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we are all paris.

Hi there...if anyone is out there. It has been almost two years since I've posted here and while I'm sure most of the regular readers of this blog have moved on to read about the crazy adventures of another young, wide-eyed and quirky gal who found herself in the City of Light, I've been lucky enough to stay in touch with many of you whom I can call friends of mine, be it in real life or through social media. So whether you are just passing by, or we spoke last week, or we haven't been in touch for I while, I say hello again.

It seems like a lifetime ago, on one fateful New Year’s Day, I asked myself what I wanted for myself for the New Year. What if, I asked myself staring up at the ceiling of my shared Brooklyn apartment, what if I could move to Paris? Heeding to the advice of David Byrne in the Talking Head’s song “Cities” where he sings, “Find a city, find myself a city to live in!”  and having already lived in Olympia, Washington, L.A, and New York, surely Paris was also a suitable candidate in my decade-long quest in finding a city to live in, preferably one I could truly call home.
This flicker of an idea was then ignited after happening upon a video of my late-grandmother performing with her jazz band on French television in the late 1960s, and recalling the few times I’d met her, that after living in Paris for over thirty years, she decided that it was one of the greatest cities in the world. As a native-New Yorker, hearing this declaration, intrinsically I raised a skeptical eyebrow, but still, I wanted to know more and decided to "test" the city out.
A three-month stint turned into now almost seven years and while Paris has not exactly been the 3x5 postcard that my daydreams convinced me that I would be framed in, my grandmother delivered on her promise that Paris was something to see through the eyes of a resident. Sure it rains over a hundred days out of the year, the brasserie coffee is tangy and bitter, and simple tasks constantly test my vocabulary and patience where learning how to properly explain the complexities of an exploding water pipe would make the difference between a plumber coming sometime that week to at some point that day. But I’ve made it home where the city’s imperfections, like a beauty mark, continue to both intrigue and endear me. 

The tragedies of 2015, however, produce a reality that simply (and admittedly naively) never occurred to me would take place in Paris. As many of you know, I am a new mother. Seven weeks ago I gave birth to a precious little baby boy. He has been our little joy and at times our pocket drama queen who has brought such a special spark to our otherwise quiet life. 

Friday night we were invited to a friend's house near Bastille to introduce our baby. The invitees were a medley of friends celebrating different milestones in their lives: our newlywed friends whom we haven't seen since their wedding over the summer; our friends planning their wedding for next summer; and another couple who is expecting their second child in mere weeks. With the baby inching towards being two months old, we didn't see a problem with taking him out to give my dear pregnant friend a break and go to her. After all, it was not that long ago that I was pregnant and towards the final weeks appreciated having people come to me. 

On the brisk fall eve, we bundled our son up and slid him into the Ergo Baby carrier that my mother insisted on because she is unconvinced that the long piece of fabric that consists of the Boba Wrap will secure her first grandson (despite the many tutorials I have demonstrated.) After a quick stop at Nicholas wine shop, our mini family headed out for a first night out as three since the baby's birth. To put it simply: I was excited. It felt good to be out and to be in a place where I don't feel like I'm playing a role of a mother. I am starting to finally feel like one.

Dinner was what we expected from your typical Parisian social gathering with empty wine bottles steadily outnumbering full ones, charcuterie and cheeses sliced, vinyl records spinning and rooms sporadically clearing from mass cigarette breaks on the balcony, granting me carte blanche to select the next album with my baby nestled quietly and soundly against my chest. 

Around 10 pm, we decided to call it a night and scrolled down the parental checklist to ensure the baby's comfort for the small trek home: diaper changed, pyjamas on, belly full. Check, check, check. As we put our coats on, the host received a text asking if she was okay. Then, (and pardon the reference) like an episode of Gossip Girl, at the same time everyone's phones chimed from Facebook bings, texts notifications, Gmail chimes, phones ringing. Being someone who does not receive many phone calls or even texts, being included in this digital symphony immediately set off an internal alert that something was not right. Why were we all being simultaneously contacted?  

As soon as the news hit that a series of barbaric attacks were taking place not at all far from where we were, without giving it a second thought, I took my coat off; we weren't going anywhere. 

