching the sun get lower in the sky. It was quite pretty, but I found myself really, really wanting a black and white milkshake from Shake Shack. For a moment, I sort of wanted to be in Madison Square Park. But then the sky did this:

Someday, maybe I can have an apartment in both cities... and I will fill the apartments with puppies AND kittens, roquefort AND milkshakes, baguettes AND bagels. I choose to have both.

Band of Traveling Minstrels

2009-04-10T05:09:00.000-04:00

My neighborhood in Paris is decidedly uncool. It is historic and charming, but it is not an area where any self-respecting Parisian fashionista would settle. If a neighborhood can be awkward, mine is; and obviously, that's why I like it.

Case in point: last Sunday I woke up, threw open the windows (as I do with an overly dramatic flourish every Sunday morning), and noticed there was a bit of a commotion going on down the street. Sunday, market day, is always chaotic, but this was clearly something special.

When I finally made it outside, I came upon this:

No need to be alarmed. Just a band of traveling minstrels.

Rarely do I come across a scene that inspires me to SPRINT home for my camera, but I didn't have to think twice about this one.

Blogging Update

2009-04-10T04:48:00.000-04:00

I've started writing Paris-related posts for a few other blogs as well. You can read some here:

The Selby at Colette for Dossier Journal

Foodie Paris for HiP Paris

Paris' Best Blend for HiP Paris

Don't Let This Fool You Into Thinking I'm Cool...

2009-04-07T16:23:00.001-04:00

You all know I'm not!

But to read a little profile of me on UncleEmpire.com: Click here

Baguette Injury Inspires Poem

2009-04-05T09:02:00.000-04:00

Feeding Frenzy

I hurt myself with a baguette today.

While I was eating it,

shards of crust stabbed my lip.

It felt delicious.

I only want to eat like this, from now on.

I want the food to fight back.

It tastes better that way

and makes me feel more like a shark.

Take the mighty blowfish, for example,

who can kill a man

with poison, long after it,

itself, is dead on a plate.

Or the precious ortolan,

who must be drowned in Armagnac

in order to taste just so,

obviously, of course.

No more insipid bagels.

Only food with dignity

will pass these lips

scratching, kicking, biting, stinging.

One Summer In Europe -- Audio Essay

2009-04-02T15:17:00.001-04:00

I contributed an audio essay to the "One Summer in Europe: Paris" podcast (available on iTunes and at www.onesummerineurope.com).

To listen to the essay, click here, and if you're the impatient type, I come on at -23:22 mins.

Also, why didn't anyone ever TELL me that I have a lisp?!?!? WTF.

Feline Invader

2009-03-22T08:01:00.000-04:00

There's a large and aggressive cat that lurks in the stairwell of my apartment. Obviously, I am obsessed with it.

I call it Capucine, which is a girl's name, even though I think he's probably a guy cat. Whatever. Capucine is a pretty name and I like the fact that it is totally inappropriate for this massive animal.

Capucine regularly busts into my apartment and hangs out for as long as he wants, regardless of what I have to say about it. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoy him.

I wrote a poem about our evolving relationship that was published on my friend Kate's blog, Poetics. You can read the poem by clicking here: Obese Stray

French Ad Campaign Redefines Rugged Chic

2009-03-19T05:59:00.001-04:00

Though I am loathe to admit it, my Paris eyes are not as fresh as they used to be. When I first arrived in Paris, it seemed that everything I saw begged to be appreciated, mocked, blogged about, or all three.

Recently, it took a visiting friend to call my attention to an ad campaign that has changed my life. I still haven't forgiven myself for not noticing it on my own. And when you're blind to something like this...

... you know it's time to wake up. On our leisurely walk around Paris, we stopped for a good five minutes to analyze the flowing mane, the furrowed brow, and that far-off look that makes you wonder whether he is going to seduce you or club you to death with a blunt rock. Part-man, part-wildebeest... we had to know more.

Once we were on the lookout, it seemed he appeared everywhere. On the corner near the Bon Marché, outside of the Institut du Monde Arabe, in countless locations throughout the Marais. At one point, we were gazing at his countenance only to see him pop up on another rotating billboard just meters away--this time in a car advertisement. It was like a dare to see who could be manlier: him... or him. Surrounded by his image, we vowed to get to the bottom of this mystery.

We later found out that this magnificent specimen is, in fact, Sebastien Chabal--a major French rugby player. But to me he will always be, quite simply, a caveman.

I'm not sure what Caron is thinking. If there's anyone you probably don't want to smell like, it's Sebastien Chabal. Whatever cologne he's wearing, I'll take the antidote please. Unless of course I want to smell like a saber tooth tiger after a daylong hunt.

So, I am much indebted to Ben for calling my attention to this campaign and bringing the light of Chabal into my life. How could I have been so blind? I suppose 9 months of attempting to become a blasé Parisian has made me just that... blasé. But if assimilating to Paris means I don't instantly laugh at something like this, I'm not sure I want to be Parisian after all.

Uncle Empire

2009-03-08T12:58:00.000-04:00

You should definitely know about Uncle Empire, edited by the brilliant Brendan Flaherty. He actually publishes my diatribes, which I appreciate. Click the following link to read: My Dirty Parisian Romance

Tory and Atchoum: A Story of Mutual Tolerance

2009-03-05T08:28:00.000-05:00

Spring is springing in Paris. How do I know? Because Atchoum—my French boss’ dog—has just gotten his spring fur-cut and is looking more like a Westie and less like a filthy rag. That said, he’s still filthy, and I go well out of my way to avoid touching him.

I can’t help but recall my first week at this job, when I woke up with what I initially thought was a tumor, only to realize that I had been bitten by a flea. Hypochondria quickly turned to disgust. Atchoum never owned up to it.

Since then, Atchoum has spent many days slinking around the office and throwing up in strategically inconvenient places. There is an unspoken expectation that I will clean up this vomit. I refuse, and thus my dignity remains intact—at least on that front.

I always know when Atchoum will throw up because his tiny stomach gives a Mastiff-sized growl in the moments preceding the upheaval. When I ask my boss about this bulimic behavior, he says “That’s just what dogs’ stomachs do to clean themselves.” Ah.

Then there were the long, dark winter afternoons when Atchoum would discretely curl at my feet and, before I knew what was happening, would hump his way up my leg. Thank god for tall boots.

And finally, there is the dreaming. Atchoum, like me, has vivid dreams. He scrambles; he snores; he scratches the floorboards. Each time this happens, my boss chuckles and says, “He must be dreaming about some wonderful bitch.” Indeed.

In addition to the spring fur-cut, Atchoum has spring fever… big time. I just got word that my boss might mate him with a “bitch of about the same age.”

The idea of puppies would usually inspire delighted squeals from me… but Atchoum and I have a relationship that is tenuous at best (although we are friends on Facebook…literally).

I am wary of his future spawn. Then again, who am I to stand in the way of canine romance? Especially in the spring… especially in Paris in the spring…

I wish Atchoum and his bitch all the best.

Paris Hitotoki

2009-03-02T06:25:00.000-05:00

I wrote a little piece a long time ago that was recently published in the Paris section of the Hitotoki website.

HITOTOKI-- a Japanese noun comprised of two components: hito or "one" and toki or "time," and is often translated as "a moment." In common usage, it can be used to describe any brief, singular stretch of time.

When I read it now and think about my early days in Paris, I am amazed. I was like a newborn Paris baby. Now I'd say I'm more of an awkward pre-teen.

Read Tory's Hitotoki

Garibaldi's Excellent Adventure

2009-02-20T09:35:00.000-05:00

It feels good to be back in Paris. I was a little disoriented at first, but after a few hours of roaming the streets while listening to Europe's "The Final Countdown," I felt right at home again.

And after hearing about Friday's runaway horse incident, I know there is nowhere in the world I'd rather be. I suppose a horse could escape and go on a rampage in almost any city, but the fact that this was a Parisian horse, bolting along the quais of the Seine, makes it that much more awesome.

I like a horse with audacity, and it is quite evident that the horse in question—Garibaldi—does not lack for it. On Friday, he took off in an "It's Paris! Who cares!" kind of way that resonates strongly with me. He spent the morning sprinting through traffic and terrorizing tourists, despite the fact that he is “a normally highly-disciplined chestnut stallion aged 15." I totally relate. I, too, am a normally somewhat-disciplined chestnut something-or-other, aged slightly older than 15, and sometimes I, too, act rashly in public spaces. C’est normale.

And considering that he has put in "10 years of loyal service" as a police horse, can you blame him for wanting to do a little freewheeling? Go for it, buddy!

Maybe the Central Park horses can take a lesson from Garibaldi. For now, I’m happy to live in a city where (even normally disciplined) horses flip out from time to time.

