la fille en rose

I'm now back in Paris, having arrived Sunday morning. And it's so hard.

My mom had a major stroke, with no warning. Five weeks beforehand we were hiking over waterfalls in Morocco, and now . . . I don't want to be too specific, as my mom is a very private person, so I'll just say that she's making progress, but it's slow, as apparently most strokes are. My mom is young and healthy, so we're hoping she'll make a full recovery, and she's in one of the best rehab clinics in the country. The problem is she's been there almost a month now, and she desperately wants to go home.

My trip to New York was originally going to be just over two weeks, and I extended it to four. Most of that time was spent at the hospital, from 3 to 8 hours a day. I was able to see most of my friends (Jeff and Josh, you're up first next time!), which was fantastic. I really felt supported and loved by all my friends who made time to see me, planned special events near the hospital so I could attend, and sent their love and prayers to room 110A. Every bit helped, so thank you all.

My trip was obviously not the vacation I was expecting it to be. Passover, instead of the elaborate, hours-long meal it normally is, was different but no less meaningful this year. We read the prayers and sang the songs and drank grape juice next to my mom's hospital bed. As the youngest, I sang the Four Questions and made everyone listen to me sing Chad Gadya in Aramaic. I really love that song. I got my hair cut, and went shopping at Old Navy, and attended my 10-year high school reunion (pics to come!), but my mind was always with my mom.

Making the decision to come back was really hard. And leaving her that day to go to the airport was one of the hardest things I've ever done, if not the hardest. My mom is my best friend, and I love her so much. I am truly blessed to have such a wonderful relationship with her, and to know that we love and respect each other both as mother and daughter, and as two women who can make each other laugh.

I talked to a lot of people about what to do: my therapist, my mom's friends, her doctors, my friends . . . and everyone told me that I have to continue my life. And my life is in Paris, as crazy and random as that may be. My dad actually flat out told me that I couldn't stay by saying, "I won't have your life turn into a Victorian novel, with you as the spinster who gives up her life to take care of her ailing mother!" To which I replied, "I'm only 28! I'm hardly a spinster."

Living at home with my dad, just the two of us, was really good. We had just spent a lot of time together in January, obviously, but I think it was important for both of us to have someone to say goodnight to. And to share dog-walking responsibilities! I swear, Teddy is the cutest thing in the world, and kept us both laughing every day. Look at my little muffinhead!

My sister and I worked very well together, sharing the jobs that come with a sick family member, while dad took care of insurance, doctors, and paperwork. Mom was never alone, due to our constantly emailing schedules back and forth. We alternated nights, so that each of us could get some time with our friends, and dad filled in when we both had plans. And now I left it all to them, and I feel so incredibly guilty.

I call a few times a day, but mom has up to six hours of rehab therapy every day, and in between she tries to grab naps. So even when I'm able to get hold of her, we can only talk for a few minutes. And I miss her terribly.

How do I do this? How do I just continue on with my life here, knowing that dad and Tessa are still at the hospital daily? How do I leave my mom to battle this without me? If anyone has advice, I could really use it right about now.

Sunday night, I got an emergency call from my father in New York. My mom had been admitted to the hospital, and I got on a plane Monday morning. By 1:45 pm, I was at my mom's side.

I don't want to go into details, or explain the story a million times. But I won't be blogging for a bit, as all of my energy is going into my family right now. If you need to get hold of me for any reason, email is the best bet. My old NYC cell phone number (for those of you in the States), is now back up and running.

Keep us in your prayers. It can't hurt.

In exactly six days, I will begin my descent into the New York City area. I can't wait. The past month has been a crazy rollercoaster of highs and lows. I've gained hope that I might be able to stay, and gained frustration at the way things work. I am still positive I want to be here long-term, but I am ready for a break.

Here, in no particular order, are the things I most want to eat when I get home:

• a medium-rare cheeseburger, with cheddar and sautéed onions, from JG Melon's
• sushi from Roppongi
• shredded beef Schezuan and Moo Shu chicken from First Wok
• sesame noodles from Tang Tang
• curry seafood flat noodle soup from Bo Ky
• mom's lasagna
• mom's sweet-and-sour brisket with orzo
• mom's spaghetti with meat sauce
• mom's curried lima bean soup
• mom's Chinese noodles
• mom's gunky chicken
• a grilled cheese sandwich, made with white bread, Kraft singles, and served with Campbell's tomato soup
• Diet Dr Pepper
• a tuna melt, again with Kraft singles, and way too much (Hellman's) mayo
  
• the house salad at Cosí
• a mild chicken banh mi at Nicky's Vietnamese
• dates wrapped with bacon and baked brie in puff pastry at Salt Bar
  
• whatever it was that I ordered when Jeff and I had lunch at that random place in Chinatown

I think you can all see where my priorities lie. Screw my family and friends, and bring on the food!

There is still all sorts of fall-out from the fire the other day, including my possible eviction and other fun topics. But I'm honestly so completely drained right now that I just can't talk about it. So I'm going to write about babies, instead.

