I’ve hit a blogging wall. This post will not come. I feel the need to produce some sort of “year in france” summary, but it. won’t. come. And so, someone who says better than I ever could.
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I am glad we did this. I am glad I won’t wonder what it’s like to pick up and move to Paris. I am glad to have had the opportunity to step outside myself, my world, my familiars to feel discomfort and anxiety and longing. Why? Because along with the general unease brought about by those feelings, there is also the creativity that strangeness brings, the new friends, the adventures, the rewards of stepping out of the system (or at least sliding into a new one) for a while.
I’m still amazed at how much of this city I saw in one week back in the 1990s on a trip with my parents. Perhaps I’ve had a handful of days as ambitious as those were, but there hasn’t been any urgency. And that’s the point to one year abroad, right? One takes it slow, embeds in the neighborhood, meets the corner baker and rarely leaves the little quarter like the locals? Yet we are far from being locals and that is apparent everyday.
There’s the way I thought it would be, the way it is, the way it still might be. I have high hopes for year 2, but they come with a dose of nostalgia. We have been pulling off the industrial sized bandage that is home millimeter by millimeter all year long, and it feels like this upcoming trip to San Francisco will be the final tug–wrenching yet freeing all at once. We will pull some treasures out of the heap in the basement, pack the rest away, eat burritos and give lots of hugs. Then will we fly back on T’s silver airplane and give Paris one more chance.
I would not wish a Paris housing search on anyone. We knew when we arrived that we’d need to find another place, but my shitty French and fear of the telephone postponed the search for a while. Now the search has entered deadline mode and after suffering some of the most ridiculous rejections you can imagine (”no you can’t come see the apartment as I don’t think the staircase is safe for a three year old), we have honed in on two possibilities. I present them to you now, in no particular order.
Apartment F:
This is our connect. Our current landlord really wants to free up our place so that her son can move in. Somehow she has a lead on a place around the corner (perhaps she also owns this one? it’s not clear). If we don’t leave in time, her son will move there. She has proposed a swap.
The apartment is 1 bedroom, half the size of our current one, modern building, same neighborhood, same school assignment for next year. Key features include: storage, secured parking for velo or stroller. Huge savings on rent.
Apartment B:
Also 1 bedroom and half the size. Also big savings, though slightly more expensive than the other one. Small old building with “charm”. In this case there is also an alcove, essentially a room without a door that could be T’s room. This one is in a different neighborhood, different arrondissement, so new school assignment for the fall. The drawbacks here are the lack of storage (no real closets or basement storage), and lack of oven. The oven was key for me, but since so many apartments here don’t have one, that I don’t care so much anymore. At least there are four burners on the stove.
Comparison:
Both places are furnished. We haven’t actually been inside “F” yet, but will see it over the weekend. My sense is that it will have a more amenity-filled kitchen, but we will either have to share a bedroom with T or sleep out in the living room. I’m a little hesitant to leave our neighborhood, but the other one seems nice too. So, bottomline: B has essentially two bedrooms, but no place to put a suitcase and a potentially limited kitchen. F gives us the pleasure of having a connect and using it. It has storage, probably a better kitchen (tbd), almost definitely less squeaky floors, but only one bedroom.
We had our almost eight year old niece here last weekend. I like visitors–seeing the city through the eyes of someone who never has, seeing her wrestle with difference all the while keeping her cool, displaying no signs of jet lag and being an excellent cousin and co-adventurer. But. When a visitor leaves, there’s a hole.
When I imagined this adventure, I imagined March differently. By now, we would have jobs lined up for the fall and we’d be living large-ish here until the day came to fly home. Instead here we are, deciding if we should re-up for another year (and looking for apartments half the size of this one to make it work), but it feels like we have no choice. When I imagine going back, my thoughts land on a sunny Sunday with us hanging out at home after a leisurely stroll to meet friends for coffee and some playground time. My brain will not revisit early mornings, long commutes, expensive childcare.