It's not a cliché when they say children are like sponges. With every half hour that passed with more information streaming in and the milieu at our friends' place going from curious to concerned to crucial, my once sound baby appeared to be absorbing every single one of our emotions. He had gone through the two diapers and was quickly filling up his last one. His pyjamas and onesie were soaking wet from sweat, and his eyebrows remained furrowed as he puffed and moaned from the sudden shift of energy. By midnight, we were out of supplies. His last diaper was full, he had long drank the last drop of formula, and I could not offer my breast because I'd had two glasses of wine and needed to wait for it to pass through my system, which would have taken about two hours. So when a baby is in need, what does he do? He cries. Over the news reports, phones ringing, frantic conversations, we had a screaming baby. 

Uber was not picking up passengers, nor were cabs, as Aurélien and our friends made phone calls to get someone to pick us up. This was like new mommy boot camp, putting my newly acquired skills to the test. How could I calm an unconsolable baby during a time of crisis? Thankfully, relief came around 3 am when a cab agreed to get us. Charging down the street towards a taxi in the middle of the night, with my 7-week-old screaming baby in a declared state of emergency, was an experience I could have never predicted when I decided to move to Paris on a hunch.

I thought having been here for Charlie Hebdo where our home is not at all far from the Kosher Marketwas a level of intensity that could not be surpassed, but alas here we are, again, months later with a heightened level of shock, grief, and fear. 

As a general rule of thumb, I avoid sticking my nose in French politics as I still feel like a visitor here even after all these years, however, the events that took place where there was a universal uncertainty as new information was being revealed by the hour created a conformity with me with Paris, and Paris with the rest of the world.

Mirroring the same harrowing emotions I was swelled with weeks succeeding the 9/11 attacks, I was reminded that you don’t need to be a native of a country in despair to feel its sorrow and the overwhelming response of love and support that Paris received worldwide is living proof of that. I simply cannot wrap my mind around some criticism I have read over the French flag Facebook filter just days after such a gruesome attack. Now is not the time to be sanctimonious or analytical over how people chose to offer support, but I suppose my white-knuckle feelings about this are for another blog post.   

Paris, a city rivals the toughness of New York in its resilience, we are keeping our heads up, we are honoring with heavy hearts the victims, and praying for their families as well as our uncertain future. I no longer feel a divide in the city I am proud to call home, as I am not only a foreigner, but I am a mother, I am an Italian-American, I am a New Yorker, I am Charlie, and like everyone who mourned with us worldwide, I am Paris.

and that's a wrap!

It's been way too long. I know. It's embarrassing at this point. Please believe me when I say I'm not sitting back living the high life because I don't work with children anymore. If anything I'm working more than ever by putting all of my energy into writing the second draft of my manuscript. Being the terrible multi-tasker that I am (which is why I always made a terrible personal assistant), I'm incapable of both blogging and writing a decent book. But also, I don't have much to report. My downtime that consists of afternoon walks, reading, or watching reruns of The Sopranos wouldn't make for a thrilling blog post. Weird, right?  But should I have any exciting announcements, this will be the first place I go, that is if anyone is still checking in with moi.

For new readers who happened to stumble upon my little abode, I've categorized popular blog topics that may suit your interests. If you want to read about my 365 days of starting over in Paris after a soul-crushing break up, Day 1 starts here. Or perhaps me getting robbed by a Barbarella psychopath who still has a handful of my shit, those awesome times can be found here. For those wanting some lighter reading, here are some experiences working for French children. And if you're looking for a little romance, both my New York and France wedding photos and stories can be found here.

For my loyal readers of many years, I thank you. Thank you for taking the time to read the mess that was sometimes my life, and for posting your comments during this fantastic three-year run of Ella Coquine and all of her antics. I could not have gotten through many of these challenging times without you and your wisdom. Thank you. I hope one day to meet many of you.

For flash updates of my life in Paris, I can be found on Instagram
and for published work or book updates, please check out my Facebook page or my features link here!

there goes the neighorhood.

Here we are in the midst of another fluctuating summer in Paris. One day it is sunny and blazing hot and the next it's hailstorm pelting icy chunks of rain onto the cars, my head, and the sidewalks. When the sun does come out, I really have to force myself out of the house, away from my manuscript to enjoy these slices o' summer. Because before soon it will be la rentrée, and I'll complain, wondering where the summer went. 

Two weeks ago, a dreary day had unexpectedly turned into a sunny afternoon, beckoning me to go out to enjoy some of it with a trip to the supermarket. In a large tote, I stuffed a reusable Monoprix nylon sac, my wallet and an umbrella...just in case. 

