tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-349579072024-03-07T12:21:45.554-08:00Gumbo GirlMy main outlet as I wend my way from NYC to Paris.
<a href="http://www.expat-blog.com"><img src="http://www.expat-blog.com/logo/expatBlogSmall.gif" width="80" height="15" border="0" alt="expatriate" /></a>Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-55618568667597487162007-01-07T13:36:00.000-08:002007-01-07T13:51:11.291-08:00Spellbound and speechlessIt's the name of a song, but it also describes me -- when I saw the cathedral at Chartres.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrRz80V5NApN7pB37saR8j8pRuhgW1Cd1NGFoXJk84ZMDKBVVZhzoFsI1tuvaAjWtt35JJ-CFAUauGdiDDy34L-nQMKJYneOB043TxrjUnlC1mVSjeuSw-zImzv0njS2OYVF-/s1600-h/IMG_4040.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrRz80V5NApN7pB37saR8j8pRuhgW1Cd1NGFoXJk84ZMDKBVVZhzoFsI1tuvaAjWtt35JJ-CFAUauGdiDDy34L-nQMKJYneOB043TxrjUnlC1mVSjeuSw-zImzv0njS2OYVF-/s400/IMG_4040.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017408924073564274" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgskWT8aSHOm4DBe3RMpj9sI63__ScQTsqzRms19uLGltnQCsQCmXMZzjCowEA35oKAH8F0DBX7NxUO7S3KKEPnEChfq2K-UIWyg7WsRDIqz2gdRifP7M-ap3pgnWeb3FxoL99d/s1600-h/IMG_4034.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgskWT8aSHOm4DBe3RMpj9sI63__ScQTsqzRms19uLGltnQCsQCmXMZzjCowEA35oKAH8F0DBX7NxUO7S3KKEPnEChfq2K-UIWyg7WsRDIqz2gdRifP7M-ap3pgnWeb3FxoL99d/s400/IMG_4034.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017408241173764194" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFMOHIwM5N0wOHS1PDuC9r08PplftfrCWb6BT9rAoz5f-88SNzIDUitceHU3nTlhhV1wNpO376VXCM-cMM68313yxin1KfaIFrJVlHjytmjkskWhjepN5bi-6BIVewrWv5UHo/s1600-h/IMG_4019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDFMOHIwM5N0wOHS1PDuC9r08PplftfrCWb6BT9rAoz5f-88SNzIDUitceHU3nTlhhV1wNpO376VXCM-cMM68313yxin1KfaIFrJVlHjytmjkskWhjepN5bi-6BIVewrWv5UHo/s400/IMG_4019.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017406776589916226" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxD9V5_ttBe7UoltlstS4xjr5XyV2aeZu_5z9XDNZoO8an5muVQ_XQZPR49R2mO_-Moy0qXeC7i81zvycUyFgPaT__MTJ81K44Cd0PfBNI4EZK60r-SZmMjtH2ImpprDOcoyl/s1600-h/IMG_4026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxD9V5_ttBe7UoltlstS4xjr5XyV2aeZu_5z9XDNZoO8an5muVQ_XQZPR49R2mO_-Moy0qXeC7i81zvycUyFgPaT__MTJ81K44Cd0PfBNI4EZK60r-SZmMjtH2ImpprDOcoyl/s400/IMG_4026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5017406802359720018" /></a>Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-59982047309263877782007-01-05T12:15:00.000-08:002007-06-10T07:16:07.654-07:00Metro intimacyBonne Année! I continue to write 2006 on things instead of 2007.<br /><br />I spent the day at a museum in St. Germain. When I got on the metro at St. Michel to come home, an elfin French girl sidled up to me and very nicely asked me…something. I don’t know what she said. From her body language I thought she was asking if she could go into the turnstile before me, so I stepped out of her path. <br /><br />In surprise, I thought, “That was a really polite way of asking me to move.” <br /><br />Then, with an impatient look, she blurted out, “AVEC vous! AVEC vous!” <br /><br />Oh. Sorry, I’m a little slow, wasn’t expecting a request to help steal the metro! Okay. <br /><br />She jumped in the turnstile with me, flattened herself against my back, and quickly disappeared once inside.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-34275543211589188212006-12-30T13:43:00.000-08:002007-01-01T02:29:36.673-08:00Eye-catching<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqm_NK05rJNVOHw0ZmL15DyoQezRbKAHQxP3AnpKxgD2BzOME3vhtXQnwy9XJI15RcTXiT9xKetHCvRhjpAxh_Y74ghxEmcHSY1dd740cPNalrBV9amWUOG2vC9agKCKZNVI4/s1600-h/IMG_3959.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNqm_NK05rJNVOHw0ZmL15DyoQezRbKAHQxP3AnpKxgD2BzOME3vhtXQnwy9XJI15RcTXiT9xKetHCvRhjpAxh_Y74ghxEmcHSY1dd740cPNalrBV9amWUOG2vC9agKCKZNVI4/s320/IMG_3959.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5014439286817307938" /></a><br /><br />I just liked the look of this because it reminds me of D. He loves ramshackle buildings of all kinds. It's in an area of the 3rd arrondissement that a friend loves for its quiet charm -- close to the bustle of the Marais but the masses haven't discovered it yet. I feel like it's all mine!Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-69527748026431449402006-12-27T14:47:00.000-08:002007-01-01T02:30:47.205-08:00Hot like fy-ah, or burning down the houseI was thinking of my far-away fondue-loving friend (probably because I was looking at a mouth-watering fondue recipe on the Chocolate and Zucchini blog last night). She has an elaborate setup and makes the best lamb and shrimp to dip in the oil. I don't know what she does to it, but I'm always happy to eat the results. One New Year's Eve we had too much champagne to pay attention to what the oil was doing. Burning. She (I?) dropped it and the oil spilled, and we looked down to see a trail of merry flames on the hardwood floor of her apartment. Silly champagne giggles amidst the mad scramble -- and luckily no harm done. I know, I know, not funny. <br /><br />Happy holidays, fondue fiend!Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-25521645521284338002006-12-26T13:11:00.000-08:002006-12-26T14:00:30.939-08:00Sacré Coeur and bracelets out of the blueSurely Christmas Day would be a good time to wander around the steep hills of Montmartre. It would be less crowded, and we'd have space to enjoy the vast views of the city and its people from a prime spot in front of the Sacré Coeur. And yes, I confess that I also wanted to work off some of the buche de noel I'd eaten earlier.<br /><br />As we climbed the first of the many, many stairs, a pushy little guy intercepted us. At first I thought he was asking for money, but he was trying to tie a bracelet on D.'s arm! I burst out laughing. D., so much nicer than I, put him off with a gentle, "Non, merci. Merci. Mer-CI..."<br /><br />We climbed farther up the stairs and turned to watch Paris spread out in front of us. The same pesky little guy popped up in my peripheral vision. This time he was trying to tie the bracelet on a meek-looking man burdened with an unwieldy camera. Bracelet man was pretty aggressive. He plucked at the tourist's jacket and zigged and zagged into his personal space while the poor tourist tried to pull away. He scared him with his unexpected bracelet offensive. Oddly, this took place over a long period of time. The whole vignette unfolded in some surreal slo-mo that ended when the tourist fled. <br /><br />I'm positive the tourist will go home with exaggerated tales of how dangerous Montmartre is.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-60951696236451798602006-12-25T11:30:00.000-08:002006-12-25T11:38:55.321-08:00The saints are comingFirst I couldn't get the song "The Saints are Coming" out of my head. I thought it was U2 and...somebody. (My brother-in-law, the biggest U2 fan in the world, would be aghast to know this. He actually chased Bono through an airport in Ethiopia once, waving his passport to look like like a press pass so he could get close to him. He wound up with the gift of Bono's glasses, which are custom made for him. That's not the only time he's chased and met him either; once he snuck into some kind of EU session in Brussels to get to him.) <br /><br />Then I realized I didn't know what the hell they were saying in the song, so I googled it to find the lyrics. I ended up in the wikipedia entry for the song, originally sung by a Scottish punk group called The Skids. Never been into punk, wouldn't have known that, understandable. <br /><br />But. Because I was traveling around the time this happened, I guess, I missed the huge news about the reopening of the Superdome in New Orleans for the first time since Hurricane Katrina and U2 and Green Day playing the song together live before the Saints game there. I didn't know they were giving the proceeds to Hurricane Katrina charities. And I never saw until today the video that depicted the redeployment of troops from Iraq to New Orleans to help the victims. If only.<br /><br />It made me wonder how residents of the Lower Ninth Ward are getting by, and what the U.S. government is doing to help long after the spotlight has moved elsewhere. If you go to youtube, you can see plenty of firsthand footage of people driving through the area. I'm going to track down the documentary "When the Levees Broke." A friend from New Orleans said I really need to see it. <br /><br />D. used to ask me how the social net works in the U.S. What if you get really sick? What if you lose your job? In Denmark, if you lose your job and you have a dog, the government makes sure that you have money to cover the cost of dog food. <br /><br />Something to think about. Ho ho ho.