March has come and gone and the plan is unclear. I tried to explain this to my mom yesterday that yes, when summer rolls around, we could get on a plane, go back to our apartment and start looking for work, but neither of our fields work this way. There are no jobs to be found this year and we don’t want to opt for this scenario. And so we will likely stay where we are through the fall and take advantage of the benefits that I wish we could know at home–free healthcare and free preschool–and perhaps we’ll spend some of C’s 6 weeks of vacation visiting you all this summer.
Thank you all for your comments, on and off line. I’m really excited about the ‘puter and after I pick up more supplies, will begin work on version 1.2. For now though, work waits. We leave shortly for the inaugural simulcast at the Hotel de Ville where I suspect many tears will be shed as Son Excellence Monsieur Barack Obama raises the curtain on a new era, surely one of Franco-American amitié.
We’re back in Paris, a city transformed. When T and I left, it was still July, but now we’re well into August and everything is closed–the toy store where we tried to buy T a little treat for successfully using the potty (woohoo!), 5 out of 6 of the nearest boulangeries, and many, many other shops. I was just wrapping my mind around the Sunday closures, and now this.
Our trip was nice. C met us down at my aunt and uncle’s place in southwestern France and we spent most of our time there keeping things mellow. T swam and swam and swam, graduating from a large flotation device to little armbands by the end of the trip. She picked blueberries, visited many castles and ate strawberry ice cream every day. I can’t say we’re short on photos, but we’re short on Internet appropriate imagery as the girl was naked as often as possible.
She has become an incredible traveler. She adopted a late bedtime that hovered closer and closer to 11 pm as the days went by. We ate out and for the first time since she was born, we all slept in, not just to 7 and 8, but to 9 and 10! All of us. That’s a vacation.
After our stay along the Lot River, we went west to the Atlantic and in retrospect, we all wished that we stayed there longer. T loved the beach and it felt like the perfect summer spot. We made our way through the Loire Valley on the way home and did some more castle hopping yesterday.
It feels a little strange to be back here in Paris and not in San Francisco. We’re still just at the beginning of this whole thing even though it already feels like we’ve been gone way too long. When are you all coming to visit, anyway?
Her nanny called in sick right before I left for work. I stayed home with her and we didn’t manage to leave the house until about 2 (which doesn’t bode well for our adventure/day plan in Paris). I proposed an outing, but was told, “no. home.” While I packed, she drew all over the moving boxes and peed in the potty at least 9 times.
She sang into the microphone, her version of Thunder Road, completely naked. C. went to finalize the sale of our car. Then her friend O. stopped by, and I thought to myself that if a friend of mine stopped by, she might think it strange to find me completely naked, but when you’re 2, it’s all good. They both took turns trying out the various potty options (another thing I wouldn’t do with a friend) and then O. went home to nap. T. spent the next hour reminding me that O. went home to nap while ignoring suggestions that she do the same.
She agreed to nap in the stroller, but not until she put on striped socks and then striped leg warmers with the leg warmers pulled up over her pants. Before I knew it, she was asleep and I was standing in front of the best ice cream shop in town. I told C. to meet us there, and then went a few blocks over to a yarn shop in search of case for my needles, but there’s really nothing made to transport all of your needles (double-point, straight, circular) at once, except maybe a suitcase. I might have to limit myself to a small selection of the needles I’m most likely to use.
The quiet of the yarn shop woke T. up. We left empty-handed and went back for ice cream. She didn’t speak from the time she dipped her stick into the ice cream until she finished at least 20 minutes later. She had strawberry. I had salted caramel and mint chip, and soon fell into the “this might be my last time …” mode. We resisted the temptation to follow up the ice cream with pastries from the bakery around the corner–they actually have butter and croissants in France, so we’re good on that score.