Purposefully I chose the market located 15 minutes away from my house, on the other side of my neighborhood for maximum sunshine and a little low intensity cardio. During this walk, I soaked up the sun admiring how sleepy my area of the 12th gets over the summer, and snapped a few phone photos of the summer flowers blooming on the sides of the prominade plantée

The streets may have sketched the scenes of a quiet summer in the city, the supermarket, however, did not echo this sentiment (maybe this is where everyone was?). 

While doing my shopping, through the windows I caught a glance of what was once that sunny day I had been basking in, had turned suddenly dark and bit threatening. Good thing I had my umbrella, I thought with a shrug before going back to squeezing and smelling mini cantaloupes.

By the time I got to the checkout, the sky had completely opened up and was pouring sheets of rain, drenching any pedestrian that got in the way of its wrath. Knowing that this sort of heavy rain would only laugh at the pocket umbrella I had brought along you know, 'just in case', I had to wait it out. I stood in the supermarket's entrance with my bags and about 10 other customers who like me, weren't willing to brave the sudden extreme weather conditions. 

With nothing to read but a circular left on the floor, with joy, I had discovered that market was promoting an all American-themed food festival! For a limited time only, the market would be offering a selection of American 'delicacies' such as cake pops, peanut butter, onion dip, popcorn, hamburger buns and whoopie pies. Images of 1950's housewives, a route 66 sign, fireworks, and dancing cupcakes with little faces supported the promotion, inciting a small chuckle that my country is still sometimes hued with this image of 1950's American idealism. To be fair, if my mom's local market on Lawg Guyland had "French week", I can only imagine what kind of clichés that would welcome.

Ten minutes in the steaming supermarket entranceway: The rain was not letting up. A man had stolen groceries which prompted the alarm to sound. No one chased after him. The room was getting more humid by the customer. The cashiers were overwhelmed by the volume of customers. The customers were complaining that the cashiers weren't moving fast enough (like there was anywhere to go...) And the alarm continued to sound. Fuck this. I had my jellies on. So, I left.

Two seconds out in the rain, I had immediately regretted my decision to flee. I couldn't go back; that would only accept defeat. Like a warrior I continued on my journey with the knowledge that there was a café up the street. I picked up my pace and began to run, with my groceries pounding against my hip, my tee-shirt at that point being obscenely wet, and drops of rain gathering under my umbrella drip dropping on me.

I made it to the café drenched and cold, and chose a window seat and a glass of pinot noir to warm up with, and to wait for the rain to subside. It did. Only about an hour later. I went to pay the check but the 5€ bill I was certain I had was a melange of coins that did not add up to the 3.50 value of the bill. 

"By any chance can I pay by card?" I asked, and waited for an exasperated response that they only accept cards à partir de 15€.

It came.

I then asked if there was a nearby bank where I could grab some cash. She informed me that there was a bank up the street and around the corner near the Montgallet métro. 


"Merci," I said, "I'll be right back."

A look of concern poured down her face and a nod no.

"But you have to pay first." She said, not at all joking.

"Right, but I have to get money first. I only have 2€ in change making me short."

"Hold on, let me ask my manager."


The manager, who was pulled away from her smoke break, repeated that I had to pay my bill before leaving to go to the bank. 

"If I could pay my bill I wouldn't need to go to the bank." I think, or at least I hope I effectively communicated in French.

"Can you leave a piece of ID then?"

That seemed a little hardcore for 3.50, I thought before pulling out and handing over my titre de séjour. The manager pulled down her glasses to analyze it before handing it back to me.

"It's expired, Madame."

Judas Priest! It was true. It was expired. The temporary récépissé that I probably should always carry with me before my appointment at La Cité, I had left at home. Can you blame me for not thinking that I was going to need it? She then leaned over the bar, peered into my wallet and saw my California driver's license and a New York Learner's Permit (braces!).

"What about those?" She asked, pointing down to my wallet.

It hadn't even occurred to me to use a piece of American ID. I plucked out my California license, which always reminds me of spending a half day of our honeymoon at the Hollywood DMV and the unexpected expenses it had accrued, and realized that it was worth way more than a glass of pinot noir. While I knew nothing was going to happen to it, I guess I wanted my collateral to be just a little more even. Now it was me who was being the complicated one...