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-49447551977334622322006-12-23T08:13:00.000-08:002006-12-23T08:16:05.966-08:00Doggy driving<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxXtZCoze69CA8kX8mwP7YMo350na89ukafhB7WLBp9kT8Dg5Fo9h9dttmLMpiTkdktMPOvOUsKZ1aLAgILDrddWkywk8jrHKtWM8vJUDde_RuxsZiDvbm3y1TR6xfsZrW4cF/s1600-h/IMG_3962.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcxXtZCoze69CA8kX8mwP7YMo350na89ukafhB7WLBp9kT8Dg5Fo9h9dttmLMpiTkdktMPOvOUsKZ1aLAgILDrddWkywk8jrHKtWM8vJUDde_RuxsZiDvbm3y1TR6xfsZrW4cF/s320/IMG_3962.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5011756525690174722" /></a>Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-86463159363016093052006-12-18T13:00:00.000-08:002006-12-18T14:54:07.530-08:00La Bague de Kenza, or death by Algerian pastryI can't move again, but this time it's because I found paradise. It's conveniently located right down the street from me. Gooey, rich pastries with almonds, honey, and pistachios. I walk past every day but today I just couldn't resist. <br /><br />La Bague de Kenza<br />106 rue Saint-Maur - 75011 Paris<br />01 43 14 93 15<br />It really needs a photo to do it justice, so here is the sublime Chocolate and Zucchini post I found: <br /><a href="http://chocolateandzucchini.com/archives/2006/10/la_bague_de_kenza.php">LINK</a><br /><br />I love where I live.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-59301423261673337132006-12-16T13:05:00.000-08:002006-12-19T04:21:38.164-08:00Where's my café crème?This is what I've been thinking about today: <br /><a href="http://chezpim.typepad.com/blogs/2005/06/how_not_to_drin.html">LINK</a><br />I'm instantly a huge fan of Chez Pim's beautiful blog. I've been in a coffee quandary, too! I even started my giant afternoon walk with a trip to a cafe in my hood that was mentioned in comments. It was closed. For the day? Forever? I don't know; I'll try it again another time.<br /><br />The giant afternoon walk lasted for four hours and left me utterly motionless, probably for the rest of the evening. I thought I should see the fabulous windows of at least some of the grands magasins. It was like playing in highway traffic. Don't mess with Christmas shopping tourists. What was I thinking? <br /><br />In my haste to get home, I forgot to buy coffee. Tomorrow morning is going to be a bitch.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-65322126824428695852006-12-13T14:27:00.000-08:002006-12-13T14:37:11.447-08:00Polonium pearls of wisdomThis morning I went to meet my new friend Polonium 210. I was afraid to tell her about the little club from the other night. I remembered that last week she’d told me, “You know, there are places you shouldn’t go in Paris…it’s not safe.” <br />“Like where?” I’d snorted with all my urban bad-assed-ity.<br />In a hushed tone: “Like…the 20th.”<br /><br />I just have to add here that all my Polonium 210 peoples have certain characteristics in common. You basically need to have a diamond-encrusted front door for them to grace your humble abode, and all your stuff needs to have DOLCE & GABBANA stamped all over it (doesn’t matter if it’s bootleg). Hell, I don’t hold it against them. It’s only been in the last few years that they've achieved the ability to roll with all this bling. <br /><br />I didn’t tell her where I’d gone.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-5574655867864385472006-12-12T01:26:00.000-08:002006-12-12T02:48:52.436-08:00IT HAS A PRETTY GOOD BEAT AND YOU CAN DANCE TO ITLast night I was coerced into going out to a club.<br /><br />I rarely do that anymore. Years of working at music companies sucked the joy out of being in dark, raucous venues. When you have to go out for a living, you start to really want to stay in and make it a Blockbuster night. Aside: I have to give props to Blockbuster, a company I despise, for indelibly imprinting their stupid ad in my subconscious. That’s how I eventually became BFF with Netflix, the most perfect service ever invented.