F Train to Paris

In which a Jewish family from Brooklyn moves to Paris, France for two years of work, school, and adventures.

 

I put on my ruby slippers, clicked my heels, chanted "There's no place like home"--then I took a train, a 7-hour flight, and a taxi--and magically found myself transported back home to Brooklyn.

Last week, I spent five days in NYC with my oldest son, J., visiting high schools  in anticipation of moving back home over the summer. We had a great time, and his high schools visits were all successful. Now he just has to choose (assuming he's accepted).  There was only one flaw in the ointment: It was pledge week at WNYC, New York's public radio station. Of all weeks to be home and equipped with a radio!

A few thoughts upon returning to Paris:

1. I love NY. It is home in a profound way, while Paris feels like home in a pleasant but temporary way. I rarely forget that I'm not here (in Paris) permanently, while in NY I easily forget that I'm only around for a short time.

2. NY dog owners, you're slipping! As we walk around the dog poop-strewn streets of Paris, we have often reflected on how much cleaner NY has become thanks to the pooper-scooper law.  Sadly, it is no longer true.

3. Shocking news: Most people in NY speak English! Hey, I'm just not used to it. I found myself turning my  head each time I heard a voice speaking English, as I usually do in Paris. I also found myself greeting shop owners upon entering stores and saying goodbye when I walked out, in French style, out of habit. It seems like a pleasant, courteous thing to do, but I did get some funny looks. And it takes forever to stop saying "pardon" instead of "excuse me."

4. My body seems to prefer NY to Paris, overwhelmingly. The persistent lower back pain disappeared instantly, the stubborn pimple on my cheek started to clear up, and the patches of dry skin on my sides, which I'd been slathering with sweet almond oil to no avail, just vanished.

5. Yes, there's a Starbucks on every corner in NY, but lots of them have no comfy chairs. That was disappointing.

*******

Yesterday was "La Journee Porte Ouverte" (Open House Day) at E.'s school, Eurecole. Prospective parents and current parents alike are welcome to spend the day sitting in on classes, and many do. I spent about a hour at the beginning of the day, observing the kindergarten's morning rituals and E.'s English class, and then returned later to see his German class. Although he is thriving at the school and loves all his teachers, it is pretty shocking how structured the day is compared to an American kindergarten. Aside from their outdoor playtimes, there is little or no time to just explore the classroom and play. They spend most of the day seated at the tables, working on various projects with their colored markers and special black pens ("feutre extra fin noir," as E. explains with his perfect accent). 

SInce I know that next year E. will be back in an American school in NY, with more playtime in first grade than he has this year in kindergarten, I'm not concerned. The skills he's learning now--excellent cutting technique, coloring in the lines, writing perfect cursive letters--can't hurt. But some parents who are here for the longer term were quite surprised and even worried by what they saw. Allowing parents into the classrooms is a mixed bag--sometimes we see more than we really want to.

posted by: pariskleinmans at 11:46 | link | comments (4) |

 

Blame it on the sales. 

Who has time to blog--or buy food, cook, go to museums, write a novel, whatever--when almost everything in almost every store in Paris is on sale? Up to 50% off!  

I don’t know about you, but my mother didn’t raise me to pass that up. 

My mother, in fact, has been with me throughout the period known in France as "Les Soldes," which began on January 12 and will officially end on February 12. She died almost 14 years ago, but wherever clothing is reduced for clearance, my mother is there. She taught me to shop, and the skills I learned from her have stood me in good stead this month.

I skipped the first day of the sales, for two reasons. First of all, it is completely insane. The sidewalks of rue de Passy, the shopping street that is our main drag, are impassable. You can’t get in the doors of most of the boutiques, from Kenzo to Espirit to The Gap. The grands magasins (big department stores) like Printemps and Galeries Lafayette are wall-to-wall shoppers. My mother would have braved it, but I am not quite in her league.

Also, I had offered to host a coffee for parents at E.’s school, Eurecole, and it was inadvertently scheduled for that Wednesday morning.  A couple of days before the coffee, a friend called to give me a heads up about the conflict and suggest that I change the date. This was impossible, as slips of lime-green paper inviting parents to the coffee had been distributed in December, with no RSVP necessary. The coffee would go on, even if only a few sales-shy moms showed up. “You’re coming, though,” I said to my friend encouragingly. But no, she too was planning to hit the sales.

She did ultimately come to the coffee; she really had no choice, as I made it a matter of loyalty with my friends. In fact, more than 20 moms in all (plus one dad, the charming and brave Juan) showed up, bearing croissants, chouquettes, and galettes de roi. Some left early to get in a little shopping before school pickup; some came late after making a quick stop at a favorite store.  

My own shopping began that Friday, and I haven’t stopped since. I’ve acquired two coats, a stack of sweaters, a couple of pairs of pants, a pair of boots, and some luggage. My favorite item is an Agnes B. skirt that I tried on months ago and rejected as too expensive. During the sales it was marked down 40%; two were left, and one was my size.  

There are three distinct pleasures to be had at the sales. First, you can fill in the holes in your family’s wardrobes at good prices. By mid-January, it’s clear who needs new jeans, new t-shirts, a new coat. (It was very cold last week and my two older sons, who have been wearing sweatshirts all winter, admitted they needed coats. What great timing!)

Then, there’s the joy of buying a couple of special things, like that Agnes B. skirt, that will cause everyone back home to exclaim, “That’s so French!” And finally, during the sales, I feel comfortable marching right into all those chic boutiques that I usually feel too unchic to enter. Anything goes during les soldes. 

The sales are almost over—especially for me, since I’m going to NY soon and I’ll miss the final week. I may make a few more purchases, but even if I don’t buy another thing, I feel satisfied. I’ve shopped well, and my mother would be proud.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

posted by: pariskleinmans at 12:14 | link | comments (4) |