* * * * *

And before winter melts away, some Paris imagery taken by my very talented photographer friend Ali...

Photos: Alexandra K. Kourides

No, YOU'RE Acting Dump!

2009-02-15T06:18:00.000-05:00

Again, my previous post on "wolves" in Paris has incited lively feedback from a wolf enthusiast somewhere in the world. I must share this:

"Forgive me ms., but you're just fooling yourself with all this crap.

First of all, it's clearly not a wolf. You're afraid of something you even don't know..

And besides, did you still fear "the big bad wolf" from those childish stories? I just can't belive it..

I've got an idea for you. Learn more about this animal you fear so much, maybe you'll realize how dump you're acting right now.

Good day to you."

And good day to you, sir!

Outrage at Le Pain Quotidien

2009-02-06T18:17:00.000-05:00

I used to be a fan of Le Pain Quotidien, the international Belgian bakery/restaurant. I know it's both a chain and a yuppy mecca, but it's also delicious and the bread is good (pas mal in Parisian terms).

But I am a fan no longer. Pain Quotidien: You F'd up.

I was there with a friend last week, feeling very happy and slightly Euro as we chatted in the little garden of the branch on Lexington and 65th. The stoned waitress creeped me out a little bit--she brought us 2.5 glasses of water--but all was well, until...

Horror of horrors. I looked at the menu only to find that they listed the CALORIES next to every item. NOT OK. That is a decidedly un-French, un-Belgian, unaccetpable thing to do. Way to take ALL the pleasure out of eating. This is the antithesis of what "daily bread" is all about.

I understand why disgusting and sneaky calorie-cramming chains (McDonald's, Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts) are obligated to do this kind of thing. But Pain Quotidien? Pourquoi?!?!?!

So I protested loudly. I enjoy protesting loudly in the U.S. because it feels really good after expending all my energy trying to stay quiet while I'm abroad. A sampling of this week's proclamations:

--I DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW MANY CALORIES ARE IN THIS! WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME?!!??!

--BOSTON IS THE STUPIDEST CITY EVER! IT'S UNLIVABLE!

--THE STATE OF AMERICA'S INFRASTRUCTURE IS DESPICABLE! THIS COUNTRY IS DOOMED!

But back to my point. America has an eating problem. Just eat, people. Don't eat too much. Don't eat things that contain crazy chemical ingredients you can't pronounce. Don't eat too many times per day. Everyone, CALM DOWN!

And please do NOT tell me how many calories I am about to consume unless you want a diatribe on the virtues of French food culture.

There, I feel a little better. I wonder what my friends are eating in Paris...

Shhhh.... The Economy Is Sleeping

2009-02-02T16:15:00.000-05:00

After seven months in Paris, I am finally back in New York for a brief visit. Despite my tendency to glorify Paris--for good reason--New York is pretty glorious as well.

I knew I was back when I stepped off the plane and instantly felt my blood pressure skyrocket. I am too excited. I cannot sleep. I've been walking REALLY fast. I've been talking a lot (English is so EASY!). I have probably eaten more high-fructose corn syrup in the past week than I have in the past seven months in France. It tastes good but feels disgusting; and to me, the good-disgusting balance is what America is all about.

I now feel entitled to make constant comparisons between New York and Paris and to regale my friends with such profound observations as:

"The sidewalks here are so cracked..."

"The New York metro---oh, sorry I mean the subway-- system is FILTHY..."

"The clothes here are UGLY... where are all the black shapeless frocks?"

"Why is the food so big?"

"Why are there so many mysterious ingredients in a Saltine?"

"Why are the waiters here so RESPONSIVE and FRIENDLY?"

When the self-righteousness subsides, I realize that it's not just New York and Paris that are different. New York itself has changed. When I left in June, people still had jobs. Restaurants were annoyingly crowded. $45 million for an apartment seemed like a pretty good deal.

Now, everything feels quiet and, dare I say, humble. I walked down Madison Avenue yesterday, and, to my great dismay, there were barely any ladies lunching. At noon on Saturday, both Sant Ambroeus and Extra Virgin were looking unglamorously empty... apparently even the see-and-be-seen brunch crowd is at home eating Cheerios. Nothing wrong with that. I love Cheerios.

I guess we didn't really need those $6.50 cappuccinos after all? Shocking. They were delicious, though, back when we were all rolling in money that wasn't actually there.

Read this post on GradSpot

Inauguration Day in Paris

2009-01-21T18:12:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of drunken, indiscrete Americans on this street (rue Mouffetard)... a LOT. Usually, I look out of my window and shake my fist at them like the crazy old French person that I aspire to be.

But yesterday, I stopped being ridiculous and started embracing my Americanism... Obama just does that to me. In celebration of the inauguration, a very clever friend suggested that we all go out and "get Mouffetarded"--an excellent idea.

All day leading up to the broadcast, I had a familiar giddy-idiot feeling... Oh yes, it was the same one I'd had on election day back in November. That was the day I stood in the metro with a crazy look on my face, hoping someone would ask me what was wrong with me just so that I could declare, "I helped elect Obama!" Sadly, no one asked, but it still felt good. And yesterday felt just as good, as if the world was tilting towards sanity.

So I got together with my American friends. We pranced up the cobblestones of rue Mouffetard and finally settled in a cafe on the Place de la Contrescarpe. I felt like a young Ernest Hemingway, minus the talent and the desire to shoot big game.

It was pretty radical, though, to feel the history happening.

And it was fun to do so with a group of really fun, sane, interesting Americans who, in another time, might have been part of Hemingway's "génération perdue," but who are now, as far as I can tell, feeling much better about their place in the world.

P.S. I got published--and called a luddite!--on Businessweek.com: click here .

It's True Because They Say So

2009-01-13T06:08:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! A list of resolutions might be in order, but I think it may be wiser—and more thematically appropriate—to begin the year with a list of French Old Wives’ Tales. You know, just a few perfectly logical rules to live by.

When I was preparing to move to Paris last summer, a friend who had once lived here warned me to beware of certain "rules" that govern the behaviors and attitudes of most, if not all, French people. While the French are notorious for their skepticism, their cynicism, their avant-gardism, there are certain "codes" from which they will not deviate because, if they do, they will inevitably die. Take heed: if you break these rules, utter disaster will ensue. We don't know why this is true, but we know that it is, because it always has been.

Here’s to a happy and healthy 2009:

1. Never eat cooked butter in the morning. Cooked butter is the reason that Americans are fat. It is fine to slather raw butter all over your tartine, but—God forbid you try to fry an egg in a pan with butter—you will die, or at least become instantly obese. After noon, of course, feel free to eat as much rendered fat as you wish.

2. If you are pregnant and want to tell if the baby will be a boy or a girl, do not waste your time going to the doctor. Simply string your wedding ring onto a lock of your hair and hold it above the pregnant stomach. If it swings in circles, it's a boy. If it swings like a pendulum, it's a girl. And if you don't have a wedding ring, I guess you're screwed. Stop contemplating the gender of your love child and brace yourself for some serious Tsk Tsk-ing from your French grandmother. The good news? Pregnancy--legitimate or otherwise--does not preclude drinking.

3. Never put food that is still warm in the fridge. You. will. die. It is fine, however, to leave it uncovered on the counter—or, better yet, outside on the windowsill—for days at a time.

4. Salad “cleans your stomach.” It doesn’t matter how much foie gras or camembert or eau-de-vie you consume… a few sprigs of lettuce will undo the damage. (This only holds true after noon… see rule #1).

5. You must wear a scarf at all times. If you go outside without a scarf, you will not only violate the rules of French fashion, but you will also risk your life and the lives of any children you may plan to have someday. NB: scarves cure not just the common cold, but nearly all known ailments.

6. Exercise is for foreigners and the misguided. If you must do it, be sure to wear ridiculous-looking, non-supportive clothing (denim is encouraged) in order to give the impression that you are not actually exercising. Look disinterested, as if this was not your idea. Note: many believe that sitting on a gyrating plate for half an hour twice a week is more than sufficient.

7. If you are a girl, try to marry a doctor or a lawyer. They look nice and know how to take care of themselves. Engineers are pale and filthy and should be avoided.

8. My friend’s grandparents say: if you drink beer before 2pm, you are a brute / ivrogne (drunkard). Obviously, wine, pastis, or champagne are perfectly acceptable at any hour.

And a friend said she regularly encountered these during her years in France:

9. There is great suspicion surrounding air-conditioning… it is to be avoided at all costs. Anyone who has suffered through an August night in a Parisian garret can attest to the fact that the French take this rule seriously.

10. There is also substantial fear about the likelihood that lightning will break the television.

So there you have it. I suggest we all begin 2009 by aligning our lives with these--and any other--codes, and by the end of the year we will inevitably be... more French.