<br /><br />Back to last night. It was a beautiful, drizzly night, perfect for cuddling up in bed. But damned if I wasn’t going to be social (a resolution that’s a byproduct of an article I’m researching). D. and I bundled up and headed out, just in time for the drizzle to become a steady rain. We traipsed through puddles and hiked up the steep hills of the 20th arrondissement for a long time, because I hadn’t bothered with the Gmaps pedometer and thought the place was nearby. I’d forgotten about all those stairs in Pere Lachaise…what elevation is that neighborhood, anyway? We finally got to La Flèche d’Or, in a converted former train station. Drenched and disgruntled, I was all ready to hate on this place. I’d read it was an indie-rock/electro venue and thought, “Oh great. Williamsburg redux.” I do NOT like Williamsburg. <br /><br />But a strange thing happened: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang sang me right out of my bitchtastic mood. I liked their music. I liked the venue. I liked that I didn’t have to do battle with a coat-check Nazi. I looked around and, after a while, noticed that I liked watching the scruffy, hair product-laden crowd with its wide age range from boy toys to old geezers. We never found the friend we were supposed to meet, but I got my people-watching fix and I had fun. I’d even recommend it to friends. <br /><br />I think I’ll go back. <br /><br />La Flèche d'Or, <br />102 bis, Rue de Bagnolet , 75020 Paris <br />Tel : 01 44 64 01 02 - www.flechedor.frGumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-38471517123710542322006-12-09T10:36:00.000-08:002006-12-09T10:42:23.549-08:00Use me, says ParisParis is even more beautiful than usual when you don’t have to get on a plane and leave it. The city takes on a certain gleam when you actually use it, instead of tiptoeing around gazing at it in awe. This week I mastered the art of exercising in jaw-dropping places, squeezing in runs at the Jardin du Luxembourg, the Île Saint-Louis & Île de la Cité, and the Promenade Plantée. That last was today. It was a brilliant day whose sky rebutted the rainy forecast. Most runners made eye contact when we passed each other, a bunch of naughty children kicking up our heels in the most beautiful playground in the world. (Or maybe I’m projecting, and it was just me looking at them like a nutjob, thinking we’re sharing some little secret.)<br /><br />But… it’s hard to carry a camera while running. So I still haven’t taken any pictures. <br /><br />P.S. Who lied and told me that the French don’t run? The Promenade was chock full of runners. It was definitely a high-traffic area. Don’t try to tell me all of those people were American.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-81337035720548153952006-12-09T02:05:00.000-08:002006-12-09T02:06:54.321-08:00ProfessorBusy week.<br />Congrats to my little sister for her tenure track job offer from Smith College. It also sounds like a couple of other big ones are not far behind...All the hard work is paying off, sis. I'm so proud of you.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-34387718819167438732006-12-04T11:17:00.000-08:002006-12-04T12:08:20.423-08:00iPod on shuffleI saw this survey on The Assimilated Negro (http://theassimilatednegro.blogspot.com). His instructions, my iPod answers. <br /><br />IF YOUR LIFE WERE A MOVIE, WHAT WOULD THE SOUNDTRACK BE?<br /><br />So, here's how it works:<br />1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)<br />2. Put it on shuffle<br />3. Press play<br />4. For every question, type the song that's playing<br />5. When you go to a new question, press the next button<br />6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...<br /><br /><br />Opening Credits: <br />Wagner: Tristan and Isolde, Was traumte mir von Tristans Ehre? - Wilhelm Furtwangler<br />Waking Up: We Run This - Missy Elliott<br />First Day at School: Bellydance music - don't know the artist or title<br />Falling In Love: Le Desert - Emilie Simon<br />Fight Song: Me Gustas Tu - Manu Chao<br />Breaking Up: When It Hurts So Bad - Lauryn Hill<br />Prom: Safe from Harm - Massive Attack<br />Life: I'm the Toughest - Peter Tosh<br />Mental Breakdown: Sugar, We're Going Down - Fallout Boy<br />Driving: Erotic City - Prince<br />Flashback: Where's Your Head At - Basement Jaxx<br />Wedding: Raid - The Constant Gardener Soundtrack<br />Birth of Child: Ai Du - Ali Farka Toure with Ry Cooder<br />Final Battle: Sweetest Tabou - Les Nubians w/Casey<br />Death Scene: Russian Unit 3 - Pimsleur Russian Language Course**<br />Funeral Song: I Can't Stand It - Dennis Brown<br />End Credit: Ya Rayah - Rachid Taha<br /><br />He's right about the "oddly appropriate couplings." The death scene is a Russian lesson? Absolutely Litvinenko. <br />But where is my beloved Arabic music? Mostly this makes me realize I need to delete some junk from my iTunes library. Fallout Boy. Come on. That was purely a curiosity download.