Expat woes.

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On my bus ride to the doctor’s office yesterday, a frazzled-looking woman boarded and asked the bus driver if we were headed toward the American Hospital. Hearing her desperate English and the driver’s unsympathetic French replies, I stepped in and told her that yes, the bus was going to the American Hospital, and that she should just get out when I did.

She thanked me profusely, and then proceeded to launch into a sad litany of all-too-common complaints about expat life: The language barrier, the difficulty of doing the most simple things, not being able to drive, having a hard time making friends, dealing with surly French bus drivers.

I just smiled and said, “Yeah, but that’s what they make the champagne and croissants for!”

She laughed weakly and said she was just glad she was moving back to New Jersey next week. Where she could drive all over the carefree suburbs and find people who actually spoke English. Because seriously, why was that bus driver being such a jerk? I know he knew what I was saying. How come he didn’t just help me out in English?

I just smiled again patiently and said “C’est la vie.” But what I really wanted to say was maybe he doesn’t speak English because YOU’RE IN FRANCE where people speak FRENCH? And after living here for 2 years you should at least be able to ask simple questions in the native language?

Because I’d really, really like to see how that bus driver would get along in Princeton, NJ if he refused to make any attempt to speak English. He’d probably get punched in the face at least 16 times just trying to figure out why he’s not allowed to pump his own gas.

A plea to fellow tourists.

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Let me start this post by saying that I am all for people getting out there and seeing the world. I think it’s incredible how easy it has become to globe trot, and wonderful that folks young and old are taking advantage.

But my recent travels made me wish there was some kind of cultural awareness exam or basic manners test required before passports are issued.

I know. I sound like a big ol’ Parisian snob. But seriously? I witnessed so many cringe-inducing moments throughout the major cities of Italy, often unfortunately perpetrated by large hordes of my fellow loud talking American citizens. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I saw any actual Italian people in Florence. Just wave after wave of American college students, with their frat-tastically ironic sunglasses and painfully inane conversations.

Like the girl who cheerfully asked me where I lived (Paris) and oh! Can you drive there from here? (Um, not really).

(Yes, I’m a grumpy old fart who’s just bitter that the Jersey Shore guy invited every chick at the pizza place out to a club except me. If anyone watches that show, keep an eye out for my bitter old lady face in the background)

But I’ll give the college kids a pass. They’re young, they’re learning, they’re making an effort to expand their universe.

What I won’t forgive are the tour groups.

Unless you are in elementary school or famous enough to require an entourage, there is no logical reason for you to be traveling anywhere in an organized group of more than 5 people. And by no means should you be wearing a headset, blindly following some crazed guide waving a colorful umbrella or flag or pompom on a stick.

The tour groups (from all over the world) made visiting most of the major landmarks in Italy 10 times more painful than necessary. Crowded around the David, oblivious to anyone else who might want to take a peek at the Uffizi , wildly aiming cameras and video cameras at the Sistine Chapel ceiling, even though there were clear signs and surly security guards reminding you that NO PICTURES ARE ALLOWED.

I don’t know why that last one bothers me so much, but it does. For the love of crap people, what exactly are you planning to do with your blurred snapshot of the Birth of Venus anyway? No one needs visual proof that you were there. Or maybe they do because in 10 years the painting will be destroyed by all the obnoxious flashes going off.

It makes me sad (and slightly hostile), watching people so caught up in capturing the moment that they don’t actually get to experience the moment. Can’t we all just put the cameras away while we’re in the museum, break free from the guided herd for a bit and just enjoy the magnificent stuff in front of us?

Because really, if you’re stuck in a giant tour group that’s making life miserable for every other patron and you’re too busy swapping out telescopic lenses on your new digital camera to actually just enjoy where you are, then what’s the point of traveling?

Besides, I happen to believe that the the only vacation photos anyone will care about in 30 years are the ones like this:

A lot o’ gelato.

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I am back from a glorious trip through Italy, well rested and sun kissed. And probably also about 10 pounds heavier, which I will shamelessly attribute to le bébé. Honestly. I swear it had nothing at all to do with this:

or this:

or this:

That last one there was technically sorbet (melon and lemon), which is nothing more than a light afternoon refreshment. A palate cleanser. Practically health food if you ask me.

I will admit that the cone I accidentally topped with two scoops of gelato mousse (which is apparently not gelato, but pure whipped cream) wasn’t the healthiest approach. But I didn’t even finish that one! I ate Husband’s stracciatella instead.