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Grammar Thugs

2008-12-16T07:28:00.000-05:00

Only in Paris do strange men feel entitled to correct your grammar while simultaneously accosting you in the middle of the sidewalk.

In the wee hours of last Saturday morning, I was traipsing through the streets of the Marais looking for that rare Parisian luxury—an empty cab. This is a recurring, if futile, exercise in my life here.

Suddenly I felt another familiar recurrence coming on. Ah yes, drunk guys. Two of them approached me and kind of hugged me and asked me where I was from. I said New York because it's an easy answer, it intimidates French people, and I also couldn’t remember where I was actually from. After some nonsensical banter, I decided to extricate myself from this little exchange by saying “je m’en va,” after which I immediately realized I had used the incorrect form of the verb Aller. It was careless; I will admit. The drunk guys burst out laughing.

“Je m’en vais! I meant to say je m’en vais!” I promised meekly.

Wait a minute.

How did this turn from an attack by two sleazy guys into a lesson in verb conjugation? How had the formidable French language once again reduced me to a humble apologizer?

How French: drunken aggressors stop, mid-harassment, to hold the harassee grammatically accountable.

And the adventure continues.

P.S. The day before, a homeless man tried to kiss me on the mouth. Luckily the horror-squeal I made seemed to translate seamlessly enough, as there was no resulting grammar lesson from this particular vagrant. Success!

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Cult of Quality

2008-12-03T05:59:00.000-05:00

Mediocrity is for idiots and Americans. It is not for the French.

The other day I was walking up my street when a particularly agitated French woman came charging out of a little cheese shop. She was PISSED. When I got close enough to hear what she was griping about, she uttered the phrase:

"C'était tout à fait médiocre." It was completely mediocre.

She was talking about the cheese, or maybe the entire shop. Whatever it was, it had greatly offended her, and she uttered the word "mediocre" as if it were the most vitriolic insult she could possibly conjure up. Mediocrity—the ultimate shame.

This incident is indicative of a larger theme that pervades French culture, particularly when it comes to food. In the United States, bigger is better at all levels of society, ranging from who has the biggest T-bone to who has the fastest private jet.

Conversely, France is a country that values quality and moderation over quantity and excess. If it's not good, vendors do not sell it, people do not buy it, one does not eat it… or wear it… or tolerate it.

I have drawn a little chart to help illustrate relative tolerance levels:

Notice the difference in the size of the "Acceptable" zones on these spectra. Notice the American “Go For It!” attitude, in comparison with the French commitment to “Only If It’s Worth It.”
Maybe that's why French people are so svelte. The quest for excellence breeds thinness. They would rather starve with dignity than survive on canned cheese.

Of course, this is not true across the board. Crappy products are available and in-demand in all economies of the world. But in general, French people are discriminating. Now that I’m in Paris, I try to be too. Although sometimes I still get an urge to shove my face into a vat of peanut-butter. Artisanal peanut-butter, obviously.

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Wow

2008-12-01T17:23:00.000-05:00

I think this merits a little post.

Apparently I ruffled some feathers with my blog post about wolves in Paris! I'm relieved to know the "literal police" are on patrol, and this is what they have to say:

COMMENT #1:
"False alarm.

1) This appears to be an Alaskan Malamute - not a wolf.

2) Another reason I know it's not a wolf: No one could casually walk a normal wolf (even a "tame" wolf) around big-city streets on a leash. A wolf is an extremely wary and timid animal, and it would soon panic at the noise, traffic and crowds of a city street.

Source:
I worked with wolves for some years."

COMMENT #2:
"yes ma'am this is not a wolf i may be just a kid but i have studied wolves you 8 years.
its face is small and if you look closly you can see the difference in the size face.

http://www.bioteams.com/images/what_teams_can.jpg
go to this link and see.
please i mean no harm don't be upset.
thank you"

Good news all around!

First of all, I have random readers?

Second of all, I'm safe from wolves!

Third, people are so wonderfully crazy!

New Drinking Record Set

2008-11-13T09:21:00.000-05:00

I've always been impressed by Europeans' ability to start drinking first thing in the morning, as if it's no big thing. Get up, brush your teeth, walk the chien, consume booze.

I recall an early morning layover in the Munich airport with my mom. The airport was sterile and deadly silent, save for the clinking of beer mugs and the satisfied post-sip sighs.

Likewise, when I studied abroad in Prague, many pubs opened around breakfast time so that people could have a drink before going to work.

This all seems reasonable enough to me, but yesterday, I think a new early morning record was set. I hauled myself out of bed to go for a run / walk / limp before work. Just before 8am, I passed by a typical café and witnessed a middle-aged couple--seemingly normal in every aspect--devouring the morning paper while boozing it up. Beer for him; rosé for her. Now that's dedication.

Go France?

Vive Obama

2008-11-08T13:21:00.001-05:00

It suddenly just got a lot easier to be an American in Paris. I don’t know what this means for the future of my blog, but I suppose the future of the world is more important.

This post is going to be less snarky than usual because since Tuesday, my equilibrium has been thrown off. The sarcasm and cynicism that generally guide me have subsided, and my heart has been flooded with unfamiliar feelings… warmth, genuineness, humanity, hope and…. could it be… patriotism? As patriotism is a feeling I have never before experienced, it took me a while to recognize it. I never realized how badly I wanted to like my country until, at long last, I kind of do.

When I first moved to Paris, I felt that my non-Frenchness attracted a lot of attention—both negative and positive—that I didn’t necessarily want. One early acquaintance asked me if I owned a gun, which was kind of funny except that he wasn't kidding.

So just when I’d learned to blend in a bit more and spent hours working on my French scowl, Obama went and turned the tide of history. Naturally, I spent Tuesday grinning like a complete fool, hoping people would think, “Why is that cool French girl making such a happy face? Oh, she is not French at all! She must be American! C’est super cool, ça.”

I threw a little Gobama soiree on Wednesday night, and when I was shopping in my neighborhood, I couldn’t help but gush to everyone I encountered… the wine guy, the cheese guy, even the saucisson guy. I’ve never been so thrilled to announce my citizenship and to declare Il faut fêter! (“One must party!”) They concurred and were equally eager to share their opinions about the election.

Here’s the thing: French people care about American politics. The opposite is not true. For many Americans (Sarah Palin included), their knowledge of the French political landscape extends no further than Carla Bruni’s evolving wardrobe. But from what I can tell, your average French person is informed and invested in American politics. Most of the French people I know were following the election as closely as I was, which leads me to the reassuring conclusion that French people want to like America; they just need a good reason to do so.

And now they have one!

In the mayhem following the announcement, I was a little sad not to be in New York to celebrate with my compatriots, who pranced through the streets like a pack of wild squirrels on the loose. One friend wrote, “Union Square last night was a big hippie party with drum circles and thousands of people chanting ‘yes we can.’ I think you would have enjoyed it.” What are you implying?

But in all seriousness, it has also been amazing to experience the election from abroad, where its global impact is truly tangible.

Last night, I was walking with a friend and two girls asked us for a lighter. Then they asked us where we were from. A week ago, I would have said “Canada.” But last night, we were excited to say “We’re from the States,” and after we did, the first thing they said was “Vive Obama.”

It was an incredibly poignant moment—almost too poignant—except that it was completely genuine. We chatted a bit, and they went on to say how impressed they were that the US had elected a black president—a possibility they felt could not happen in France anytime soon. “One day…” we mused, actually believing it.

In a state of stupefied joy on the day after the election, I agreed to be interviewed (in French) on RMC, a French radio station. I’m sure I made no sense, but I didn’t care. After eight years of darkness and shame, it was amazing to be able to speak openly, freely, and happily about the (now very real) concepts of hope, change, unity, teamwork… and a new puppy in the Whitehouse! I told the crazy French talking heads that I’m finally “not embarrassed to be American,” and I meant it.

So I may continue to have trouble opening various doors around Paris. And I may drop my shoe into the metro tracks once in a while. And I may be an incredibly conspicuous non-French spazz…

But I did help to elect Obama, and I’m going to assume that counteracts my past and future faux pas.

Vive Obama.

Click here for Radio Podcast

I come on about 1/3 of the way through and ramble for a couple minutes.

Crazy, Creepy or Just French?

2008-11-04T08:39:00.000-05:00

Today I would like to play a game I have invented called “Crazy, Creepy, or Just French?” I realize that these categories are not mutually exclusive, but for the sake of the game, we will try to draw some sort of distinction.

If you disagree with my conclusion, you are free to weigh in with comments. In fact, I insist you do. (Not you, Mom). The best comment will get some sort of prize… probably in the form of an e-card or some type of artistic work that I create using Paint.