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-7087973036634287982006-12-03T00:47:00.000-08:002006-12-03T01:19:17.430-08:00The little thingsThere are so many details of daily life that are different in Paris, little components that delight me. I cook in what looks like a Betty Crocker Easy-Bake Oven that was popular when I was little. The washing machine is a taller, skinnier version of the ones I’ve always used. The apartments are set up in a series of small rooms, like the Kirkland House Library. French women don’t get fat, French appliances don’t get fat, and French real estate doesn’t get fat, either.<br /><br />The waiters in cafés don’t shoot you pointedly dirty looks if you park yourself in their sections for hours at a time. I’ve lost hours this way getting to know new friends.<br /><br />I read somewhere that one end of my favorite neighborhood street is a “hotbed of Islamic fundamentalism.” I take that with a grain of salt; all I know is that my favorite butcher is there, everyone who works there is friendly, and their mouth-watering rotisserie chicken (apparently halal = delicious?) is two euros less than the same version right next-door to me. I tend to frequent the hotbed. <br /><br />Habibi, I’m happy.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-67989013797468720172006-11-29T05:08:00.000-08:002006-12-04T13:55:33.915-08:00Just say no<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/2643/4267/1600/970027/132_3246.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/2643/4267/320/755880/132_3246.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I’ve noticed that French people like to say non. <br /><br />It makes me think of a Portuguese guy I met in Horta, who was affectionately named Johnny Paradise. That wasn’t really his name, but the Dane mangled his real name and this moniker stuck. Besides strumming his freaking guitar at every opportunity, Johnny Paradise liked to talk about his ability to speak five languages, and how that had lead to his working at a travel agency. He’d manage to work, “Well, you know I can speak five languages…” into every brief conversation at least three times, lest anyone forgot. One of the things he said about the French was that their initial response to any idea, proposition or random thought was always, “Ce n’est pas possible.” <br /><br />I hate to admit that Johnny Paradise was right. <br /><br />I dissolved into giggles a couple of times while trying to open a bank account with different French banks because he hit it right on the money -- intonation, expression, and all. Thanks for the heads up, Johnny.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-21004131978396503252006-11-28T14:23:00.000-08:002006-11-28T14:25:55.316-08:00Running through ParisI went running tonight through the streets of Paris. The lights of the Eiffel Tower were twinkling at me, the Louvre was all lit up like a beauty queen, and I had my own private moment of thanksgiving.<br /><br />On a completely unrelated note, will the dollar please stop its drastic decline against the euro? This is killing me.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1164267992944439412006-11-22T23:46:00.000-08:002006-12-03T14:33:54.855-08:00Beatdown on the Avenue de la RepubliqueYesterday I saw two young women drivers go ballistic at each other in the middle of the Avenue de la Republique. One on a scooter, one in a car. Out strolling and exploring my new neighborhood and the ones nearby, I’d been looking mainly up at the buildings with frequent glances down to avoid skating through poo. I was jolted out of my blissful reverie by harsh invective. Then shrill invective. It only took a second to locate the source by following all the turned heads on the packed sidewalk. What was it? Car Driver had hit Scooter Driver, who apparently proceeded to lose her mind. She yelled at Car Driver at the top of her lungs. She got off her scooter in the middle of the roundabout. She stomped menacingly closer (still yelling) to the mini car that Car Driver wielded so ineptly. Car Driver responded with her own piercing screams, popping veins, and contorted facial expressions. This sent Scooter Driver over the edge, and, still wearing her helmet, she started pounding on Car Driver through the half closed window. Not for one punch or two, but for a prolonged time period – long enough for me to wonder a) if I should call the police, b) realize I can’t actually speak to the police; I don’t know the requisite fighting verbs, c) wonder if other bystanders might call for help, and d) ponder whether people would generally observe the smackdown but mind their own business in the end. Whatever. It was long enough for my thoughts to go wandering down these paths and a few others. Then they each drove off and the bystanders dispersed, shaking their heads reprovingly and sighing about how violent people are these days.