Realizing that I could have gone to the bank two times already, I had come up with a solution! I opened up my bag of groceries pulled out my packet of chicken breasts that were marked at 5.34€ (more expensive than the wine and equally as important to me as them wanting to be paid) and put it on the bar.

"C'est plus cher que le vin. Look," I said pointing to the sticker, "I will be right back. I promise. I'm making chicken parm tonight."

Says the Italian chick from New York...

Ignoring their protests "Madame! Madame! Non!" I left them in what I imagined were their fists pounding in the air and steam coming out of the ears, and took myself to the damn bank. 

Six minutes later, I returned clutching my cash, my chicken waiting for me on the bar, and two pissed off servers still complaining about me. I handed her a ten, waited for the change (which I have to say, felt a little reluctance on her part) scooped my chicken off the counter and wished them a bonne journée

"C'est pas normal," I caught one saying to the other with a gasp as I was exiting. While the other one reduced me to be so américaine.

I wasn't offended by their response, sure, it was bold especially for our quiet little area. The only thing I could not help but wonder, the one thing picking on my mind as I walked home in the cool aftermath of the storm was: Will they will be partaking in the American-themed celebration at the supermarket the following week? Or did it ruin it for them on the day I forgot to give a fuck?

Happy summer from Paris, all!

turning the page.

So that's it, Tuesday was my last day with the little French tots...forever. Can you believe it? A job that was supposed to be temporary stretched out to two years. And as unglamorous as it was, I learned just as much at this job as I did at my fancy shmancy fashion job in New York and at my temp tax office job here in Paris.

Before closing this chapter of my life, I had an appointment to zip to that I had made three months ago. Christening my sparkling new carte vitale, I went to my first ever gynecologist appointment in Paris before heading to final day of school. Unlike these appointments I have experienced in the States, I did not wait an hour in the waiting room listening to Fresh 102.7 and another 15 minutes half-naked and alone in a cold room (Wait, don't the lyrics to that Natalie Imbuglia song kinda go something like this?). 

No, this appointment was speedy, which for Paris, was pretty shocking. I read about a page in my book before being welcomed in personally by the doctor (not a wound-up receptionist barking at patients in the waiting room asking if they have insurance or not.) The check up itself was routine, and when it was done, I proudly handed over my carte vitale and paid 34 in which 23 will be reimbursed. Parfait! Here's however, the part I was not expecting: she handed me a little sealed paper bag and wished me a bonne journée. Merci? 

So, I expect a goody bag at the dentist but at the gynecologist? What could I have possibly needed to-go? I shook the bag, holding it close to my ear in hopes for a clue. Shake, shake. No clues there.

"That is simply your (enter unidentified word in French here) to send to the laboratoire, Madame." She informed me after witnessing the shake. Because I had done so well during the entire appointment, taking about the history of my lady parts all in French (a round of applause!) I didn't want to ruin the fun by asking her to clarify. I nodded and feigned total comprehension with an exaggerated d'accord before shuffling out of her office.

Out on the sidewalk, naturally I called Aurélien who is usually on stand-by for translation purposes when I have these first time appointments. 

"Hey," he picked up on the second ring, "Did everything go okay?"

"Yeah, it was perfect," I said looking down at the bag, "But I think she gave me a bag of my stuff."

"Okay," he lingered, searching for something, anything to say as the French translation 'un sac de mes choses' was not terribly clear.

What also struck me as odd was that this paper envelope containing particles of my cervix that I was instructed to send through the mail did not require a light proof black bag, a biohazard sticker, or anything to officially notify the handlers that it was a medical delivery. Does this seem strange to anyone else?

"Anyway, I have to send it off to "the lab" now (I've kinda of always wanted to say that)," I said looking up at the clock at Daumesnil noticing the minute hand inching closer to the time I needed to be at school. "Merde. I actually really don't know if I can make it. I wasn't expecting to have to send this off myself."

"You probably should do it before you see the kids, I think," he suggested, "Because they are always curious about what's in your bag."

Gross, gross, gross.

"You're right and also, it is hot today. Do you think the heat from the sun will deactivate my cells if I don't send it asap? Is that even possible?" I asked. 

"Just go send it," he said with a nervous chuckle. "Courage."

