Mona & Mary

Tonight Mr. Oil and I had the privilege of attending the opening of a Mary Cassatt exhibit at the Mona Bismarck American Center for Art & Culture.  Yes, occasionally we are just that cool.  Also it helps that one of my close friends is the director of exhibitions. 

Mona who, you might ask?  Mona Bismarck had the kind of life that many might think only exists in the movies. She grew up in Kentucky, and through a series of (five) marriages to some wealthy guys (and some who wanted her wealth), became a paragon of style and fashion, eventually becoming titled as "The Best Dressed Woman in the World."  Which apparently is actually a title.  In 1958, she was named to the International Best Dressed Hall of Fame.  Again, apparently this is a goal to which I did not even know that one could strive.   But Mona wasn't just about the clothes - she loved art and culture, which may explain why she had a home in Paris, and why Salvador Dali painted her portrait.   Upon her death, she continued the support of the arts that had begun in her well-dressed life by establishing the Mona Bismarck American Center (yes, it's a mouthful) which exists today in her gorgeous former home in the 16th arrondissement.

Mona Bismarck, one fashionable lady.

Seeking to marry American and French cultural interests, Mary Cassatt of course is a natural candidate for an exhibition at the Mona Bismarck Center.  An American who spent much of her life and career in France, Cassatt was also a path-breaking female artist at a time when that universe was still dominated by men.  Because simply being a woman limited her access to the kinds of scenes her male peers were painting (bordellos, etc), Mary Cassatt focused her artistry on depicting the daily lives of women.  Which provides for a wonderful historical perspective on quiet moments at home in the late 19th century. 

Mary Cassatt, "The Fitting"

Mary Cassatt, "The Bath"

The exhibit features drawings and engravings from Cassatt's wide body of work, showcasing her interests in print-making and pastel transfers as well as illuminating how she was inspired by Japanese wood block prints.  Spread over three large, classically Parisian rooms (think beautiful molding, fireplaces, etc), the setting inspires just the kind of quiet contemplation that Mary Cassatt's works portray. 

When you attend an exhibit opening, in addition to getting first glance at the exhibit, you also have access to some fantastic people-watching.  I was somewhat under-dressed, as I wasn't wearing my fur wrap, or a one-shoulder leopard print dress.  In fact, I was wearing jeans because I realized this afternoon that the only maternity pants I have are jeans. Which suits my work-from-home/stay-at-home-mom life except when that life is interrupted by my super-cool-artsy-Parisian life.  Apparently I'm no Mona Bismarck. 

As if the night wasn't already excellent enough, Mr. Oil and I stumbled onto a fantastic Thai restaurant just a few blocks away from the Center, which - wait for it - actually had a vegetarian menu.  With tofu!  And was delicious.  We love you Tong Ming.  What a great night!

Maternity Style

In a city where style is paramount, I was curious about what Paris has to offer when it comes to maternity clothes.  So I headed to les grands magasins for a little maternity window-shopping.  I probably should not be surprised that most of the clothes I saw I would never wear, even if I wasn't pregnant.  But somehow I was surprised, nonetheless.


Exhibit A:  Maternity miniskirt. Please note that based on my pregnancy with Baby Oil, the amount of material that makes up this entire skirt would not have covered even my pregnant belly.

Exhibit B:  Overalls.  Perhaps if you are quite slender to begin with, and gain only a small and adorable bump during your pregnancy (read: most Parisian women), then you could pull off this look.  I'm fairly positive I would look like an overweight hick. 

Exhibit C: Formalwear.  Inspired by my friend LJ's need for a formal maternity gown, I made sure to check out the formal wear selection at Galeries Lafayette (please note that Printemps, in fact, carries NO maternity clothes.  Which is sad for me, and for Printemps.  Not sure what they're thinking there.).  Perhaps Parisian women want to flaunt the enhanced bust that accompanies most pregnancies. Also, it's not clear where the dress actually allows for the pregnant part of your body.  I'm  glad I already have a dress for the soon-to-be-Mr-and-Mrs wedding!