<br /><br />I lived in Brooklyn for a long time, but this is first time I’ve witnessed a beatdown administered through a window.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1164133907336905042006-11-21T10:21:00.000-08:002006-11-21T10:31:47.353-08:00AnticipationWe loaded up our little secondhand car (nicknamed “Hubbley-bup”) with all of our possessions, feeling proud that the packing each month for each city gets a little tighter, a little slicker, a little faster. Proud that we keep chunking material goods away with a nonchalant, “We don’t really need that.” The first round move, when D left New York to sail solo across the ocean and I parked myself in a sublet to wait and worry, was a debacle. Now I’ve got it down to a science. 30 minutes to tuck everything away.<br /><br />The drive from Belgium was alternately quietly drizzly and stormy. Both of us were quiet and wrapped up in our anxiety about how this apartment would look and whether we’d even be afforded the chance to like it. Real estate roulette. After Anthony-from-California pulled a disappearing act on Saturday along with his apartment, we knew it was a possibility that we were driving for 5 hours for no reason. When the phone beeped to tell us that it held a message, my heart sank. No need, though. It was only a warning that the landlord-to-be was running late. So we arrived an hour early for the original appointment, scurried around in the rain trying to check out this famously trendy area with its mélange of inhabitants, then gave up and sought refuge in the car for the last hour. At ten till the hour we rushed to the building’s front door. “Should we wait for her outside?” No. She’d given us the code for the first door. We went into the vestibule and pushed the buzzer with her name on it. A few seconds passed, and nothing happened. A lady happened along, and we both whirled towards her with hopeful expressions on our faces. Are you…? No, sorry. <br />Oh.<br /><br />A minute later a teeny, dark-haired girl bustled into the doorway laden with bags and packages, and this time the response was affirmative. I tried to be careful not to show my excitement, since I hadn’t seen anything inside yet. But she was friendly and casual and easy-going, all things that the others had not been. She didn’t demand a gazillion papers. She just pointed out a few things that were quirks of the place and asked if we thought we’d like to take it? It was so easy. I stopped holding my breath.<br /><br />And now we live in Paris.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1163928082279885362006-11-19T01:20:00.000-08:002006-11-19T01:21:54.970-08:00The Polish plumberJust perusing the NYT. There are so few skilled workers in Poland that they'll have to hire peope from Germany, Ukraine, and Belarus? <br />Dude.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1163923840988587732006-11-19T00:08:00.000-08:002006-11-19T01:45:59.076-08:00Lockdown<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4186/3880/1600/IMG_3905.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4186/3880/320/IMG_3905.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />This village suburb of Antwerp is beautiful. For a short visit. Meaning a week, max. D.’s family’s house is nicely secluded, set far back from the street with forest for protection in front. The same forest extends far behind the house. It’s a special setup; apparently the neighborhood doesn’t allow anyone to retreat so far anymore. Gotta love that Stepford spirit. Most of the other houses line up uniformly within easy reach of the bricked streets. There also must have been some edict for them to cut down all trees in the vicinity, too, and they’re all naked.<br /><br />I’ve always hated ‘burbs of any kind. I can still feel the profound sense of relief I had when I moved away from my parents’ place in the soul-smothering, brain-numbing sticks of Atlanta to go to Boston. No more driving everywhere. No more in-between. Choose either the city or the country and commit to it.