Last Sunday Mike and Rion had a few friends over to meet their six-week-old bundle of love, Dante:

Look at that punim! Those cheeks! I just had to bite some part of him! Hmm, maybe his ears will do:

Holy crap. I have had the craziest day ever. I had a whole post about babies planned, and I'll still write it, cause Dante is just too cute to ignore. But then my neighbor's apartment caught on fire.

I was taking a nap, and then lounging in my pajamas before getting ready to go to a conference about women in the workplace. And I heard a kind of rustling. I figured it was my neighbor, coming home with shopping bags. Our doors are kitty-corner, and we share three walls, so we often hear each other coming and going. We only know each other to smile and say hi, but she seems nice.

But the rustling continued. I wondered if she needed help, so I went to look. And I saw that both of our doormats were charred. From then on, I remember everything as if it happened in slo-mo. I touched her door. It was hot. I looked at the bottom. It was red. I pounded on her door. No answer. I remembered she had a cat.

I ran back inside, soaked a towel in water, and placed it by the edge of her door, blocking the smoke. I debated running outside in my pajamas, or taking the time to get dressed. I put on jeans and slip-on sneakers, while dialing the fire department. The call didn't go through. I grabbed my computer, and ran to my front door. I heard someone in the stairs, and told them to go get the concierge, there's a fire. She told me to call the fire department. Thanks, genius.

I called from my cell phone. The call went through. I waited. I grabbed my coat and my bag (with my computer in it). I wondered if I should open my windows, but remembered that the burst of oxygen from an open window can feed a fire. I keep the windows closed. I soaked my kitchen rug in water, blocked the bottom of my door, and ran down the stairs, trying to make the fire department understand me. There are a lot of r's in my address, and what with the fear, the running, and my accent, they could barely understand me.

I banged on the concierge's door. No answer. Other people came downstairs. Fuck, I had forgotten to vacate the building! How could I forget?! But it was before 5pm on a weekday, no one should have been home . . . Ten minutes later, the firemen show up. They take the time to park the truck BEFORE running into the building. The concierge is back, and she doesn't have a spare key. The doors are at least five inches of steel, and my neighbor has three locks on her door. Another ten minutes go by, while they get a ladder, raise it on the street, and break her window. I'm worried they're going to break mine by mistake, since they're right next to each other.

Black smoke is pouring out of her window. By this point, 25 minutes have gone by since I called the fire department. The concierge and I keep telling them that there's a cat inside, but they say that their job is to put out fires, not to save cats. I call the owner of my apartment, to warn him. I call Anna, to tell her I may need a place to sleep tonight. I call my mom, and start crying.

Vanessa, my neighbor, is still not back. The concierge finally got her on the phone, but it'll be a while before she gets home. All I can think of is that she's going to turn the corner and see all the fire trucks and police cars lined up, and the whole avenue smells of smoke, and she'll see her window broken in and not know if her cat's okay.

Over an hour goes by before I'm allowed back in my apartment. I'm questioned by the police (date of birth, place of birth, nationality, etc) and realize that if I were here illegally, I couldn't have called in the emergency. The police officer makes a joke about calling me later to ask "more personal questions." I notice that all the firemen and police officers are insanely good-looking. Is this like an international requirement?

I am still in my pajama top.

As I'm being questioned, Vanessa comes home. They won't let her in her apartment. I don't understand why, since they've already let me go inside. They tell her about her cat, who suffocated, while she's standing on the landing. I think this is inhumane, and insist they all come into my place. I spend the next hour with police traipsing in and out, watching Vanessa smoke cigarette after cigarette (with all the other smoke, what does it matter if my apartment smells like tobacco, too?), and cry for Minou. When she asks if I heard him cry, I say no. I wonder where her friends are.

I am lucky. The firemen opened all my windows when they came to inspect my apartment, so the smell isn't too bad. There's no damage. Vanessa uses my couch as a base to figure out what to do. The police continue to knock on my door for the next few hours.

They need garbage bags, to put the cat in. They need duct tape, to wrap up the bags. I offer rubber bands. I am exhausted and want a hot shower. But my gas heater has died. The gas was shut off, to prevent an explosion, and my heater is not going back on. I call the owner again. There's nothing he can do for now. I'll have to take cold showers. I have a gas range, so I can't cook. Or effectively wash dishes. Or heat my apartment, and it's in the low 30s.

I spend 45 minutes mopping my floors, trying to get all the marks from the policemen's charred boots off my parquet. I need to buy a new kitchen rug, doormat, and towel. They're all gone, in the fire. I go out to get a microwavable meal (chicken nuggets, I need comfort food) and a bottle of wine. I drink half of it.

I'm grateful for all of the fire education I had in the States. After talking to the fire captain, I find out that there's absolutely no fire safety education here. As in, French people might not have known to block the door with a wet towel. I doubt that did anything, but you never know.