And finally, Exhibit D: Undergarments. It turns out that Parisians are as serious about their lingerie and undergarments during pregnancy as they are the rest of the time.  Which is to say, they certainly market a lot of these products (I have no way of knowing, of course, whether women actually wear them!). 

I borrowed this from a website, I think it really portrays more than I could describe.

The overall message seems to be that simply being pregnant is not a good reason to not look good in every layer of your clothing.  I am more of an adherent to the being-pregnant-is-a-good-reason-to-embrace-elastic-waists-and-sweatpants memo, but this Parisian message is certainly in keeping with the expectation that you not gain an unseemly amount of weight (my doctor already suggested that I ate too many "am-bur-ghers" while in the US in August) and that looking good is something that any woman should simply want to do.  I think I missed that memo as well....did I even shower today?

Date Night Paris

I've always known that I have a great husband.  Yet occasionally he does me the favor of reminding me exactly how and why he is so great.  Last night is a perfect example.  It was our first night out together in a number of months, and I have to say, he really outdid himself.

We went to dinner at Hotel du Nord in the 10th arrondissement. Located right on the Canal St. Martin, sitting outside this charming restaurant offered excellent people-watching as well as the chance to savor one of the nicest nights we've had in Paris this summer.  If you can call early September summer.  Hotel du Nord also has the unique quality of being a French restaurant that offers not one but two vegetarian entrees, in addition to multiple fish and meat options.

This doesn''t really do the scene justice.

Close-up of awesome hipster guy with crazy beard and strange glasses.

Mr. Oil selected the dos de cabillaud, which was simply and elegantly prepared.  Even better, it came with a side of possibly the best mashed potatoes I have ever eaten. We thought it might better be called "butter, with a side of potatoes." I stole more than a few bites in between enjoying my own "millefeuille de thon a la japonaise."  I'm not a food writer, so I will just show you a photo:

But what really made the dinner amazing was dessert.  In honor of a)date night, and b)me being pregnant, we splurged and ordered two desserts (we are typically the share-one-dessert type).  Dessert #1 was a classic moelleux au chocolat - molten chocolate cake - with both vanilla ice cream and a light yet delicious creamy sauce.  Totally legit cake.  Dessert #2, however, was the winner - pain perdu au caramel beurre sale.  Pain perdu is the foundation of what we know as French toast.  It's not a breakfast food so much as a rich, egg-ily drenched sweet.  In this case, served with a tiny pot of rich, succulent caramel made from salted butter.  Pour said caramel over said egg-ily drenched deliciousness, and you have a taste that will stay in your mouth for a long, long time.  Sorry, no photo - too excited to pause for documentation.

As the evening progressed, the scene got even more interesting.  Quickly I became the most under-dressed woman in the restaurant, and I had again missed the memo about short skirts and tall heels.  A parade of languages accompanied the heels as well.  Sitting outside did have one disadvantage, as patrons from inside the restaurant began to linger outside the door for a cigarette break.  We were treated to one of those only-in-France scenes in which three woman, all dressed to go out, stood around smoking and chatting.  Nothing out of the ordinary there - until we realized that in fact the woman in leopard-print capri pants and platform sandals had a baby strapped to her in a Baby Bjorn.  While standing with her smoking friends around 10pm at night.

You can't see the cigarettes or the baby, but they're there, I promise.

If you're going to have not one but two serious desserts, it is good to have a plan to work it off.  Mr. Oil's date night plan went further than just the meal.  After we finished, we hopped on two Velib bikes, part of Paris' city-wide bike program.  Across the city, there are stations where you can rent a bike for just a few euros, and then return it at any other station.  You have to guarantee the bike with a credit card so you don't steal it, but otherwise you get to ride through the city's many bike lanes on a well-maintained bike that even comes with its own nice basket to hold your bag.

