More “fresh off the plane” expat observations and experiences

We went to a fancy little café near the city center with some French friends late one Sunday afternoon. We sat in a lovely courtyard, surrounded by pretty people who use lots of hair products. Around the courtyard were a variety of dining establishments, all very, very dimly lit. Apparently, that’s where we would have been seated if it had been busy. Our French friends informed us they put the less-pretty people in the dark. The 14 Metro line: How have we never ridden this subway line in the last eight years? It goes a hundred million miles per hour and has fancy new trains sans driver. And as our French friend pointed out, no driver means they run when there are strikes. Speaking of strikes, we missed the last big strike day, too. Didn’t see a thing. Maybe next time we can ask them to come protest in the 9th, 17th or 18th arrondissements, which is where we usually are. In the meantime, we’ll just watch them on TV with the rest of you. It’s funny that for a city known for its fine food, it seems that in every window we pass there is someone eating french fries and drinking beer. Or maybe Darrin is just seeing mirages of American food. We picked a school to take French classes. We took two placement tests, oral and written, and sucked at both of them. By the time it was all over, we felt like we had been to the doctor and had taken a cholesterol test after eating 5 cheeseburgers. "Your future tense is hanging on by a thread, and your passé composé levels are dangerously low," the director of the school told us. "Were you aware you have no functioning subjunctive whatsoever?" OK, maybe it didn’t go quite like that, but close. French children are cuter and better-behaved, but teenagers are irritating everywhere. Finally saw a TV promo for CSI. Thank God I didn’t catch when it airs. I saw the tail end of a Without a Trace the other night, but it was an episode I’d seen before. Still, I felt an inappropriate longing for Poppy Montgomery and Anthony LaPaglia. People: Crime dramas are crack. Just say no! Why does it take four days to do the laundry here? Why do the washing machines at the laundromat take 25-35 minutes, but the ones at home take almost two hours for a simple wash cycle? And will I ever get over not having a tumble-dryer? Dirty looks better every day. We went to see a French basketball game at Bercy stadium in Paris. (That’s its own story, and my husband will be telling you about it on Bonjour Paris soon!)  The stadium sort of looks like a weird spaceship, and it has grass growing on the outside of it. Yes, on the very vertical, exterior walls. The husband kept wondering how they mowed it. Our friend told us they stand at the top of the stadium and lower a lawnmower on a cord. For real. The dude with the lawnmower probably curses that architect every day. You know how some children have imaginary friends? We have an imaginary office. It’s a kitchen cabinet with three shelves. But with only 300 square feet of living space, that’s a lot of room. Husband: "Where are the receipts from today?" Me: "Oh, check the office." or Me: "Where’s the calculator?" Husband: "I put it back in the office." We are still not very good at crossing streets. You see, Parisians have this "they stop for me" attitude when they cross. It’s an art form, really. There’s no running. There’s not even a slight acceleration if the light changes mid-cross or if, say, a large tour bus looks like it’s not going to stop. No, they are pedestrians, and they have rights. Me, well, I still have fear. We are convinced our baguette lady puts crack in her bread dough, and we mean that in a good way. Our addiction is serious. Today we ate one within a few hours. And we were the king and queen of low-carb when the left the states – Dr. Atkins is rolling in his grave! Did I mention we’ve lost weight? And on the subject of baguettes…what is up with everyone knowing some baker who was the winner of the best baguette in Paris? Well, my husband is convinced he’s found it down the street. He says if he posts it on the Internet, it’s true, so: Darrin Scheid thinks Gless bakery on the corner of rue Blanche and rue de Douai has the best baguette in Paris. (But I get my almond croissant elsewhere. Don’t tell anyone. My husband is worried our baguette lady will think we are cheating on her!) My father: Likes to tell the family what time it is back home when on vacation in another time zone. My husband: Likes to tell me the weather in Texas while we are in Paris. I don’t care what any of you fancy people say: I love Tati. If you don’t know what Tati is, think Big Lots or Pic ‘N Save or The Dollar Store. I don’t live far from the monster super jumbo Tati in the 18th, in a neighborhood some might describe as, well, "down market." Well, it turns out I’m sort of down market – particularly since we don’t have any real income while living here. Now I salivate at the bins of things under 3 euros. Yesterday, I bought six drinking glasses for 1 euro. It was a good day.  C. Paula Caballero