Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

Whine, whine, whine.

I was compelled to respond to a Super Frenchie” posting on the appeal of Starbucks in France (for me).

“Predictably Smoke Free……Smoke free sections and terraces (in Paris) are a joke. I’m stating the obvious, but smoke drifts.”

I’m pretty sure that smokers are oblivious to the physical and immediate impact of smoke on others, primarily non-smokers. That’s not to mention the non-immediate impacts of second-hand smoke, blah, blah, blah, blah.  And I’m not talking 1 cigarette off in the corner on the other side of the room. I’m talking about an incessant assault by one person after another. Very often, I pretend to take long, slow sips from a glass; I’m actually taking a long, deep breath.

The coffee at the Starbucks on Montparnasse is really, really, really bad, but it’s the only truly smoke free establishment that I know of (Starbucks is). I will happily continue pay the extra 2 euros for a bottle of water to wash down the bad coffee in exchange for a slice of clean air until the smoking ban is passed. Or until I buy myself that flat of cheap cigars. Whichever comes first.

A response from someone who merely identified themselves as “H”:

“Having a smoking section in a restaurant is like having a peeing section in the pool.”

At the end of my interview, after Mike* in Paris asked whether I’m an on-time person, he promised that he would call. My real answer of, “When I’m not lost, I absolutely am on time. All of my previous jobs have been deadline driven” must’ve been convincing enough. I didn’t even crack a smile.

“I’ll call by the end of the week,” he told me on that Monday.

He dragged that promise out a little further, explaining that it might be Thursday or Friday. Maybe in 8 days because it’s peak season, but no matter what, he would call, he told me. They have a few more desperate immigrants who are competing for indentured slavery. He didn’t say that, but I know how to read between lines. I know where I am, and I haven’t forgotten where I come from.

What was it, Mike? Did you somehow learn that I get lost on the way to my next door neighbors’, so it’s probable that I’ll never find my way to work on time, ever? Was it my answer to, “What’s your priority at this time?” Because, really, screw French! I’ll learn it some other time. My priority at this time, Mike, is to raise those bike seats and empty those trash cans so good that those cans, they’ll never, ever be full. That ball of paper (that Paris would never recycle anyway) won’t ever bounce off the top of the trash can, unless it’s a rim shot because you don’t look like much of a baller, come to think of it.

Or was it that you saw me stifle a laugh with a, “Are you kidding me with that question?” look when you asked for my 5 year forecast?

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An after-lunch visit to The Grandparents is a journey back into their childhood and through the present again. This time with them, my first to their home, also provides a window into the life of a little French boy that grew into The Husband who boldly told my mom that he would “handle” me when I become difficult. Shortly after the wedding one day, in my absence, my mother provided him with a little insight into my childhood, warning him that it is easiest and best for everyone to give in to my demands; thus, his response. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle her,” he reassured my mother.

The Grandparents’ large apartment is classically decorated throughout with French antiques; porcelain vases, furniture, lamps, and paintings all carefully selected by Papy’s discerning eye in his weekly excursions to la puce as far back as (and over) 50 years ago. The curios themselves date back much further still. As Mamie takes me through each room, explaining it’s history, Papie pouts lightheartedly from the background that she’s pointing out every item in the apartement except for the very paintings that he’d created himself. From stories that My Husband has shared about his time spent with Papie, and from descriptions that he mentally drew of toys that Papie spontaneously whittled from wood with a knife, it’s apparent that while Papie made a living in business, creativity and the ability to work art with his hands is Life. Mamie points out proudly that Papie also cut the wood and installed the professional grade closet shelves and drawers throughout their home.In the corner of the salon, next to the couch, is an old loom that belonged to Mamie’s great grandmother. She points out water rings on the small surface, explaining that this is where the water cup sat when her great-grandmother worked. The loom is the only tangible item that remains from her family, she told me. My Husband played with this loom

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