We cruised down the Canal St Martin, glancing at the many, many groups of friends sitting on the edge of the canal sharing wine and food throughout the evening.  Past Republique, we turned and headed into the Marais, passing bars and bistros all bursting with Parisians and tourists alike enjoying the glorious Saturday evening.  We parked our bikes to walk for a bit through Les Halles - more bars and bistros and people having a good time, including some bars that made both Mr. Oil and I feel immensely grateful that the period in our lives in which we went to such places is over.  Picking up more bikes by the Chatelet metro, we cycled down Rue de Rivoli - past the Louvre, where at night you can see sculptures through the windows, past the Place de la Concorde, which epitomizes Paris with a view of the Eiffel Tower, Assemblee National, Les Invalides, and even the Arc de Triomphe, and up our trusty ol' Boulevard Malesherbes to home.  There's a Velib station on our corner, so parking doesn't get more convenient than that.  I was even able to overcome the fact that I've barely exercised since we moved here, and that I haven't been on a bike since before Baby Oil was born.

Romantic canal-side dinner for two followed by romantic night-time bike ride through the heart of Paris?  Date night indeed!

PS Hey, great husband - don't let this go to your head too much - instead, I suggest you focus on planning our next date night...

Parisian Pregnancy

So here's the skinny on pregnancy in Paris:  it's not quite as glamorous as you might think.

On the one hand, there are fresh croissants, incredible pastries, delectable chocolates.  On the other hand, there is a major lack of pants.  Allow me to explain.  When you go to to the obstetrician in the United States, you put on a hospital gown or at least you are covered with a drape from the waist down.  When you go to the obstetrician in France, he says, "Take your pants off."  At which point you go around a screen, take everything off from the waist down, and then you casually walk over to the examining table feeling really exposed, and then you sit there, half-naked while the doctor examines you.

I thought I was getting used to it, but today at my regular monthly appointment, I realized that I still am not quite down with France's comfort level with my nakedness.  I miss the drape.  And if you think it feels strange when it is just the doctor and me, imagine our appointment for the 12 week ultrasound - ultrasound technician, Mr. Oil, and me.  Half-naked me, of course.  At one point, I tried to ask a question of the ultrasound lady (who only speaks French), and Mr. Oil corrected my conjugation.  I replied, "I'm lying here with no pants on, and you expect me to conjugate verbs correctly?"  We both started laughing, and the French ultrasound lady was simply confused.

The French health care system prides itself on economic efficiency, among other things.  This manifests itself by requiring the patient to trek to multiple places for various types of appointments - one office to see the ob, a separately run lab every month for blood and other tests, and a third separate office for ultrasounds.  In between, the patient is supposed to cart around any number of papers and forms between offices.  I still haven't quite mastered the system - although I do now have a bright blue folder that I labeled "C**** - Pregnancy", in case there was any confusion in our home of course - as evidenced by the gentle reminder from my doctor today that I'm supposed to go to the lab before I come to see him each month so that he has the results for the appointment.

And while I'm very happy with my French ob (he speaks English, in case you are curious), we did have a slight culture clash about the amount of weight I'm "allowed" to gain in this pregnancy.  I'm the first to admit that I gained way more than necessary when carrying Baby Oil.  Like, a lot of chocolate pudding, bagels & cream cheese, and Chipotle more than necessary.  That said, it all came off pretty easily so I am not overly concerned.  However, when I informed my ob as to how many pounds I gained with Baby Oil (you'll notice I'm carefully not writing the number here), his jaw literally dropped.  Seriously.  His mouth was gaping open.  He then informed me that I will not gain more than 12 kilos (26 pounds) in this pregnancy. Ha!! Is he going to pry the cheese from my bloated hands?

I am not going to down play the apprehension I feel at times about having a baby in a foreign country. We were so unbelievably fortunate when we had Baby Oil in DC to have family close by, and also to have a large and wonderful support network of friends and community members. Good thing we've gotten good at ordering delivery!

Rentree

My apologies for disappearing from the blog-o-sphere with nary a word of explanation, though perhaps you were able to figure out that since August is national vacation month in France, we were in fact en vacances for most of the month. 

We're back in Paris now, just in time for the rentree, which literally means return.  La rentree signifies both an end to the holiday season (holiday as in British for vacation - lots of British-isms around here given that the majority of English-speakers seem to be British) and the back-to-school season. 