So, here we go…

1.
Last week, I was running an errand for my boss. It was sunny; I was feeling kind of cool because I just bought some new Ray-Bans and they make me look a bit French. (Real French people would probably disagree). As I approached a group of people outside of a café, one of the guys in the group sort of stepped in front of me and refused to let me pass until I agreed to "faire la bise" with him. (The double-cheek kiss that you do if you’re (1) European, (2) in Europe and interacting with Europeans, (3) are a nightclub promoter in the U.S. and want the world to know that you’re a total sleaze). I found this quite cheeky, perhaps even shocking. But even more shocking? The fact that my first instinct was to comply and to ask "Comment ça va?"

How's it going? Maybe I’m the creepy one.

Anyway… Crazy, Creepy or Just French? My conclusion: Just French (and maybe a bit drunk).

2.
Then there was the old lady in the metro. She was looking a bit worse for wear, and she approached me and asked for a Euro. I searched around in my wallet and handed her a pile of coins, which she promptly sifted through and then gave me the most hateful look I’ve ever been given, accompanied by a soft and venomous growl. What? Maybe I had just fallen short of a Euro... it couldn’t have been less than 90 centimes... GIVE ME A BREAK! I’m a struggling wannabe writer and the dollar is not so hot right now. Assuming she’s benefiting from the incredibly generous French unemployment system, she should probably have given ME a Euro. But whatever. I coughed up some more change, she gave me another look of icy disdain, and moved on, having thoroughly put me in my place.

Crazy, Creepy, or Just French? My conclusion: Crazy… and quite French. And definitely drunk.

3.
Speaking of the metro…. On my way home from work, I have come across the same woman three or four times, and her behavior leads me to believe that she is quite short-tempered indeed. Each time I have observed her, I have been reaching the platform just as she is fleeing it, SCREAMING: “Putain! J’en ai marre de ce merdite metro! Je m’en fou! Je m’en fou! Je m’en fou!” (“Whore! I’ve had enough of this shitty metro! I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care!”) Whoa, lady. We all know rush hour is rough, but calm down and have a kir.

Crazy, creepy or Just French? My conclusion: Incredibly French.

4.
I live on a noisy street. A few nights ago, a very rowdy group of French kids passed by my window. How did I know they were French? Because they were all singing in English: “I’ll be there for youuuuu…..alalaalaala (they didn’t really know the rest) lalalaa”… Yes, the theme to “Friends”…. every French person’s favorite show of all time. Maybe not every French person’s, but the vast majority, for sure. If you ask a young French person if they’ve been to New York and they haven’t, they say “No, but I’ve seen ‘Friends’.” (This is supposed to impress you).

Crazy, creepy or just French? My conclusion: Just French…. And drunk, of course.

5.
I was in a cab a few weeks ago and, per usual, got into a deep discussion about something nonsensical with the driver. He asked where I was from and what I hated about Paris. At first, I couldn’t think of anything. Then I realized, yes, there is something. I hate that you can never find a cab after 2am.

It is the one thing I really miss about New York: the heavenly vision of the yellow taxi in the night, emerging from the darkness to take you home, no matter where you are, what you’ve done, or where you’re going (unless you’re going to Brooklyn and then they start whining and saying things like “You didn’t look like you were going to Brooklyn").

This Parisian cab driver, though, seemed astonished that one would have trouble finding a cab. “You just have to put your sexy finger in the air,” he said, demonstrating with his own sexy finger. “Just take your sexy finger, and put it in the air, and every car will stop.” Fair enough. When I tried it later that night, however, my sexy finger proved completely unsexy and ineffective. And while I was unsuccessfully trying to lure cabs, I dropped my sexy cell phone against the window of an already occupied cab, and the whole ordeal was incredibly awkward and decidedly unsexy.

Crazy, Creepy or Just French? My Conclusion: I don’t know. Perhaps Lebanese? Hopefully not drunk.

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(False) Idol Worship

2008-10-30T15:48:00.000-04:00

Another Prominent Parisian ad campaign. I wonder if they've begun rethinking this one.

Is that like asking "Do you speak Chernobyl Russian?"

Guess I Didn't Really Need That Shoe After All

2008-10-19T13:22:00.000-04:00

Now I’ve done it. This is probably a story I should bury in the “Secret Annals of an Awkward American in Paris.” But what fun is public humiliation if you can’t share it with your friends?

Yesterday was beautiful. When I woke up, there was literally a small French child singing “Frère Jacques” outside of my window. I ran a few errands and then made afternoon plans to wander around the magical Jardin des Plantes before having tea at the Mosquée de Paris with a friend. This day was perfection, and I was in happy-daydream-mode as I waited for the metro.

I quickly exited happy-daydream-mode when I stepped into the metro car and realized that something was not quite right. I looked down. Ah, yes. One of my shoes was missing, and I was standing in the middle of the train with one bare foot. Quite strange, really, because this foot had had a shoe on it not two seconds earlier... I was sure of it. I turned around just in time to see the little bastard slip into the gap between the platform and the train—plummeting to its death on the tracks below.

I didn't need to gasp in horror because everyone around me on the train had already done so. So I just froze in a state of stupefied shock. Luckily, there was a go-getter next to me who pulled me back onto the platform and immediately started scheming about ways to get the shoe back. In the meantime, the conductor noticed the commotion and turned off the train, which, as you can imagine, made me quite popular with the hundreds of metro-riders within.

My shoe was down there, but it could not be reached with the train in its current position. My friend gave up (apparently not such a go-getter after all), and the conductor told me to wait there. The authorities were coming. Il faut pas descendre. Do not try to go onto the tracks. And like that, they were gone.

The platform was now deserted, save for me and a dazed homeless guy on a bench. The platform across from me, however, was full of people who seemed equally perplexed and amazed at the sight across the way: me... a poor man's Cinderella... but dirtier and more forlorn.

So, I waited on the bench next to the homeless guy; we made quite a pair. He covered himself with a bag and fell asleep, and I tried to look as blasé as possible, as if wearing one shoe had been a carefully calculated fashion decision with which I was entirely comfortable.

I sent a few text messages to alert some friends about my loss of shoe. One response read: “Guess you didn’t really need that one.” Guess not.

A few trains came and went, with passengers eyeing me, some in disgust, some in pure awe. I considered trying to jump into the tracks, either to retrieve the shoe or to put myself out of this misery; but I decided that the mortification of losing a shoe and electrocuting myself would be simply too much for one day.

Still, no assistance came, so I strategically positioned myself at the end of the platform so that I could speak to the conductor of the next incoming train. As he pulled up, he seemed unsurprised to see me standing there. I knocked on the window sheepishly.

“My shoe fell in the tracks.”
“Yeah, I heard about you,” he replied. “They’re sending someone.”
Oh good. The word had spread.

I returned to my perch next to my homeless friend. As the next few trains passed, I noticed the conductors watching out for me with that unmistakable look of amused disdain. Finally, one of them got out and yelled, “The girl who lost the shoe?”

Yes, that’s me. How could you tell?

Finally, I spied two RER workers slowly approaching me from the opposite end of the platform. They were in no rush, nor were they amused by the havoc I had caused.
They looked at me.
They looked at my shoe on the tracks.
They left.

A few minutes later, they came back with a broom to fish the shoe out. No luck. One went to get another broom.

His partner stayed, and I decided it was a good time to make awkward conversation.

“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“No.”
Then she told me to go sit down.
I obeyed.
Then she conceded, “Well sometimes people lose phones. But not shoes.”

Finally her counterpart came back and embarked upon an elaborate shoe rescue endeavor. While the woman watched for oncoming trains, he used the two brooms in a “chopstick-like” manner and eventually succeeded in lifting my shoe from the tracks below. It was frightened, but intact.

“Thank you so much. I’m so sorry about this,” I giggled, immediately realizing that I shouldn’t be giggling.
He sort of smiled.
She didn’t.
They left.

I looked around the platform for someone to share in my joy—or at least in the absurdity of my shame—but, strangely, no one wanted to associate with me, not even my homeless guy.

The next train came and I hopped on, both my foot and my ego thoroughly soiled.

As the train pulled away I wondered, “How would a cool French girl have handled that situation?”

It’s pretty clear. A cool French girl would never have been in that situation because (1) she would not be a complete spazz, and (2) she would have been wearing cool French boots , which are what I intend to wear for the remainder of my time in Paris.

Once again, bravo l’Américaine.

The culprit.

*P.S. Today I took my shoe to my special secret fountain to cheer it up because it was ashamed.

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A Loincloth by Any Other Name...

2008-10-13T17:45:00.000-04:00

I am very much indebted to a friend from the U.S. who, while visiting Paris last week, made an incredibly important discovery. While at the new Jean Nouvel-designed Musée du Quai Branly, she came across a loincloth on display.