I never intended to stay this long. I’ve given you 9 years, California, every one remarkable, so it is with great hesitation that I offer you my letter of resignation. Here are the keys. You’ll notice that I’m departing with a lot more than would fit in the Nissan Sentra that brought me here back in ‘99. Are there related fees? In particular, may we cross the border with one of your Native Daughters of the Golden West? Please advise as to relevant paperwork and departure procedures.
Yours, S.
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C., it’s really hard to wrap my mind around this week. It feels like you’ve been off on another planet, the one we’ve been calling “Dada Air-pane Dip”. I’ve been toying with the idea of ditching work to meet you at the airport, but I really can’t, so I’ll see you tonight. Also, I promised T. that you would pick her up, so if you take a nap or something, set an alarm so you don’t sleep until morning, according to the Planet Dada Air-pane Dip time zone. Suddenly there’s so much to do, but for now, I’m just glad to have you back.
C., we left you at the airport 6 hours ago. The long nap you made T. promise to give me did not materialize–she slept for about 40 minutes in the car. We were parked in a shady spot next to Buena Vista Park. I was knitting and listening to the radio; she was snoring. Then there was a loud siren and she woke up. I drove laps around the park (this was actually more fun than I expected) and she seemed like she was about to nod off again so we drove up through Ashbury Heights and around Twin Peaks. I kept checking the rearview mirror and she had the classic pre-nap blank stare, but as we rounded our way back to the park, I heard “Dog” and then, “Dada?” from the backseat and knew it was over. We tried the Randall Museum but it was closed (door. locked. door. locked. door. locked.) and then went back over to Buena Vista.
That’s when you called so you know most of that already.
T. played with some older girls in the playground and had fun. She went on the swing and the view was not unlike her first view of San Francisco. We should only go to playgrounds with views from now on. Then she played in the sand and said “dig, dig, dig.” We had a snack and then went on a walk to look for flowers (walk mama fractics). There were about five paths we could have taken and she chose the steepest. We saw a baby bird (or maybe just a small one) and T. liked that. It flew away and she said (for real) “birrr fly, t. fly” and she pretty much floated up the rest of the hill. We came to another junction and she chose the unpaved sketchy path through the brush. There were big railroad ties placed to form steps. I dreaded her choice when I remembered that you weren’t there to carry her down, but I agreed anyway. She started saying something as she walked up the steps and I didn’t understand at first. Then it clicked. She was saying “Big Step” with every big step. Have you heard this before? I held her hands and we climbed the whole way. We found some flowers, first ceanothus, then dandelions, and she sniffed each of them equally. We made a big loop and on the way down she decided to “jump” down the big steps and she pretty much jumped, like a kid, each one sprouting a new grey hair on her poor mom’s head and a few of them leading me to wonder if I would bother with the car or just run to the hospital with her in my arms.
We survived, made it back to the car, and drove over to Mel’s for dinner with your aunt, uncle and cousin. It was an unexpected suggestion from them, but the way T. lit up when she saw the balloons, it was obviously the right choice. She practiced all of their names on the way over, but never let on that she knew them once we were there. Still, she was very sweet and really excited to be in a venue with crayons and food served in car-shaped boxes. She touched the buttons on the jukebox (orange butts, orange butts) and pointed out every bus that drove past on Geary (orange bus, another orange bus) and chose an orange balloon (actually red, but whatever) to take home.
On the way home, I heard her teeth rubbing against the balloon and told her about how balloons pop and all. She didn’t care and kept doing it. I couldn’t handle the thought of the balloon popping in her mouth so I reached into the backseat PopPop style and tried to grab the string. I swear she was moving it from side to side to keep it away from me. I looked in the mirror and saw the grin–my grin–and got more irritated. She relented and I brought the balloon up front telling her she could have it back when we got home.