I went to the closest post office and as usual the line was long and the place was scorching hot. The usually dismal scene of the post office was animated by a man angrily shouting and cursing at the piece of paper he was filling out, another man walking in with a dog the size of a sofa, and the anxiety that came from holding a bag containing my important specimen. I anxiously looked down at my phone and saw that I was cutting it very close. If the métro ran smoothly with no delays and I caught all three transfers without waiting on the platform then I would be there right on time, I calculated. But as I always say: Paris is a city that is not your friend when you're in a rush. Having been burned many times by trying to push her to move faster, where her wrath comes in the form of a stray dog found wandering on the tracks resulting in a 30 minute delay (yes, this did happen once), I had no choice but to forgo the post office.

Why not just be late? What's the big deal? Good question. The last time I was late I got scolded by the director (Il faut pas, Il faut pas!), they wouldn't direct me to the children, I got yelled at by the maids because I didn't say bonjour to them (I was looking for the children, at that moment it really wasn't about them) and I set off an alarm of a side door that I apparently was not supposed to open. So being late was not at all appealing.

I made it to school on time and following the directions I had received earlier from the parents via text, I took the kids home early. What I was expecting to be a house scattered with suitcases and vacation paraphernalia because they were heading off to Italy the following day, was instead a my honor.

A table was set with wine (they know me so well), Champagne (okay, they know me really well), and an assortment of little gifts to thank me. Around the table were the parents, the kids who each handed me a present and thanked me for being the best Lisa ever and Franck who told me that he was relieved that he never has to speak English again, and Aurélien.

Of course I started to cry. I didn't realize how much they all appreciated me and how much they were a part of my life.

As much as these little guys drove me insane by opening the bathroom door when I was on the toilet, sliding destroyed art projects under the door and screaming voilà, flipping out on Boulevard Magenta because I didn't declare that one of them was cozy, and flipping out as we walked through dark hallways during power outage, I'm really going to miss them. How could I not? But now it's off to the next chapter of my Parisian life, whatever that will be. Aurel and I sat in the cab ride home that night, watching the city pass by, just me, him and my bag of cervix. Who knows, maybe my next experience with children will be with my own. Now that's a thought. Let's see what the lab has to say...

un mariage juste parfait!

As many of you know, the reason for heading to New York for a week was officiate our wedding in the States! Getting married a second time around gave us the opportunity to change things we wish we had done differently the first time around. Reflecting back on it and the preceding week of preparation, it is already such a heartwarming memory.

The wedding was broken down into three parts: the first was a small impromptu ceremony by an ordained minister (whom I used to work with at a local New Age shop when I was a teen) in the gazebo of the Roslyn Duck Pond, followed by an early dinner at Bistro Citron in the historical village of Roslyn, then guests were invited back to my mom's house for Champagne, cheese, sweets and Pear Williams that we brought back from France. 

The story behind the location is as a little girl I was always charmed by the Roslyn Duck Pond (which has since been renamed Gerry Park). For my birthday every year, part of my present was to out to the Island from the city to spend the day in the park. Aurélien inherited my love for this park as well as the village a few years ago when we were first dating and I took him to Bistro Citron. Fast forward three years later, it seemed only perfect to host our American wedding dinner there.

Just like the French wedding it poured, but as we were saying our vows, in cinematic perfection the sun peeked out, the birds started to sign and the bells from the village clock tower rang. It was almost like we had planned it.

Here are some shots from our unforgettable day.

Many thanks to Cara and Jen for snapping these photos for us and for being all shades of amazing. The day really flowed so beautifully because of your help! I couldn't have asked for better friends. Merci beaucoup. 

The ducks.

Ceremony location.

Delighted to see Jenna!

Chit chat with Cara.

The dress was purchased last year during our trip to L.A at my old haunt vintage shop Ragg Mopp Vintage. Owner Vince who is responsible for 50% of my vintage collection agreed that this 1950's lace and velvet-trimmed dress would be perfect for a wedding reprise. I paired it with a mint green mohair Ralph Lauren cardigan from the 90s and pink tulle Badgley Mischka heels. Aurélien of course wore his white Repettos.

Initially I wanted to redo the fresh mint bouquet that I had at the French wedding but the American mint didn't hold the form, so Kobey at Muscari Flowers put together this blush pink peonies and calla lilies to match my shoes.

Aurel got his very first American barbershop haircut and shave
at Rudy's. The barbershop all the men in my family have been going to since the 50s.

When guests arrived at Bistro Citron they were offered a French 75 or a glass of Champagne garnished with a strawberry. Servers passed lobster tartines, duck confit tacos, truffle deviled eggs and warm Camembert drizzled in honey. I have to mention this because this was a detail missing at my French wedding and was happy to have such an inviting cocktail hour the second time. 