Clearly, this is an exciting event in and of itself, but it became even more exciting when she read the French translation for the object: a cache-sexe. I’m not going to translate directly because this is a civilized blog, and the French term is quite graphic indeed. In fact, it makes "loincloth" seem downright puritanical.

Later that day, the same friend re-discovered another important term: lèche-vitrine. Literally, someone who "licks windows," a.k.a. a window shopper. But just as the French have better shopping, they also have better shopping descriptors. So after a day of window-licking and loincloth-admiring, she scurried home and reported her linguistic findings via mass email to a group of friends.

One particularly sassy friend sent a response that read: “lèches ma cache-sexe, biatch.” He’s a regular contributor to Elle Décor and thus has quite a flair for language.

Anyway, just food for thought. You might want to try out some of this new vocab next time you’re in Paris. Personally, I have sought to introduce the topic of loincloths into many of my recent conversations, and I’m pretty sure it has won me significant respect and admiration from anthropologists and strippers alike.

In Celebration of the French Tongue

2008-10-04T13:59:00.000-04:00

In France, language is taken very seriously. There is an ongoing debate here about how to preserve and protect the French language—both from its own organic evolution/desecration and from the English words that, little by little, are weaseling their way into French dictionaries. After watching a TV show on which an assortment of French politicians, academics, media personalities, and writers lamented the devolving state of the language, I realized that the situation is grave; this issue keeps people up at night.

And, evidently, it’s not just the French language that is at risk. Dozens of Parisian metro stops currently display this ad:

Stop massacring English! And yes, that’s a picture of a bruised and bloodied British policeman, the implication being that it is unacceptable—even violent—to speak English improperly. Hear that, French people? Get yourselves to a language school RIGHT NOW before this situation spirals completely out of control.

These ads make me laugh because, 1) they’re ridiculous looking, and 2) I like to daydream about a reciprocal campaign being launched in the US. “Stop massacring the French language!” I feel like many Americans’ first question would be… “What’s French?”

Anyway, it’s no surprise that language is important to French people. French is awesome. It is fun to speak—or to attempt to speak—and there are a whole slew of words and concepts that I find very amusing.

The verb flâner, for instance, is a classic. It basically means to wander aimlessly, pensively, with no firm destination in mind, simply to take in one’s surroundings and to ponder life’s questions in an unrushed manner, maybe while strolling along the banks of the Seine or while watching skater punks show off their skills outside of the Palais de Tokyo, for as long as one wants because, why not, we have free healthcare and lots of vacation days, but we also have a president whose Rolex is simply too much and it’s very déclassé and we should take an afternoon to stroll and reflect upon these things.

Yes, the French have a word for this concept, and they’re not joking.

But as wonderfully expressive as French can be, my favorite French words of all time are the awkward, “modern” ones—those that seem to have been made up, on the spot, by a really confused person who needed a name for something… fast.

We have a two-way tie for first place:

Talkie-Walkie: You guessed it. It’s a walkie-talkie. But we’re not just using the English word, you see, because we’ve switched the order of the words, therefore making it French.

Babyfoot: Known to the English-speaking world as Foosball—a game I always hated, until I started calling it Babyfoot. Now I can’t get enough.

*By the way, if you want to say “we’re tied” in French, you simply say égalité. Equality. Succinct, straightforward, it is exactly what it claims to be. And just so you know, I learned this expression while playing Babyfoot.

For an Anglophone in France, things can get awkward when you are speaking French and need to use an English word that has been adopted by the French. Do you pronounce it correctly? Or do you adopt a faux-French accent and pronounce it as the French would? I have a friend who struggles with this dilemma everytime she tries to order a muffin. Starbucks is surprisingly popular in Paris—as is the muffin—or as the French call it, the “moo-feen.”

Anyway, I’m having a lot of fun here when it comes to language. As some of you may have noticed, I am losing my English. And I wouldn’t say I am gaining proper French, but my franglais is improving at a rapid rate. It’s sort of refreshing to be in a language-less limbo for a while… a rebirth of sorts… or should I say, a renaissance? (Pronounce as you wish).

I was speaking to a French guy a few weeks ago about the adventure of learning another “tongue." (Langue, the word for language in French, also means “tongue”).

“That’s so good that you have come here,” he said in English. “And you enjoy learning the French tongue?”

I let him know that he might want to be careful when throwing that expression around। But, fundamentally, he’s right. Learning another language is endlessly enlightening and amusing, and in my opinion, you can’t get better than the French tongue.

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L'enfer, c'est l'immobilier

2008-09-25T06:56:00.000-04:00

Remember in my last blog when I talked about the wonders of Parisian real estate? I take it all back. In terms of real estate, this week has been one of soaring highs and devastating lows. Most recently, lows.

But let's start with the highs. This past weekend, I spent a paradisical 48 hours at the chateau of a baron that I happen to know. Two barons, actually.

We went for walks, picked blackberries, played croquet, drank 25-year-old wine, built fires, played dress-up, cooked lobsters, hula-hooped, rode motorcycles, and admired D'Artagnan's signature (I jest not).

As we pulled away from the chateau on Sunday evening, doom was in the air. Not even our artful rendition of "There Must Be More Than This Provincial Life" could dispel my mounting certitude that something dark and dangerous awaited me in Paris.

And I was right. Back in my little studio, I was greeted by the familiar smell of hot, old cheese (I live above a fondue restaurant). A few moments later, I was also greeted by a very angry man pounding on my door. He looked more Armenian than Savoyard to me, but before I could remark on his swarthy appearance and accuse him of falsifying his heritage for the sake of his fondue enterprise, he accused ME of flooding his restaurant. And, as it turns out, I had! Or at least, my apartment had.

Apparently a pipe had broken—or had never worked in the first place. According to him "there was water everywhere," "his clients were leaving," "the old people were sliding and they were scared" (what?), and "I had cost him everything." Whoa, buddy.

I considered slamming the door and cowering in the corner but thought better of it. I was to the flood what he was to the gruyere fumes: undeniably culpable. And more importantly, he knew where I lived. There was nowhere to run.

So what to do? First, whiskey. Next, call for help.

And now, three days later, having been thoroughly educated in the rhetoric and subtleties of French plumbing, I am still not allowed to shower in my apartment. I am FILTHY, and part of me thinks I deserve this filth. Things had been going well… too well… suspiciously well.

Ah, life! One day, it invites you to a chateau; the next, it sprays you with dirty shower sludge.

In Paris, as anywhere else, pride goeth before a fall.

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4 Reasons to Move to Paris Right Now

2008-09-07T13:49:00.000-04:00

I’ve been in Paris for over two months now, but sometimes I am still struck by little cultural differences that remind me why I have chosen to live here. I’m not just talking about things like delicious cuisine and stylish people and universal health care and blah blah blah. That stuff is important, I suppose, but this is why I REALLY love Paris:

1. Getting sexually harassed on the street here can be an absolute pleasure. (Let me preface this observation by saying I am not trying to imply that I’m particularly harassment-worthy. Almost all women probably experience this treatment from time to time, and it has less to do with the physical appearance of the harassee than it does with the sleaziness level of the harasser). That said, harassment can be downright poetic in France. The comments I get most frequently are “Vous êtes charmante” and “Mais, que vous êtes ravissante.” Charming! Ravishing! This is a vast improvement from the comments I used to get in New York, where a homeless guy once followed me through the subway calling me a “garbage bitch.” Part of me enjoyed this comment, but I must say, it was not very polite. Vagrants in Paris really know how to romance a lady.

2. Bars here have caught onto the idea of “Happy Hour”... sort of. There seems to be some confusion surrounding the concept. At home, happy hour is a gimmick to make people start drinking at an unhealthily early hour (“Really gross $2 mixed drinks from 3-5pm!”), and in New York, no one can leave work early enough to take advantage anyway. In Paris, I’ve noticed that many happy hours last from about 6pm-midnight which, to me, seems like fairly normal drinking hours… just cheaper. I’ll take it! I guess in a culture where it’s acceptable to drink at all hours of the day, the concept of happy hour is fairly obsolete. In Paris, it’s all happiness, all the time. Digression: is anyone else confused about New York's current "speakeasy" trend? I was under the impression that prohibition was over, but apparently the joy of drinking in an underground cave persists. In Paris, you can drink in the street and you don't even have to brown-bag it. This is what I call living.

3. While the nightmare of apartment hunting transcends cultures and continents, my experience thus far in Parisian real estate has been surprisingly delightful. I had one broker tell me to “take as much time as I needed,” as choosing a temporary sublet was a “big decision.” In New York, if you don’t sign away your first born the minute you’ve seen an apartment, you’re screwed. You might as well just set up a cardboard box and become a freegan. And while New York’s Craigslist is rife with disgusting and cramped apartments described as “cozy,” “charming,” and “jewel-box,” a lot of Paris Craigslist ads tell it like it is: "come see my tiny apartment!"