And although I did fall deeply, madly in love with a dark chocolate fondant and caramel combination from Giolitti in Rome, I can say with authority that red grapefruit sorbet is really where it’s at. And isn’t grapefruit part of any healthful, nutritious diet?

Yep. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Especially when I step on the scale at the doctor’s office today.

Taking a break.

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No posts this week – I’m taking a break and devoting all my free time to eating gelato. We’ll return to our regularly scheduled programing soon!

Vocab Friday: Seriously?

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I’d really like to stop talking about my boobs. Honestly. But the world just won’t let me forget just how freakishly obscene they are right now. And that means you get to hear all about it. So, earmuffs children. Or maybe eyepatches. Either way, it’s about to get personal up in here.

Because last week as I was hauling my suitcase up the hill to the airport shuttle at 7am, waddling and visibly pregnant, a lone Parisian garbage truck driver took it upon himself to honk in my direction. And as I glanced over to see what all the fuss was about, I saw that he was hanging out window, open mouthed, cupping the air with both hands in front of his chest in an obscene-looking gesture that I could only interpret as “Hey lady! Nice elephant tits!”

Seriously. What kind of world do we live in? On what planet is that necessary? And what, exactly, are slimy guys hoping to achieve by making drive by catcalls to pregnant ladies? It was certainly not quite the sendoff I was hoping for. Thank god I was leaving the godforsaken sexist streets of Europe for the kinder, more polite folks in North Carolina.

But not 45 minutes after my arrival in the genteel south, I was greeted warmly by a CVS cashier lady in Charlotte who thought it completely appropriate to ask, “Girl, when are you due? Look at them big ol’ titties!”

I stood speechless for a minute. Clearly she meant well. But did she honestly just say big old titties? Yes. Yes she did. So I smiled and told her the baby was due in July. And then considered buying some oversize trash bags to drape over myself to avoid any further confrontations.

Seriously, are my nipples alone an open invitation to say the first inappropriate thing that comes to mind? I mean, if that’s the case, let’s just go ahead and get it all out there now while I still find it relatively funny and my hormones haven’t reached peak scariness. Because at some point I might snap and start wielding these things as deadly weapons in response. You know, crushing people’s skulls with the weight of one breast and such.

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le nichon (luh nee-shaugh) – boob or tit.

le sein (luh sai) – breast

la poitrine (lah pwah-treen) – chest

As in,

“I’m so glad we can all have a good laugh about my nichons. Seriously, the sein jokes never get old!”

From Bojangles to Burma.

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I just spent a fabulous weekend on Bald Head Island, watching two good friends get hitched. There was sun, sand, and lots of good food. And on the drive back to the Charlotte airport, my brother said that I absolutely had to stop for a chicken biscuit at Bojangles.

Yes, I said Bojangles. That ubiquitous fried chicken chain of the south. Which I have actually never been to before and which also actually turned out to be the highlight of route 74. If you know NC route 74, you know that’s not saying much, but the point is, fried chicken on a biscuit is almost always delicious– even at a sketchy looking fast food joint.

I then hopped on a plane, jetted across the Atlantic and woke up in Paris, biscuit crumbs still clinging to my shirt. Just a few hours later I was at a cooking class, learning how to make mayonnaise and chocolate mousse in a gorgeous old Parisian mansion. And not long after that, I found myself riding in the backseat of a private car with the Myanmar Ambassador’s wife, who happened to also be in the cooking class. She couldn’t stop talking about how much she loved Macys.

Bojangles to Burma in less than 24 hours: It was just weird enough to make me wonder if jet lag caused hallucinations.

Vocab Friday: les collants

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Keeping it short and sweet this week because if all goes as planned, I will be sitting on a beach in North Carolina, getting ready to celebrate the marriage of two truly awesome people, when you read this. That’s after taking a 9 hour flight, a 3 hour car ride, and a 30 minute ferry cruise to get there. All while wearing the undeniably sexy medical compression tights that my doctor prescribed for traveling. And by prescribed I mean I had to go to the pharmacy and get measured for those suckers. God are they ugly. But I think it’s all totally worth it to see Mr. Medley and Ms. Rose tie the knot! (I promise not to wear the tights to the wedding)

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les collants

Pronunciation: ley coh-lahnt

Definition: tights. As in,

“I can’t think of anything more uncomfortable than wearing medical compression collants for 9 hours on a plane while pregnant. Other than giving birth itself.” 

Perplexed.

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 See the cotton floral abomination above? They’re really popular here in Paris. Especially with the young ladies. And I have NO IDEA WHY.