On Tuesday, our first full day back in Paris, I was convinced that Baby Oil was a linguistic genius when he said, "Bonjour" to the check-out guy in the grocery store - "Bonjour", and not "Hi", as he had been saying in the US.  Yet the next day, at his first day back in halte garderie (nursery school, kinda), they told me that it was quite clear that he had been in an English-only environment all month and he found the French a bit overwhelming. 

On the other hand, I accidentally taught him a really useful phrase when he bumped one of the wall heating units in our apartment, and in my panic while trying to stop it from falling on him, I yelled, "Oh sh*t!"  Last night at dinner, he started exclaiming, "Oh sh*t! Oh sh*t!"  Mr. Oil looked at me with a look that said, "Is he saying what I think he's saying?"  Yup, that's right.  Linguistic genius, right here. 

Each time we have gone back to the US since we moved, I harbor a secret hope/unrealistic belief that the flight will suddenly be much easier.  Instead it seems that it gets incrementally more difficult.  Our flight to the US - which was just Baby Oil and myself - was nine hours in a cramped coach seat with my 27-pound toddler sitting on my lap.  In theory he would watch a movie, but we managed to get the one entertainment system with no sound, and due to turbulence, the seat belt sign was on for much of the flight, which curtailed our primary activity of walking up and down the aisle.  I felt my sanity slowly waning over the hours of the flight, and am just fortunate that it turns out my sanity reserves exceed nine hours.

On the flight home to Paris, Mr. Oil had the joy and privilege of joining us (I've made five transatlantic flights with Baby Oil by myself, for the record - this was Mr. Oil's first since our original flight to Paris in July 2011).  We lucked out and managed to snag the one extra seat on the plane for Baby Oil, but no matter how you cut it, the overnight flight is just fairly miserable.  Baby Oil watched the first 30 minutes of Lady and the Tramp about four times, threw a fit when we wanted to turn the TV off for night-night, and much preferred opening and closing the window shade to actually sleeping.  I'm just glad he hadn't yet learned to say "oh sh*t" because that would likely not have endeared us to the other passengers.  Though you should try not laughing when your 19 month old uses profanity in the same adorable tone in which he says, "moon", "cheese", and "monkey". 

I'm slogging my way through this jet-lagged-filled week, remembering how to speak French and feeling relieved that I remember the pin code to my French ATM card.  As we get settled back in our Parisian home, we also are trying to figure out how to live up to our resolutions that we made regarding this second year in France.   Which mostly boils down to one resolution - be more French.  Well, what better way to experience another country's culture and life than pregnancy and childbirth?  We're thrilled to announce that we are expecting a little bundle of French joy in early February.  I promise, it's not just so I have more to blog about, even though my experiences with French prenatal care will certainly be getting some attention here. 

Happy rentree!

The Dossier

One important thing you need to understand and appreciate in order to successfully live in France is the dossier.  The dossier is the compilation of the infinite number of forms and documents required for completing any bureaucratic process.  You will end up purchasing folders specifically for the purpose of maintaining your dossiers.  You must anticipate that in addition to any requirements listed, there will be other materials almost certainly requested, so your dossier must be prepared for all eventualities.

This week, we were determined to acquire French driver's licenses.  We had gone to the OECD about this months ago, and had been told that the OECD is no longer "involved" in this process.  Which, understandably, we took to mean that we had to figure it out on our own.  You have one year from the date of your Titre de Sejour (official residence card) to exchange a foreign driver's license for a French license.  I wasn't even convinced why we needed French driver's licenses, but I do love to follow the rules.  So we began to work on our dossier.

Through my expat moms' network, I learned that the first form we needed was a form from the U.S. Embassy in Paris called "Translation of U.S. Driver's License."  Not surprisingly, this form is in French, and is simply a notarized form in which you fill out all the information from your driver's license.  In order to get this form, we had to schedule an appointment and spent over an hour at the US Embassy, which most closely resembles your average DMV.

Then, because the French really are the kings of bureaucracy, we had to take the form in French from the embassy and get it officially translated. Into French.  That's right - we had to have the French form translated into French.  It's not even worth trying to understand the logic here, I promise.