Bistro Citron did an incredible job from start to finish. From the inception, the planning, the table setting (they were aware of all vendettas and followed my table plan accordingly) to the impeccable service throughout the dinner. We, and most importantly the guests were pleased. The restaurant receives nothing but glowing reviews from us. Thank you for helping make our second special day so unforgettable.

The green trellis menus and tented place cards were designed through site Minted

Party favors were mini bottles of Grand Courtage Champagne.
For our pregnant guests or guests in recovery, we offered jars of Albert Ménès rose petal confiture and vintage box cameras.

Taking many trips from my mom's house down to the town of Roslyn and never having quarters to feed the meter, we assumed our guests would be presented with the same dilemma. My mom wrapped up bundles of quarters in tulle and mint green ribbon that Jen helped distribute after the ceremony. Yes, it's a bit odd giving our guests a dollar worth of quarters but at least it prevented them from having to get change at the deli!
To truly enjoy the night, we held back from snapping photos at the after party. Without much effort, my mom's house took on a Gatsby vibe (when on Long Island, eh?) with strung café lights and lanterns in the kitchen that extended to the garden, tea lights twinkled in quilted mason jars, vintage Champagne glasses and coupes were set out, the fridge was well stocked with Taittinger, an assortment of Italian and French cheeses, fruit, and sweet meringues were waiting for guests, a playlist of 1930s and 40s jazz played (okay, and a little Zou Bisou Bisou action), and of course an outfit change by me. In colors of yellow and powder blue, Muscari adorned the kitchen and the garden with bursts of spring.

It was the perfect end to an exceptional week. Admittedly, coming back to Paris two days after was a bit of a struggle, something I felt guilty about. This trip has raised some questions for can we manage to somehow live in both cities? My love for both has finally balanced out.

Note: This was not a sponsored post. We were just so pleased with everyone we worked with that we wanted to give them credit for a job extremely well done.

the rudest people in the world.

As many of you know, Aurel and I were back in the States to do a small wedding ceremony for the folks who couldn't make it to France last year. Before I get into the loveliness that is getting married in a duck pond and having an intimate dinner at a bistro in a historical village, I have a little tale that I thought some of you would appreciate.

While the wedding was small with only 30 guests, we still wanted the touches of a traditional wedding and had offered guest favors, tables splashed with gorgeous blush pink peonies, garden green place cards, and printed programs and menus. The week leading up to the wedding turned out to be less of a vacation and more running around to secure these details for our second big day. 

Once our menu was locked down, we ran to get them professionally printed at chain print shop near a mall on Long Island. We entered the printing store and discussed with the clerk what we wanted done. When she realized it was going to be a bigger job than a simple photo copy as we handed her our USB key, she welcomed us to the back office to discuss further. In the back office, there were other employees and because Aurel is French and I have lived in Paris for many years now, we made the point to make eye contact with all three employees to say hello. They looked up from their work and grunted hello.

"We don't have to do that here," I nudged Aurélien, honoring our pact to speak on English when we are on American soil, "No one cares, especially on Long Island."

"Okay," he accepted, "No hello on Long Island."

"What do you mean?" a woman with bleached yellow hair and big teeth who was sitting across the counter asked, "We say hello here."

I really didn't want to kick off the uber-snotty "Well in Paris..." (so Blue Jasmine, right?) but she appeared to be genuinely interested and even a bit offended, so I did it.

"In Paris," I explained, "It's a cultural expectation to acknowledge staff and employees in a store."

"Well!" She scoffed, "Isn't that interesting coming from the Fah-rench-a?!"

She somehow added two more syllables to the word French, clearly for effect. Aurel and I both nodded and smiled, knowing what she was hinting at and turned to the clerk who was helping us, waiting for our heavy documents to load up.

"I mean," she continued, "I find that very interesting coming from the French!"

Again, we nodded and smiled. I may have even shrugged at this point, but our body language clearly read that we got what she was laying down and were not interested in pursuing it any further.

"Wanna know why I say that?" She asked.

"Well," I muttered without conviction.

"Because the French are guilty for being the rudest people in the world!"

And she went and did it. She clearly couldn't resist. Only on Long Island. I swear, it's the water.

"But are they?" I indulged her. Clearly I couldn't resist either.

"Oh come on!" She said, "They are just awful people! I can't stand them."

