Work

Started my new job. Hence the infrequency of my blog entries (ok so that may be an excuse, really I'm having trouble putting myself out there in the Internet ether - I'm actually quite a private person, you know). I work for one of the oldest study abroad programs in Paris. It was created in the fifties right after the implementation of the Marshall Plan, as a way for the upper-class southern girls at the school to see a bit of Europe before settling down. They studied art and languages (probably French cuisine as well) during the academic year and then during the summer went on a "Grand Tour" of Europe, doubtless so that they would appear very worldly and cultured at the dinner parties that they would later be hosting for their husbands' colleagues. After a major crisis in the 80s they thought they might have to shut the program and the university down altogether. Luckily this didn't happen because the board of trustees, largely composed of the gentile older ladies who had participated in the Paris program in the 50s, would have had a fit if the program were discontinued. However, the program has been in dire straits, never attracting the appropriate amount of students. We have been assured though that the program is "intouchable."

The office itself is adorable. We're on the fourth floor on the north side of the first courtyard of an 18th century building. Like all top floor rooms, it has mansard windows that make the ceilings slope down at a dramatic angle. I've never lived or worked in a mansard room but it feels somewhat like I'm working in a kind of doll-sized office, like John Cusack's office in "Being John Malkovich." Our desks are set up so that our little heads poke up into the airy and bright space left by the windows. We look out, not at the courtyard below, but directly across at the offices of another study abroad program and into the closet-sized office of the local apartment rental expert. His office is so small that I first mistook it for a bathroom, which was mildly disturbing, but thankfully, we aren't subjected to such an unpleasant view. In order to see the courtyard below - still fragrant and ornamented with the soft pink bloom of Elizabethan roses - we have to stretch our stand on our tip toes and stretch our necks out the windows. From our neighbors' perspective it must look like a re-enactment of the execution of Robespierre. All in all, I have the impression of working in an attic somewhere, but I like that feeling, sort of cozy and romantic.

Tout le monde en parle: World Cup of Rugby

Somehow I doubt that the World Cup of Rugby is the focus of much attention in the States, but here in France you can't step out the door without being reminded that the championship is happening right in our own backyard -at the Stade de France in Saint-Denis. Case in point - the cafe across the street has a huge French flag waving in the wind and a large orange and white sign inviting "les assoiffes du rugby" to come to watch a match and (bien entendu) enjoy a few drinks. I found out, however, that much of this is false advertising because when I decided to head over there the other night the cafe was closed. This happened not once, but twice. I was extremely disappointed. Now I just tisk at the sign as I walk by. I think I'll have to find a good English pub near the center of the city instead. Or I could always go to the Hotel de Ville where there is a gigantic movie-sized screen and huge speakers set up for the other poor people who don't have cable at home and can't find a welcoming bar to hang out in. I have to admit that I have no real interest in the sport, but the guys who play it sure are hot and I'm hoping some of the guys who watch it are too.

Which reminds me...I have never seen so many kilts in my life. It seems everywhere I go in Paris I encounter yet another pack of ginger-haired and pale-legged fellows sporting kilts, jerseys and Doc Martens. And then last night thousands of them descended upon the Eiffel Tower and started an impromptu parade, bagpipes and all, that stretched all the way to the stadium.

A letter from my cat

My cat is phenomenally talented. She wrote me this the day after I left. Apparently she's been practicing typing in the close while I was away at work:

Where are you? Chin and I finally realized at some point yesterday that you were not coming home that day. Monday, we didn't realize it, so we weren't> that upset. But, Tuesday, we knew .... You had been gone a whole day and we were left alone. We were upset and we showed it last night.. I would not sleep with that woman and he bugged her all night long - begging for food, ice, panting, ranking toys> out and moping. He wouldn't relax and any noise he heard, he barked. He's such a fool. He still thinks you're coming back today. I know better. You did this before. Anyhow, we all miss you very much. We'll call you tomorrow. Love, Tasha, and Chin (and Mom!)

Heavenly night

Mmmm. Just may have had the best night ever. Watched one of my favorite French TV crime-fighters, Louis La Brocante (an antiques dealer who always manages to stumble upon some mysterious objet d'art that is the center of some family or village drama), and ate a huge serving of fresh, crusty baguette smeared with creamy white butter and and several tablespoons of the most luscious, golden and flowery-flavored honey (made by a Parisian banker and a part-time beekeeper at his home in the Vosges mountain range). Such simple pleasures. I went to bed happy and sated.

Cheap airfare anxiety

Finding a cheap one-way ticket to Paris is always a crap shoot. So much depends on the time of year you're flying and how far in advance you book. Add to this the general stress of an overseas move, the tense wait for a work visa and an increasingly irrational terror of flying and you have a pretty good idea of how I was feeling when I went online to book my flight. I googled everything I could think of to bring up a legitimate and cheap booking service - "cheap airline tickets" "low price airline tickets" "dirt cheap flights" and I did find some promising looking sights that unfortunately advertised a fare that was no longer available (cheeky bastard monkeys!). In the end I decided to go with my old stand-by, Expedia. I've used them with the majority of my international and domestic flights and I've never had a problem getting a reasonable deal with well-known carriers. Plus I already have an account with them so I didn't have to go through the process of creating a user name, password etc. (Did I also mention that when it comes to booking flights I am incredibly lazy?) This time, however, I was confronted with a real dilemma - choosing between two airlines that I had never heard of before. My first choice was Aer Lingus, an Irish airline that stopped in Dublin on the way, and the other was Condor, a German charter airline that would take me to Frankfurt and then on to Paris. I started feeling panicked, who did I trust to fly me over the Atlantic, the Irish or the Germans. My friends were all in agreement, especially the Irish ones, fly with the Germans. My mom's advice was to pray about it and God would tell me what flight to take. I told her that I thought he would want me to take the cheaper one. And so that's what I did. Booked a flight on an airline that I had never heard of. For the next five weeks I woke up in a panic, imagining that my flight was going down. It didn't help matters that I had just watched The Secret and learned that I had the power to make manifest that which I imagined. Oy! I really have to stop imagining such negative things.

All told, I woke up the morning of my flight reassured that God would not be so cruel as to give me this job in Paris and then have me go down in a fireball somewhere off the coast of Greenland. And I made it. Not even a bit of turbulence. I even slept through the in flight movies thanks to a couple of Bloody Mary's and two Advil PM.