So we got home, scored a spot on our street, and when we got out of the car (can you see where this is going?) T. held on to her balloon for about 20 seconds before it came loose and floated up, up and got stuck on the wires overhead. This did NOT go over well and there was a prolonged and very distraught farewell. When we made it to our house, she turned and bolted back down the street screaming “BALLLOOOOON.” I picked her up, made for the house and went about looking for that deflated balloon from Trader Joe’s.
She eventually recovered (there were a few intervening incidents which I’ll spare the general readership) and rested her big-stepping-legs in a nice bubble bath, even suggested that I clip her nails. It would have been a regular evening at the spa, except that there were a lot of sirens in the distance causing her to declare “Fire Trucks!” The conversation continued like this: “Oh, no fire truck.” “Airplane.” “Dada airplane.” “Fire truck, airplane.” “Dada fire truck,” followed by a very, very worried expression like she thought something was wrong with your airplane and the fire trucks were coming to help you. Then I started to worry, because what if she was on to something?
I hope your flight is going smoothly and you’re enjoying travels without a lapsitter. I was so caught up this weekend worrying about having the laundry and dishes done before you left that the meaning of this trip is only just beginning to hit. Even if this goes nowhere, I’m really proud of you for pulling off this “big step, big step.”
Speaking of, can you believe T. flew a kite this weekend?
I’ve been suffering from craft blog malaise lately. My reader is overwhelmed by them and while they used to be inspirational, now they’re just demoralizing. Of course it’s not a competition (it’s never a competition), but all of these people seem to manage multiple children, make beautiful things, photograph them as the perfect sun beam shines into their extremely organized craft rooms, and then blog about them, flickr them, put the projects into ravelry. Where is the time?
My hypothesis is that there is more time on beautiful islands (and maybe Portland, Oregon?). I wish C. and I had lucrative careers to abandon so we also could open a textile mill on a beautiful island. That seems ideal. I think we would really enjoy that and so would little T.
I’m also taken with the idea of being a rural librarian, turning a small town library into a salon of sorts, the center of things. This also seems ideal, until I remember that there are not many take out options in rural lands. This will limit my options.
But perhaps there is a small library on a beautiful island up in the San Juans or someplace where there is also a tasty bakery in town and some land for sale with a historic bungalow and some outbuildings? And maybe there’s a small unpretentious college that needs a thoughtful environmental scientist just a ferry ride away? I think there would be many more hours in the day in such a place.
T.’s not doing so well in the friend department these days. She upset O. yesterday by taking a game of chase to the next level, and (gasp) pushing her. O., please accept T.’s sincere apology. She tells me that she really just wanted to hug you (tightly and a lot), but she got a little carried away. That’s what she tends to do. Ask the cat. She hopes the marmalade made by her dad banishes any lingering sadness.
And this couldn’t come at a worse time, because T.’s friend, L., moves away today to SoCal. We’ll miss him and his parents greatly. I always feel an ache when friends abandon the Bay Area, especially friends who live the unrelenting toddler schedule, friends who will meet you at the park at 9 am because we’ve all been up for 3 hours, friends who will eat lunch with you at 11 am and dinner at 5.
Aside from the recent commiseration regarding the babies, these friends have been with us since the era that will come to be called the golden age. I met C., L.’s mother, in a graduate school seminar back in the day. We became friends. We made a mix tape (yes, mix tape) for our professor. We were that cool. We talked a lot about how we missed out on the golden age, but I see now that graduate school in Berkeley will always be it’s own kind of golden age. I rarely think about it anymore, but their departure does foretell the end of an era. They’re gone. We’re next.
I envision L. and T. meeting up years from now wondering how we all could have left this idyll. Right now, my only answer is this: “T., I went to our cafe at a non-baby hour on Friday and was stunned. I was stunned that proximity to hipness doesn’t make you hip, stunned that all of these people live in my same city and manage to call said cafe their office, and stunned at how much I feel passed over by this town.” The bubble bursts.
O., we’ll need you to keep us in the loop in our exile; you can come visit us in the country any time. I promise T. will be gentle.