Vanessa is gone, having packed a small bag and gone to stay at a friend's house. I can't wait to go home in nine days, where we have things like smoke detectors and multiple egresses and quick response times in an emergency. I wonder if I did everything I could, in the right order, fast enough. I'm still pretty shaken up (as you can see from the wildly swinging verb tenses used above) but realize that I'm incredibly lucky.

Okay, so I fiddled with the settings a bit. Obviously I need a tutorial on what my camera can and can't do. I'm sure it's capable of more than I think, although it is a bit old by now. I set it to manual, low light, and slowed the exposure way down. I think this shot, while it doesn't show that much snow, is still really beautiful:

But if you want proof of snow, see here:

Right now, it is snowing in Paris. Huge, fat, white flakes are falling from the sky. This may not seem like a big deal, but it never snows in Paris. Also, it's April. Last April we were all in tank tops, sunbathing in the park. This year, not so much.

My favorite part about the fact that it's snowing is that I was on the phone with my mom when I noticed. I cried out, "It's snowing!" and my mom looked out the window. In New York.

Since my camera is completely not good enough to capture the snow at night, here's another view from my window, taken a week ago.

Sunrise over Avenue des Ternes:

Last year, I played an April Fool's Day prank that many people believed. I said that I had met the love of my life, Jean-François, and that we were moving in together. Alas, the fact that it was so believable led to a bit of confusion when I was back in New York. A guy I had been seeing before I moved to Paris read the prank post, but not the follow-up confession. So he thought I was in a serious relationship, and we only cleared it up when it was a bit too late. He's planning on coming down to the city when I'm back soon, and I've just realized that I might have messed things up again.

So, to make things very clear, Nick: I am still single, and I will definitely be in New York in two weeks. Whoop! It'll be great to see you. :)

In other news, I'm in a good mood. I'm feeling really hopeful about finding a job for next year. Nothing concrete has happened, and I have a feeling that nothing will for several months, but the ball is finally rolling. I had an informational interview at a major publishing house yesterday, had a private session with the Hot Pilot to perfect my French CV and cover letter, and compiled a list of 38 companies to apply to. Surely out of 38 there'll be one who wants me . . . right?

I've come to the decision that I just don't want to apply to grad school. I know I could do it just to get the student visa, but it's not like applying is that simple here. I'd need to track down old transcripts and diplomas and recommendations, and get them all officially translated, and write a whole spiel about why I want to study X, Y, or Z degree at such-and-such particular school, etc. And honestly, I'd rather put all that time and energy into finding a job.

I wouldn't mind if I have to teach again to stay, but my first choice is really to find a steady office job. I'm shocked to hear myself say that, but after two years of my schedule changing vastly from day to day, I'm ready for a bit of routine and stability. Even if that means missing out on the blessed school vacations. Sigh.

Jenn sent the pictures she and Nick took while they were here, and they're really cute. Here's me and Jenn on the Seine:

And the two of us at l'Entredgeu: And my new favorite photo of myself, taken while we were standing in the rain, waiting on a ridiculous line at Musée d'Orsay: Tonight I went to La Défense for the first time. It's amazing to me that I've lived here a year and a half and never been there. It honestly feels like a completely different city. Like Tokyo or New York or even Berlin. There's a huge mall, a  16-screen multiplex, and lots of pretty, shiny buildings. I'll have to go back in the daytime to check out the mall, which has some discount stores you can't find in Paris Centre.

The weather is finally becoming spring-like, thank God. March was just ridiculously rainy. It's still overcast at times, but most of the afternoon today was blue skies and fluffy pink blossoms and pale green leaves popping out all over the place. Spring has sprung!

I've given this a lot of thought, and I've decided to cancel my upcoming trip home. I've really been looking forward to it, but I just don't think it's emotionally healthy. Sixteen days of doing nothing except seeing friends will just set me back, and my focus right now has to be on finding a way to stay in Paris.

So . . . I hope you all (those in New York, at least) understand and will consider coming to visit sometime soon. I really do miss all of you.

Bisous.

This weekend there's a marché du terroir de la France right across from my house. This is basically two dozen or so small booths filled with all the best food from all over France. There are sausages, cheeses, olive oils, dried fruit, massive brioche, and artisanal honeys, just to name a few items for sale.

I picked up a jar of marinated sundried tomatoes, and bought a small tarte du caramel au beurre salée for my goûter. When I was paying for the tarte, the salesman asked me if I would repeat what kind I wanted. I got a bad feeling, and said no. He continued, "I love the accent."

For some reason, I got pissed. I refused to repeat caramel au beurre salée, even when he tried imitating me. I wanted to scream, "I don't sound like that!" But instead I walked away, after telling him that it wasn't a nice thing to say.

I'm not sure why this kind of comment upsets me. Obviously I have an accent. I'm not a native French speaker and no matter how long I live here I will never sound like one. I'm okay with that. Most French people can tell I'm not native, but they don't necessarily know where I'm from. And that's fine. But asking me to repeat a phrase with a lot of R's, just for your amusement? It rubs me the wrong way.

Any other expats, in France or elsewhere, feel the same way?