And then you get ads like this:

"Are you coming on holiday or to study, i can offer a fouton in my lounge for females only, i have a separate bedroom. In exchange i need this person to keep my apartment clean, do laundry, grocery shopping and water my plants when i go on holiday in october for 2 weeks. Only responsible people please, not people that are here to party and make a mess. I am a smoker and it,s not negotiable whether i can smoke in my own apartment or not. No weirdo,s or sex offers please, this is a genuine offer that i will give to only one person"

Please let me be that person!

4. In Paris, we don’t scoff at philosophers. I have encountered more than one person here who, when posed with the age old question “What do you do?” responded by saying “I’m a philosopher.” In New York, this would not fly. If you responded in this manner, it’s likely that whomever asked the question would spew their vintage cocktail all over the table and then write you off as a complete spazz. Same goes for being a novelist. If you go around New York telling people you’re a novelist, they’re going to wonder what you’re really up to (think Ashley Alexandra Dupre). Here, since I don’t really know what I “am,” I tell people the truth—I'm working on a novel—when they ask me what I do. The first few times I did this, I braced myself for rolled eyes and public ridicule, fully expecting to have a glass of Bordeaux thrown into my face. To my amazement, no such thing happened. People nodded their heads respectfully and responded by saying things like “How wonderful. Is this your first novel?” Apparently I’m the only one who thought my being a novelist was completely ridiculous. Oh, you’re a novelist… no big deal. Oh you’re a philosopher… sounds good to me. Oh, you wander the streets and look pensive for a living? Nice. If there is judgment in the air, I cannot sense it.

And thus, Paris is totally and completely radical.

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Since When Is It Ok to Have a Wolf as Pet?

2008-08-24T13:35:00.000-04:00

A brief thought on pets in Paris.

There are a lot of Jack Russell Terriers here. Strangely, there are also a lot of wolves being passed off as "dogs." As a resident of Paris, this concerns me.

Just because you put a leash on that thing does not mean it is a dog. It is clearly a timber wolf that is ready to bite peoples' faces off at any moment. That thing belongs on the pages of the inappropriately dark Brothers Grimm fairytales that ruined my childhood; it does not belong on the streets of Paris.

I am all for rescuing animals that need homes, but the WEREWOLF at the end of your leash does not need a home. It needs a forest and a deer to devour.

Then again, if you have a wolf, maybe I should have one too. It's kind of like the SUV syndrome that swept the United States a while back. People thought they needed big cars to defend themselves against all the other big cars on the road. And before we knew it, every other housewife was driving an Escalade, and all the kids wanted this for Christmas:

Do we really want the Wolf War to escalate in the same way? Don't make me get a liger, people.

Feeling Lucky? It Might Be Your Face

2008-08-19T08:58:00.000-04:00

For the past three weeks, I have been feeling really lucky, and not just because I get to live in Paris and write blogs all day long. I know that I am lucky because a random guy on the street chased me down to say, “Excuse me. Do you know that you have a lucky face?”

Oh do I?

This was a few weeks ago. I had taken a long walk that took me from the Bastille, along the Seine, all the way to the Champs Elysées, where the Tour de France had just ended that afternoon. The Champs Elysées was still buzzing with people and shards of glass and the sweet smell of Carlos Sastre’s victory, so I ducked onto swanky Avenue Montaigne to avoid the madness.

But even greater madness awaited me! As I ambled down the street, gawking at very pretty clothes that I will never own, I was approached by a semi-sketchy guy. (This is a daily occurrence for me in Paris… no need for alarm…) But his status leapt from “semi” to “completely” sketchy when he told me I had a “lucky face.”

He was speaking English, but surely something had been lost in translation. It was the creepiest compliment (insult?) I had ever received—from a stranger at least. I think he wanted to keep chatting, but my fight-or-flight instincts were beginning to kick in and, being a coward by nature, I fled. Past Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, all the way to the Plaza Athenée… safe. Safe and lucky!

The other night, I was walking past the famed spot on Avenue Montaigne, and I recounted my story to a friend. Lo and behold, the exact same thing had happened to her in the exact same spot. Impossible! Paris only has room for one lucky face, and it’s mine!

But no. Apparently the world is crawling with lucky faces. Multiple Google searches have taught me that the “lucky face” line is as old as time itself. Apparently it’s some fortune-telling gimmick that dudes on the street use to lure you in so they can make predictions about your life and then ask you for money.

I’m not big on having my fortune told, but I am big on having “lucky” body parts. And I look forward to a lifetime of attributing all good luck to my face.

Person A: “Thank God we didn’t miss the plane.”
Me: “Why don’t you just thank my face?”

Person B: “It looks like the weather is going to clear up for Oliver’s wedding!”
Me: “Well then Oliver is forever indebted to my face.”

And so on and so forth… for the rest of my life.

Megan and I comparing lucky faces.

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Bourgie Smart Car Rebels Outside of Hipster Fête

2008-08-12T06:22:00.000-04:00

It’s official. Hipsters are intent on world domination, and they are reproducing at a frighteningly rapid rate. It’s gotten to the point where I occasionally pass by a reflective surface only to realize that—to my horror—I am involuntarily dressing like one. The shame!

Spinning out from the epicenter of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, hipster enclaves have emerged and are thriving in locales as diverse as Buenos Aires, Berlin, Montreal, and (my favorite) Providence, Rhode Island.

And Paris is no different. Here, many hipsters make their happy home in Belleville (in the 20th arrondissement), and it was there, stranded on a curb, that I ended up two Saturdays ago at 4am.

You might ask why, and what does this have to do with a Smart Car? Well, as you know, Smart Cars are tiny, cute, and environmentally-friendly. But they’re also opinionated and elitist. And when forced to drive to the wrong side of the Parisian “tracks,” so to speak, they act out. To contextualize, the Smart Car in question hails from the 16th arrondissement, (Paris’ Upper East Side, if you will).

To give you an idea of the class tensions at work, I will refer back to my favorite show (and moral barometer) Gossip Girl. If Gossip Girl were set in Paris, Serena van der Woodsen would live in the 16th, and Dan Humphrey would live in Belleville. In TV time, that’s a 30-second commute, but in real-time, these neighborhoods are on opposite sides of Paris—both geographically and metaphorically speaking.

My friends and I were in Belleville to attend a party that, for all intents and purposes, made me feel like I actually was in Williamsburg (except with more rosé and a view of the Eiffel Tower). Who knew that American Apparel and black skinny jeans would ultimately become the unofficial uniform for (slightly) alternative youth throughout the world?

Anyway, when it came time to leave, we discovered that my friend’s Smart Car would not start. At first, we thought the problem was mechanical, but in retrospect, it was clearly socio-economic. She was pissed off about being parked on the fringe of society among the racailles (my new favorite French word), and she was going to make us pay. After an hour of coaxing, she still would not move. When we realized she was smarter and more determined than we were, we taxied home.

The next day, when my friends went to retrieve her, she started instantly. Her point proven, she high-tailed it back to the 16th for some foie gras and Sauternes.

I’ve got to give her credit for taking a stand against the unbridled proliferation of hipster culture. There’s something to be said for old-school elitism in the midst of all this Bobo mayhem.

All the World's a Runway

2008-08-04T10:42:00.000-04:00

Fashion is fun, but even more so, it’s funny. Exhibit A.

I’d like to say I never worry about what I’m wearing, but that would be a blatant lie, and I am not a liar. I worry a lot—it just doesn’t pay off.

On a good day, I imitate what my cool friends are wearing, and I end up looking OK. Not great, but acceptable enough to be let out of the house. On other occasions, when I become bold and do my own thing, then we begin to have problems.

In Paris, mercifully, there are plenty of stylish French girls around for me to emulate—though I doubt I’ll ever really get it right, as last week’s shopping incident confirms.

I was strolling around, “researching” some potential purchases when I came upon an H&M. Ahh, my old friend. These days, I’m generally trying to avoid anything that isn’t 100% cute, authentic, French, and preferably passed down from generations past, but sometimes I give in to the forces of global commerce. And my inner sociologist wanted to do a little compare-and-contrast exercise to see if H&M is the same here as it is in New York.

I was delighted to find that, in Paris, H&M is in fact quite different. Once inside, I was instantly drawn towards a section of drab-colored, confusing, shapeless dresses. Très French! I’ve noticed there is a marked difference between the shape of clothes in Paris and the shape of clothes in New York. Here, things are looser, more billowy, more open-to-interpretation. Read: Parisian girls are less slutty and more creative. In terms of cultural It-girls, think Lou Doillon vs. Lindsay Lohan.

