On May, On June, On July and August!

My friend Clementine recently made me realize that a whole 1/3 of a year has passed since we moved to France from Egypt. While she moved into her apartment pretty quickly and started a normal routine right away, Mathieu and I took a while to find a place and even now are still making it a home. 

The grey, rainy spring passed quickly during my 7 weeks of French classes at Alliance Francaise with some hilarious Italian, Spanish, Brazilian and British classmates…Then I spent 5 sunny joyous weeks with my family for my sister Kelsie’s wedding…And then returned to a grey, rainy summer in Paris to anticipate the arrival of the Cairo crew for some beach time in the southwest of France. Since they left me a couple weeks ago, I’ve started French classes at a new school and am now absorbed in my riveting student schedule. (I'm not being sarcastic. Yes, I'm a geek.)

All of the incredible wedding designs-come-true, invented by my sister and my brother-in-law then pulled together through a grand collaboration with them and the families, can be witnessed on the photographers’ blog. (The many hundreds of photos can be viewed here; password is the groom’s last name.) Also check out the silly photobooth.  

Back in France in July, Mathieu and I went to see the Tour de France arrive in Paris (meaning we watched colors whiz by us 8 times as they completed the Champs Elysees circuit).

Soon Lindsey and Jessica had landed and, after a couple days (hours, actually) of exposure to my neighborhood, they said they hadn't paid $600 to come to France just to feel like they were still in Egypt. Being Ramadan, my fellow foreigners had smothered the sidewalks with tables of feast goodies and turned the streets into the crowded bazaar that we all love and miss about Cairo. Unless walking through said mess means getting sexually harassed (which it did), and in that case we we were not struck with any nostalgia or warm feelings toward said region. 

Escaping to the coast, we took the train to Bordeaux where Noelle and Alex picked us up and immediately whisked us off to Cap Ferret for a sunset picnic on the beach. Alex and his family were generous hosts, opening their homes to us, lending us their boats and water skis, stuffing us with oysters, mussels, rich cheeses and home-cooked deliciousness for a blissful week. 

After the beach, Noelle entertained me in Paris for another week and helped me orient myself in my (relatively) new city. She mapped out destinations across town like vintage clothing shops, parks, beauty boutiques, and often we found ourselves wandering into unexpected places as a result - in the case of the Marais, it was charming. In the case of la Chapelle, it was a bit overwhelming. In turn, Mathieu and I took her out to a comedy show, "How to become a Parisian in one hour," and to Paris Plage, the summertime makeshift beach, along the Seine.

Now I've fallen into a steady but not-too-steady routine at my new French school. Every morning is a quick commute and two hours of general French class with a hilarious professor who never fails to entertain us (and I’m not a morning person, so that’s really saying something). She explains what is said on the street (i.e., what not to say), teaches survival skills in Paris, makes us sing along to cheesy French songs, tells risqué jokes, and makes us engage and talk about ourselves. After her class, I have a different choice each day of specialized workshops like essay writing, phonetics, cultural and historical lectures, or guided tours around Paris. Last week we saw the crown of thorns encased in Notre Dame, and the week before we explored the palace-made-prison where Marie Antoinette was kept until her death.

Next to the school is the Canal d’Ourq, where there was (all summer until just this week) a sandy beach (complete with lounge chairs and umbrellas) and a boathouse (with paddleboats, crew boats, sailboats, you name it) plus stuff for kids (dirt biking, face painting), all for free, thanks to the City of Paris. I spent many a sunny afternoon after class on those sandy banks and am already starting to miss it!

I just wrote an article about how to pick up French in Paris and I’m working on one about a Parisian artisan; the articles will come up on the Girls Guide to Paris site eventually, but for now I only have two published here. More than a hobby, writing has been a great push for exploring and getting immersed into this city. The last interview was conducted totally in French, save for the artisan’s words that I met with blank stares, like “gold-plated,” then she would clarify in English. It was kind of her to smile and blink politely through my broken questions, when it was obvious that she could have comfortably proceeded in English. As a student in France, I have been constantly amazed with the patience people have shown me as I pose butchered and nonsensical questions...to the point where I have probably jinxed myself for repeating how lucky and pleased I’ve been.

Finally, last week I had a harrowing experience at the office for French health insurance, which I’d love to recount in its comical and disastrous entirety, but the trauma is still too fresh. In brief, I was reduced to pieces in front of 50 or so French people when I tried to explain to the woman at the front desk that I needed to submit supplemental paperwork here at the office, as I had been instructed by the agency over the phone due to a particular case with my file (that the US Embassy does not personally translate birth certificates), instead of by mail which was the normal procedure. As the woman did not like to consider that anyone else knew better than her, especially not her own superiors and certainly not some weak foreign white girl, she screamed me into tears, then screamed at me to stop crying. Even for my low comprehension in French, the words wreaked of derision.

Amazingly, Mathieu was on the line and could hear everything through the phone at my side. Eventually she saw that I wasn’t budging, and that she was attracting everyone’s attention, and let me into the waiting room amid many pitying (or scornful?) gazes. When my number was finally called, I was not sent to the main two desks dealing with everyone else, but to the back, to the same evil angry woman. Continuing to clip every one of my sentences and still refusing to speak slowly or clarify anything I didn’t understand, she insisted I mail my paperwork and then concluded with a sharp, “There, exactly what I told you from the beginning. Now don’t you regret waiting all this time?” I collected my precious papers, grabbed my bag and quickly left. All the way across the room to the door I could hear her yelling, “Oui, c’est ca, c’est ca!!” (“Yeah, that’s it! That’s it!”) She could have easily left other, more gentle natures to take on the customer service, but she made sure that I was sent to her desk and not to anyone who would hear me out. Either she really, really hated me, or she loathed her job (or both). 

And that’s just my brief version! Now I have exhausted myself in reliving the drama. Time to recover...