<br /><br />I feel that same sense of stagnation all around me here (made worse by the constant presence of one family member who doesn’t work, go to school, or do much of anything besides watch TV – but that’s another entry). The forested barrier is closing in on me like some kind of leafy prison door. Must leave quickly.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1163780904645742652006-11-17T08:26:00.000-08:002006-11-17T08:28:24.660-08:00Laura's NYC Tales/The Chris Rock storyI love this story: http://www.laurasnyctales.com/current/chris-rock.html<br />Laura, when is your book coming out?Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1163712310998717742006-11-16T13:23:00.000-08:002006-11-16T13:25:11.010-08:00Fingers crossedI haven't written much, not wanting so many variations on the same old thing. But...we might have an apartment! If this works, Anthony in California, I love you. Small, so be it. I don't care anymore.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1163507168065117832006-11-14T04:03:00.000-08:002006-11-14T04:26:08.086-08:00HopesWe drove from Antwerp to Paris with giddy anticipation. We're going to find an apartment! we thought. A stringent search through the PAP website had yielded a "loft-like" studio close to 50 square meters, and it might work as a home and a place for D. to paint. The owner answered our email promptly, a first in our Paris Craigslist experience (have the French caught on to the wonder that is CL? In NYC I used the site to get my apartment, my bike, my language lessons, and pretty much the rest of my life).<br /><br />We parked easily near the prospective score. A reggae shop near our destination was a good omen. The guy had given us the codes to the first and second locked doors, indicating we should go to building X. Is that like cellblock X? I'd worried, picturing a compound of large, identical high-rise monstrosities. I'd pushed those thoughts aside. We needed to check out every possible option. The front of the building was fine in an ordinary way, and we entered the interior walkway. Rows of windows faced each other, albeit not too closely. The hallway and stairs of bulding X looked old and ill-kept, but the 3rd floor apartment boasted double exposure and lots of light. Too bad the gauzy curtains would have to be kept closed to peering neighbors across the way. No oven. A raised bed. I silenced all my objections and answered, "Yes, I like it," to my husband's hopeful, questioning expression. I could see that he was thinking, "I can paint here!" and he'd already put the stamp of approval on it. So we left an extensive dossier with the owner, hoping that he didn't aspire to identity theft. Does he shred those papers afterward? I wondered desultorily. I decided it was best not to think about those things, either. Much less common here. I hoped.<br /><br />Afterwards we drifted to a nearby comfy cafe, where the bartender waved us breezily to any open table. Clearly he failed to convey that to the waiter, who was perturbed by our meager order of two cafe cremes. He pressed his lips together and stopped shy of a full roll of the eyes. We didn't care. We were protected by twin cloaks of apathy; we'd have plenty of time to win him over with our new apartment down the street and all. We'd be there all the time. We'd be regulars. He'd welcome us with open arms. All we had to do was wait to hear from Mr. XXX, the owner. He'd winked at me as we left, a message I understood as, "It's all yours."<br /><br />On Monday evening, D. got the email: "I've rented the apartment. Sorry."<br /><br />Maybe that wink simply meant, "I'M all yours."Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34957907.post-1162805233363030812006-11-06T01:25:00.000-08:002006-11-06T01:27:13.373-08:00Mr. Rogers' NeighborhoodWe had a sweeeet split-level loft in Brooklyn, but I couldn’t stand my next door neighbors on one side. That’s the thing about apartment living. You’re joined at the hip to all kinds of people against your will. I should have known these two would be trouble from the moment they knocked on our door to welcome us to the building. They came bearing gifts in the form of cut-up slices of cantaloupe. <br />Beware of people who are overeager. Healthy reserve is a good thing. <br />At the time I thought, “What a nice gesture. Awww…” Much later I saw its true ulterior motive: noseyness. <br />I wonder what our neighbors in Paris will be like.Gumbo Girlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01205979425081846340noreply@blogger.com1