So I was mesmerized by this section of amorphous dresses that seemed to say “Wear me with Ray-Bans and a scowl.” 20 minutes later, having tried on a few, I realized that there was something decidedly off about these clothes. Not even my favorite belt—“winged glory”—would be able to make sense of this situation, and that’s always a bad sign. Is it possible that even these dresses knew I was American and, therefore, unworthy of wearing them?

And it was at that moment that I realized I was shopping in the maternity section. To be more specific, I was in the “Futur Maman” section. Yes, I had been ogling over-sized, prenatal muumuus, imagining myself strutting the streets of Paris.

Sometimes I amaze myself. But to be fair, since when does H&M have a maternity section? Seriously, come on. When you’re pregnant, are you still scrambling around trying to find cheap knock-offs of up-to-the-second trends? Apparently in France, yes.

No wonder W wants to hire me... or not.

Watch Me As I Faukxe This Cigarette

2008-07-28T05:44:00.000-04:00

Let’s chat about smoking for a minute. Despite a recently passed no-smoking-in-bars law, tobacco continues to reign supreme in Paris. And while I’ve never really had any interest in being a smoker, it has become exceedingly clear that you won’t get far very in this town unless your lungs are lined with filth.

Listen up, Americans. Despite what your 3rd grade D.A.R.E. counselor may have told you, smoking is cool and, yes, it kind of makes you look like a movie star. I wish I could pull it off, but there’s a problem: smoking literally makes me feel like I’m going to die. Not so much in the moment, but more so the day after when I wake up wondering if I’ve swallowed a cauldron full of battery acid.

I also never really got into smoking because of a little “challenge” initiated by my father. When my eldest brother became a smoker at the tender age of seventeen—he fell victim to Euro peer pressure while traveling in Spain—my dad made a deal with my other brother and me: if we reached age 21 without becoming smokers, he would give us $1000. Sweetness! I think he’d had a few too many bloody marys when he issued this challenge, but so be it.

Anyway, 21 rolled around and my lungs remained, for the most part, unscathed. (I inhaled a butter-rum Lifesaver once). Curiously, the $1000 never materialized, but then again, neither did a smoking addiction. So I guess it was a win-win. False promises save lungs.

And now, while I would like to get really self-righteous about the importance of not smoking, my non-smoker status is less a responsible choice than it is a biological necessity. So my conundrum: what to do during the numerous cigarette breaks that inevitably occur over the course of a bar-hopping evening?

Option 1: I can stay inside the bar and hang out with the loser non-smokers.

Option 2: I can concoct a strategy that will afford me access to international smoking circles without sacrificing the sanctity of my lungs.

Option 2 it is. I’ve come up with a clever little trick: faux smoking… “fauxking” if you will (pronounced foh-king). I know it sounds sexual, but don’t get excited—it’s not.

Fauxking: the art of pretending to smoke (ideally in a highly pretentious, blasé manner) without actually committing the filthy act.

I first began to understand the concept when Bill Clinton famously admitted to fauxking marijuana, and I have since adopted the strategy and tailored it to my own social needs.

Word to the wise: fauxking takes determination, intense focus, and hours of practice. You can’t just go for it without proper training. As you might imagine, getting caught pretending to smoke is a LOT less cool than having refrained from smoking in the first place.

There is a time and a place. Let me explain.

Appropriate use of fauxking: Friday night, I fauxked my way through two cigarettes outside of a bar because I was with a friend who needed a smoking buddy. I was discrete, and therefore successful. The trick is to take a small amount of smoke into the mouth and then CALMLY shoot it out the side in one smooth stream. If you are making a chipmunk face, you are doing it wrong, and you are likely making a true ass of yourself.

Appropriate use of restraint: Later that night, I ended up at Le Baron. Luckily, there were no Olsen twins in sight; otherwise I would have been turned away like the riffraff that I am. But on this night, we triumphed; and then came time for the requisite smoking session outside. I considered fauxking for a brief moment, and then the terror of being caught in the act outside of one of Paris’ ultimate cool-kid establishments made me reconsider. Visions of being confronted—“Qu’est-ce que tu fais avec cette cigarette?”… “What cigarette… oh this cigarette? I’m smoking, see? I’m smoking, I promise.”—saved me from what could have been the ultimate shame: the fauxking call-out.

Then again, sometimes when I’m with people who already know how weird I am, I’ll just announce, “I really want a cigarette but I’m going to fake inhale, ok?” If they judge, then maybe these are not worthwhile friends. And if they go with it, I know they’re the real deal. In this sense, the art of fauxking doubles as a social barometer.

Ok… this is spiraling out of control. Just know that if you don’t want to smoke, there’s always the option to fauxke. Or, if you’re normal, I suppose you could do nothing at all.

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Bravo, L’Américaine

2008-07-18T14:13:00.000-04:00

I live in Paris now. I know this because every morning when I wake up, I experience a brief moment of panicky, delighted confusion… I have no idea where I am!

I remain disoriented until I ask myself the following questions:

Question: What are these sharp things in my bed? 

Answer: Baguette crumbs. They were probably stuck to my face when I fell asleep.

Question: Are there alien babies in my room? 

Answer: No, just French babies in the courtyard, their voices glittering in the morning light.

Question: Is this butter-infused air I’m breathing? 

Answer: Actually, yes. There’s a patisserie next door.

Ahhh, and it all starts to make sense. Once I’ve determined where I am, the day begins; and because this is Paris, every second of every day is poetic and beautiful, obviously.

First, I put my contact lentils in my eyes. I’ve started calling them this because that’s what the French call them—lentilles optiques—and I’m going with it. Then, I am almost tempted to eat Corn Flakes simply because they are so beautifully labeled here: Pétales de Maïs Dorés au Four. Corn Petals made Golden in the Oven. Seriously? Leave it to the French to make Corn Flakes sound like something that might rain down on you in heaven if you're lucky (as opposed to say, something that falls off a mangy dog that's been digging around in the dumpster... Corn Flakes, indeed).

But, beautiful name or not, Corn Petals are not appropriate. It’s a lot more fun to go to a café where I can drink coffee for a mere 8€ and try to look pensive and mysterious. And so on and so forth throughout the day. You get the idea…

Basically, I’m an idiot who is, little by little, living my way through the romance and stereotypes of Parisian life because I know that… sometime very soon… Paris is going to become real to me.

In fact, it sort of already has. Somehow—don’t ask me how— the wily French have figured out that I’m not Parisian. No matter how many berets I don, or baguettes I eat, or accordions I play, or little dogs I put in the basket of my Vélib, somehow they know.

For instance, the other day, I was struggling to open a very tricky door that involved a button and, well, it’s far too complicated to explain. Two French guys were watching me from the other side of the glass, amused and incredibly unhelpful. Five minutes later when I finally figured it out, I proudly burst through the door to hear them snarl “Bravo, l’Américaine” in between long, blasé drags of their Gaulois. Wait a minute… how did they… you mean to say… just looking like a door-confused idiot gives me away?!?! And I’m half-Canadian, goddamn it! But fair enough. This is all George Bush’s fault.

Don’t worry. I’m not discouraged. I’ve navigated most of the doors here with great success. And I’ve learned that some French people are actually nice, like the cheese man at the local market who, upon seeing me for the first time, ordered me to “Mangez!” And I did. I’ve always been good at taking direction. And he let me eat as much morbier as I could (which was way too much).

Or the other nice guy in the Jardin du Luxembourg who told me I looked like a statue and asked me if I was Swedish. OK, he was a little too nice, and now that I think about it, he didn’t have teeth.

Clearly, I’m still figuring things out, very slowly. I’ve only been here for three weeks, and I think it will take me at least three more to perfect my F*ck-You-I’m-Parisian glare. But I will succeed. That’s why I’m here.

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In Defense of the Lo-tech Lifestyle

2008-06-20T14:08:00.000-04:00

I just realized how much I hate technology. This realization developed slowly over the course of the day, and it began when I woke up from a TERRIBLE nightmare in which a Blackberry was stuck to my face.

Roused by my own frantic facial-clawing, I was relieved to remember that I don’t even own a Blackberry. But that doesn’t mean that they don’t annoy me on a daily basis. Also, I used to own one, until it was stolen by a little Brazilian kid in Rio. Sucker! He has no idea what that thing is going to put him through. Technology—and Blackberries in particular—are really offensive for three main reasons:

With technology comes obligation (in myriad forms).
With technology comes a tendency to think that technology makes you important.
With technology comes oblivion—a state of never-being-in-the-moment because your technology is always connecting you to other moments. I know that’s mesmerizingly profound… bear with me.

