I’m not in Paris anymore…

Just to give you an idea of just how much reverse culture shock I’m in for over the next couple weeks, let me  describe my morning:

I woke up with le bébé and instead of feeding her under 12 foot moulded ceilings in front of a marble fire place, I fed her while sitting in my brother’s old bedroom – which is plastered with old surfing posters and broken skateboards. It’s a wonderful room, but kind of like waking up in a time capsule from 1997.

Then we went for a walk – not through the majestic Parc Monceau, but up the steep winding suburban street of my youth. I passed the house I grew up in, the house where my grandma lives, and a few neighbors I didn’t recognize.

And then on the walk back, I noticed two guys in full camo gear scaling a tree in my dad’s back yard.

Ahhhh, the local deer hunters. Mind you, it’s not so rural out here anymore and I’m not sure which direction those guys could shoot their crossbows without spearing someone’s window. But they were up early looking for wild game. In my back yard.

If I had known I would have brought back my crappy French oven for them – they’d probably be pumped about the gibier setting!