The rest of dossier included our driving records from Virginia and DC, an electrical bill to prove our residence here in Paris, driver's license application, passport-style photographs, and assorted other required materials.  Dossier in hand, we trekked up to the far reaches of the 18th arrondissement to the Prefecture de Police.

When we found the large and soulless room where one obtains a driver's license, there was quite a line.  We asked if we had to wait in the line in order to exchange licenses, and then duly waited in the line.  Actually, one of us waited in line while the other chased Baby Oil around the room.  Finally we reached the front of the line, over an hour later.  The man took one look at our Titre de Sejours and said, "But you have special Titre de Sejours. You should not be in this line. You must go over there and ask for a meeting."

Strike one.

We headed "over there" and were eventually told that because of our special Titre de Sejours (basically, because of Mr. Oil's position at the OECD, we have a pseudo-diplomatic status) we should have called to schedule a meeting.  And they could not possibly conduct the meeting today.  However, we already knew that the answer to all questions in any French place of business is always "no" - at first.   After explaining that we could not possibly come back, and that we had our dossier all ready, they took pity on us, and led us into a separate office where a woman began to review our dossier.

Everything was fine until she looked at the electricity bill and pointed out that the bill was only in Mr. Oil's name, not mine.  How are they supposed to believe that I live there too?  Did not Mr. Oil know that he should have had the bill addressed to "Monsieur XXXX et famille"?

Strike two.

I had to bite my tongue not to point out that in fact that would still not prove that I live there.  We did explain that my Titre de Sejour states officially that I am married to Mr. Oil, and that's why I am allowed to live in France (we can discuss how being legally relegated only to the status of "wife" affects the psyche at a later point).

Unmoved, she fell back on a classic French bureacratic phrase - "C'est obligatoire!"  We finally convinced her that we could fax her a copy of our marriage license that day, which would prove that we are married.  Exhausted, we were ushered back into the soulless waiting room as she discussed with her supervisor whether this would be acceptable.

Twenty minutes later, she beckoned Mr. Oil back to her office.  Upon discussing our case with her supervisor, they determined that in fact, due to our special Titre de Sejour, it was not required for us to obtain a French driver's license at all.  We can just continue driving legally with our Virginia driver's licenses.

Strike three.

Two hours at the embassy + two hours at the prefecture + several hours filling out forms + about $100 in forms =  WE NEVER HAD TO DO ANY OF THIS TO BEGIN WITH.   Which, we now believe, is what the OECD meant by no longer being "involved."  On the other hand, we can put together a darn good dossier.

Olympics

When you live in another country during the Olympics, you really develop a better understanding for national pride and interest in athletics - or at least in Olympic sports.  French coverage of the Olympics focuses heavily on events featuring French athletes.  I can't complain about this, but it means that so far we've seen a fair amount of handball, table tennis, and judo.

A French athlete, Priscilla Gneto, won a bronze medal in judo today - and I'm pretty sure I've seen the replay of her medal-winning match four times today.  And I've only had the Olympics on for 2 hours.  The French seem VERY excited about this judo business. 

Handball is a sport that I can honestly say I have never watched before this weekend.  The French, however, must really like handball (or they have another reason perhaps for featuring the Denmark versus Sweden women's match - think tall, leggy, blond girls running around in shorts for an hour).  They like it better than swimming, which is our favorite, but every opportunity to cut away from swimming for even five minutes, there is either an update on handball, or a replay of the afore-mentioned judo match.

Of course, the other downside for me is that French coverage of the Olympics is all in French.  We found a site that streams BBC, and the British are really into swimming. I now know more about Becky Adlington, the British swimmer who won bronze tonight in the 400m free, than I really ever needed to.  To be fair, I don't think the British are any more interested in their athletes than we are in Michael Phelps or other headlining US Olympic athletes.  Yet because she's not from my country, I can't say that I was moved to root for Adlington.  Go USA. 

At the Hotel de Ville in Paris, there is a huge screen that is showing live Olympics throughout the Games.  They've even put out huge pillows and lounge chairs to encourage comfortable viewing.  It's actually pretty great, except you're still stuck watching judo repeats and handball games.

Hotel de Ville. On the screen is a French girl who won silver in some shooting event.