Granted, I’m not exactly a fashion icon these days, seeing that I rarely don anything other than yoga pants and can’t even see my toes. But every time I see some beautiful Parisienne wearing grandma’s genie pants I just want to grab her and say pourquoi?!

They look like tapered pajamas at best, a bad accident with victorian curtains at worst. I thought maybe it was just a French thing, but the fine specimen above is from Anthropologie’s sale page. And I’m truly sorry if anyone out there reading this is wearing those pants right now, but I just don’t get it.

Does that make me an old fart?

Crabs, French style.

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I am from Maryland. Which inherently means I can take down a dozen or so blue crabs without batting an eye. I love the ritual: sitting for hours on some hot, sticky back porch, a perfect pile of crustaceans steaming on the newsprint in front of you and a cold beer handy for when the Old Bay spices get the best of you. I relish in the exquisite torture of pulling apart a crab piece by piece, meticulously picking and prying to retrieve the tiniest morsel of sweet meat.

Husaband, on the other hand, is from Maine. He’s used to finding the mother lode with one crack of a tail. His delicate hands can’t handle the fresh sting of red pepper and salt in all the nicks where the crab claw put up a fight. He often mistakenly eats the mustardy guts out of sheer hungry desperation. When he eats crustaceans, he’s looking for a bigger, faster payoff.

So when a friend recommended a little place up the street from us called Le Crabe Marteau (the crab hammer), we were intrigued. They promised newspaper covered tables and plenty of mallets to smash the living daylights out of your food (in Paris of all places!). But the crabs on tap were of a heartier stock than those delicate specimens from the Chesapeake: le torteau, which pretty much looks like a blue crab on steroids, and l’arraignee de mer, which is your basic spider crab. Plus they offered fresh oysters and langoustines (like crawfish) from Bretagne.

(All served, I might add, by a tanned French waiter with dreamy blue eyes, tousled blonde curls, a rustic, seafaring stubble and adorable striped shirt. Who happily obliged when I asked more than once to show me again how to crack the crabs open.)

Which means I could have my epic, messy crab picking experience (with a side of hot waiter) and Husband could get more crab meat. And a bib. That’s a win-win situation, wouldn’t you say?

Vocab Friday: Chez le coiffeur

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Perhaps feeling emboldened by the gorgeous weather or just distressed by the snaggly nature of my tresses this morning, I decided on a whim to stop into a salon de coiffure in the 6th that looked friendly and didn’t cost more than 90 euro.

I’ve only been brave enough to get one other haircut here, fearful that my atrocious French would only lead to even worse hair than I started with. I’ve waited for trips home to see my main man Marcus, who thinks it’s totally insane that I don’t want to get coiffed in the hair capital of the world. But I’m really particular about my haircuts and my hair cutters. I don’t need or want anything fancy, but I’ve got weird hair. It’s super fine but also curly-ish and has a tendency to flip out in really bizarre, uncontrollable ways. Yet I still want to be able to just kind of roll out of bed in the morning and have it be luscious and long and flowy without having to do anything to it.

So pretty much I’d like to just wake up as Sarah Jessica Parker or Blake Lively. Is that so much to ask?

Anyway, at my first French haircut I was disturbed to discover that often everything gets charged separately. Le shampooing, the coupe, the blowout– even the dang conditioner were all sold individually. Which is really confusing if you’re not sure what the stylist is saying to you anyway.

This time, thankfully, le prix was all inclusive– and when I say all inclusive, I mean I got 2+ hours of chair time with a lovely French man from Bourgogne who attended to every hair on my head with delicate attention while telling me all about why starting a business in the US is easier than in France, his plans to visit the Grand Canyon, his love of architecture and opera, the current immigration situation, his opinion of Sarkozy, his distaste for socialism, his views on development in Africa, and how to take a boat ride down the canal St. Martin. He also told me I was the prettiest mother-to-be in Paris and wanted to know if I had a sister. Or a cousin maybe.

Sheesh. The last time I talked to Marcus all I got was a story about how one to many margaritas on the beach led to his shaved head. And that once you shave your head, you might as well go for the hoo-hah!

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le coiffeur/la coiffeuse

Pronunciation: luh kwah-fuhr/ lah kwah-fuhz

Definition: hairdresser (male/female)

le coiffure

Pronunciation: luh kwa-fyr

Definition: hairdo or hairstyle. As in,

“My, that coiffeur gave you a lovely coiffure!”