"Yeah, well" I nodded, and with a thumb pointing to Aurel said, "He's French."

"Bonjour, guilty as charged." Aurel responded with his hands up. 

Her coworkers all nodded their heads in laughter, as did we, because really, who makes blanket statements about any culture like that anymore? The French are rude? What is this, the 80s? Several days later when we picked up our prints, the same Judgey Jan employee was there. I made a point not to say hello, Aurélien on the other hand approached her and gave her the double French bises and said to her, "Not all French are rude, ma belle."

Just like she was dumbfounded when I informed her that Aurel was French, she stood frozen in her little printer's smock making incoherent noises to somehow make sense of what had happened. She'll be talking about forever when the Frenchman came into her shop and kissed her. Maybe this is what it will take to change her view on the French. They say, if you can reach just one person....

Wedding and New York recap to come soon! 
So, how is everyone?

(1000) jours ensemble.

I know, I know, it's been quiet chez moi for the past few weeks. The truth is that not much has been going on. Even with this gorgeous spring weather we have been graced with, I've been mostly indoors. I have been rewriting my old adventures, tightening up my words, which doesn't exactly make room for new ones as my days are spent essentially living in the past.

A few weeks ago I began an Advanced Memoir class that has also been consuming much of my time from the hours of class readings I have per week, as well my first big class assignment. I submitted a re-written chapter from my memoir that took about three weeks to revise to my (somewhat) satisfaction. So, are you snoozing yet? I wouldn't blame you if you were, I find talking, or rather writing about writing incredibly boring. 

In exciting news, Aurelien and I are heading to New York to get - wait for it - married! We thought we would make it official over there too. Why not? We're not doing the ornate guidette New York wedding that at one point was going to happen, we were thinking something a bit more pastoral. We chose a duck pond near my mother's house to conduct the ceremony, which will be followed by an early dinner at a restaurant in the area with a few friends and family. Simple and small.

We of course are anticipating drama from my Italian family. It wouldn't be a family event if there wasn't any. So far we have received 5 requests about seating from this guest who cannot sit near that guest due to some unreconciled vendetta. There are 30 of us. How many vendettas could their possibly be? I just hope no one tells me on this trip to make a consultation appointment with Dr. Tornambe to consider liposuction. That was, like, a thing one year. 

Breaking out of my writer's hovel, last Friday Aurélien had asked me to meet him at the Hôtel de Ville metro stop at 7:15. No explanation, just meet him there at this time. Since we are seldom in this part of town, not since I moved from la chambre de bonne, I was at a loss. Quel grand mystère! I, however, knew something was up when he left the house in his Repetto white jazz shoes...

In my Friday night best, I arrived early in a black wool Givenchy dress that I pulled out of the caverns on my closet. Ascending from the steps of the metro, I felt the comfort of spring; it was 7 pm and the sun was still shining bright. So, I'm not sure why I thought he would instinctively go into The Body Shop to look for me but while he waited for me just outside, I was "killing" time getting sold all sorts of doodads that I apparently "needed". 43€ later, I thought to peek my head out onto the street, where I found Aurel with a new coif à la Don Draper (when he's not greasy and drunk) holding a bushel of one of my favorite flowers, daisies. 

"Where are we going?" I asked, as we crossed rue du Renard.

"Do you know how annoying you are with surprises?"

"I do," I admitted, "So where are we going?"

In silence we threaded down the tiny cobblestone streets before Châtelet before crossing in front of the Pompidou. At then I got it: he had brought me to the exact same place we met almost three years ago on our blind Adopte Un Mec date. To commemorate 1000 days together, he handed me this, the first movie we saw together:

As you can imagine, I was flush with emotion (even with his head superimposed on Joseph Gordon-Levitt's body!) at the time he took to make this montage of not just photos of us, but photos with friends I have made here, friends back home, family, and Charlotte. Before I could recompose myself because I was embarrassing myself, he re-proposed. Now he went and really done it.

We never really had a story (OK, my mom, her pantyhose and the ring at Nation was a story), and we still didn't have our wedding bands from the French wedding, so now we have both. Just as I was accepting to remarry him in New York, I received my official rite of passage to my life in Paris: a pigeon shit on my Givenchy. And it was just perfect.

I hope you are all enjoying your spring, I hope it has finally warmed up on the east coast, and I wish you all a lovely weekend! Bisous de Paris!