First, let’s talk about obligation. A lot of recent graduates are all excited when their new bosses hand them their first Blackberries. They think they’ve “arrived.” (I did). If arrival means never being more than a few tiny-baby-keystrokes away from your boss, then yes, you’ve arrived. But your personal life—not to mention your soul—is in great peril.

The culture of obligation also extends to regular cell phones, email, Facebook, etc. If you are connected, you are expected to respond, promptly and wittily. I much prefer the days when communication happened either face-to-face or by Pony Express. If it took you six months to respond to a letter, who cares? You could just blame it on the pony. Nowadays, there is nary a pony left to blame.

Ok, now onto the whole technology-as-status issue. Just because you walk around with a goofy Bluetooth thing attached to your head doesn’t mean you can hold up the “Just a sec” finger when I try to talk to you. By the way, you look like you have a little alien feeding off the side of your face. It’s ridiculous.

And finally, the technology-induced oblivion. It’s the anti-Zen. It’s like never really connecting to your immediate environment because you’re always wondering whether JoJo has gotten your Facebook poke. But let’s think about this. What’s more interesting: sitting on the subway watching some reality show on your iPod’s tiny screen? OR, sitting on the subway and watching some crazy person deliver a religious diatribe? For me, there’s no contest.

And let’s say you’re waiting to meet someone at a bar. You’re alone. You’re feeling kind of awkward. To combat this natural alone-at-a-bar awkwardness, you foolishly decide to catch up on text message correspondence. Or maybe you just gaze into your phone as if there’s something really important in there. Or maybe you have a fake phone conversation in which you tell a lot of jokes. (I have firsthand experience with all of these strategies). While you’re doing these things, however, you’ve failed to notice that the bartender dropped your lime on the floor before putting it into your drink. Also, the guy in the corner has no pants on.

I’m done ranting now. But this is more than a rant; this is a call to action. I move for a return to good old-fashioned landlines, snail mail, telegrams—the works! If you must be hi-tech, you can go for something like this (with Zach Morris on speed dial). None of this Blackberry-holster-on-your-belt stuff!

Some of you iPhone-loving whippersnappers might have a problem with this post. If so, respond below and I’ll get back to you when I feel like it. My carrier pigeon has polio, so it might take a while.

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Jury Duty: How I Learned to Lay Down the Law

2008-05-26T14:06:00.000-04:00

Last week didn’t go as I had planned. I thought I would spend it packing up my apartment and doing my daily Facebook “research,” but I ended up serving as a juror on a homicide case in the New York State Supreme Court. An interesting twist of fate.

I’d never been summoned before, and I arrived at the courthouse feeling incredibly important, visions of Law & Order dancing through my mind. We all know that jury duty has a bad wrap, but despite the prevailing wisdom—“You never actually get picked” and “If you do, it’s probably for some taxicab accident”—I was curious to see what it was all about.

Two days later, my body and mind numb from waiting in a giant, communal holding pen, one hour away from being released from service, a case rolled in—and my name was called along with about 80 others. Over the next few hours, the judge meticulously vetted this group—and I was chosen to be one of twelve jurors. How this happened I’m not sure.

I suppose I do bear a striking resemblance to Lady Justice… the blindfold, the toga, the scales, etc. And I do like to think I exude an undeniable aura of righteousness and fair-mindedness. But in the end, I was probably chosen because, being unemployed, I didn’t feel right about blatantly weaseling out of it. Others did, offering a variety of bafflingly creative excuses: “I have A.D.D.,” “I’m a bleeding-heart Liberal,” “I don’t trust lawyers,” “I live on the Upper West Side.” Ok, whatever. Scram.

And so there I was, and as it turned out, this was not just some taxicab accident. This was manslaughter. This was a giant knife plunged into some guy’s ribs. This was the real deal. At the risk of sounding completely overdramatic, the next week would be one of the most interesting, difficult, and heart-wrenching of my life thus far.

First of all, I learned a lot—from how to dust for fingerprints, to DNA analysis, to autopsy protocol. I also learned that mamabicho is Spanish for c--ksucker.

Second, it’s dramatic. Lawyers really do “badger” witnesses. They really do get angry and yell “Objection!” In fact, they do it all the time! And the judge gets angry too! Although this judge didn’t do nearly enough gavel-banging in my opinion.

Third, it can be kind of funny. One particularly sassy witness grabbed the judge’s arm to demonstrate a point, and the prosecutor noted: “For the record, the witness is grabbing the judge’s arm to show…” The judge looked a little surprised, but he rolled with it.

Finally, it’s a fascinating process. Don’t get me wrong; I’m no patriot. I’m basically an anarchist. I certainly don’t feel encumbered by a need to “serve” my country. Nonetheless, to experience the judicial system firsthand was unexpectedly powerful.

At the end of the trial, we spent a full day locked in a room, deliberating. By the time we reached a verdict, I felt completely drained…not to mention claustrophobic. Never before had I been put to such a tangible test—ethically, intellectually, emotionally, existentially. The experience was rife with the stuff that comprises the human experience: morality, compassion, confusion, indecision, comprehension, disbelief, judgment…

I won’t go so far as to say justice; there’s no such thing. But even my stone-cold cynic’s heart was moved by the fact that I’d been entrusted with such responsibility over another person’s future.

It was intense, to say the least. I left the courthouse feeling like I wasn’t in my body anymore. I wandered around, observing people and thinking about the intersection of lives in a city as dense as New York. An hour of crying and 3 glasses of port later, I leveled out and stopped being so melodramatic.

But in all seriousness, being a juror is some of the most interesting and important work I’ve ever done. So next time that summons arrives in your mailbox, think twice about dodging it. It can be an experience of great consequence. And, yes, you get to miss work, too.

On Quitting a First Job

2008-05-08T13:58:00.000-04:00

Despite what many of my friends may tell you, I did not get fired. After spending the past eighteen months in a cubicle, I finally decided to quit my job and, as it turns out, to roam the streets of New York humming the theme to “The Greatest American Hero.” Not a bad way to spend a day.

I’ve quickly learned that unemployment—it’s my eighth day—is a true delight. In fact, I imagine this is what it must feel like to roll around in a field of fruit salad—an experience I hope to have someday soon. Clearly, I’m not talking about the chronic unemployment that cripples economies and leaves people poverty-stricken. I’m talking about the (hopefully) temporary kind… the kind that says: “You’re 24. It’s ok to feel a little lost. Let’s go get a milkshake! What… why not? It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

To back up a bit, the recently abandoned job was my first out of college. I fell into it completely randomly and stayed for a year and a half. It was a great job and it was a terrible job, and the decision to quit was not easy. A semi-wise person once told me, “It’s better to leave too early than to stay too late.” In trying to decipher whether I was premature in leaving or already well past my prime, I weighed a number of pros and cons.

Things I liked about my job:

In general, my boss was cool. One time we were at a dog food company to do a research presentation. I attached my laptop to the projector, only to remember that my wallpaper was a picture of a dog whose jaws were clenching the head of a terrified baby cat. The boardroom of Purina employees didn’t see the humor in this scenario, but my boss thought it was pretty funny.

I worked on an op-ed we penned for Wyclef, so now I get to make statements like: “I think I can speak for Wyclef when I say there are no unstylish fanny packs, only unstylish people…”

I was once sent to Boston dressed as a superhero to “surprise” a prospective client. I said I would only do it if I could be referred to as “The Instrument.” We didn’t get the business, but I did get a free trip to Boston—and a cape!

I had business cards, and with business cards came the right to pretentiously hand them out, unsolicited, to anyone who crossed my path. Ideally, I would wink as I handed the cards over.

Things I didn’t like about my job:

The work/life balance (or lack thereof). A manager at my company recently said to an entry-level employee: “You’re not thinking about work enough when you’re not at work. Take me, for example. I think about work when I’m in the shower.” Gross.

In lieu of normal food, my co-workers used to eat things like egg whites—micro-waved in Styrofoam cups and then doused in Splenda.

My boss regularly responded to seemingly reasonable queries with the words: “You can be replaced.”

Marketing/office lingo really corrodes the soul. I knew I had to leave my job when I could hear (and sometimes use) the following phrases without flinching: “Buzz building.” “Can I pick your brain for a minute?” “Let’s touch base.”

Well, the job was replaceable as well. So I’ve embarked on a new phase: temporary unemployment, followed by temporary homelessness, culminating in an eventual move to Paris within the next two months.

Some think quitting one job without having another is a huge mistake that only generates angst and a patch of irremediably scorched terrain through the otherwise chronological resume. Well, worse mistakes have been made. Serena van der Woodsen killed someone, for crying out loud. Speaking of which, I need to plan the menu for my Gossip Girl-themed dinner party next week. See, unemployment does not come without responsibilities.

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