Ok, I didn't really break into the old apartment. But the day before we moved I made a small video to help us remember our home in Paris. I already miss some things about it.
I know, you would rather see a video tour of the new apartment. That will come later, after we have eliminated the last cardboard box and the place is presentable. We're getting there.
In the meantime, if you didn't get a chance to visit us in Levallois-Perret, here's the tour of our former home. Guest starring Oliver, with a cameo from our car (hint: it's the red one).
Showing posts with label Levallois-Perret. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Levallois-Perret. Show all posts
3.18.2009
1.31.2009
The Move Out
Every time I move, someone reminds me that moving is one of the 3 most stressful events in one's life. A job change and a separation/divorce make up the other two, and I'm also going through the former. Fun times. But as long as David doesn't leave me, I'll be ok.
So we started our move yesterday morning, running a few errands in Levallois before taking off for Conflans. We picked up the keys from the agency and arrived at the apartment just in time to meet the IKEA movers. It took only 20 minutes for them to bring in the components of our kitchen and leave a stack of 20 flat-packed boxes and two appliances on our new living room floor.
As with every IKEA project I've ever undertaken, I paced around the boxes muttering. There is no possible way that all that stuff is in these boxes. It's impossible. Something must be missing. We're going to have to go back to the store and explain in French that something is wrong. The real estate agent came by with the paperwork and saw me sitting on an IKEA box on the floor, eyes glazed over. "She's scared, eh?" she asked David. "Doesn't know where to start?"
She was right. I had no idea where to begin. But I didn't have time to stress for long, as we had to return to Levallois to wrap some things up. Back in the apartment, I made lunch while David talked to our insurance and cable companies. Then I finalized our address change with La Poste and confirmed the moving company was coming the next day. We picked up some tools and returned to Conflans.
By the time were back into the apartment, it was 5:30. We circled the piles of boxes again, then finally dove in. Over the course of the evening we began to assemble our kitchen. And, like every other IKEA project, we were pleasantly surprised to find that everything was neatly packaged inside those clever little flat boxes and not a single screw was missing.
At one point in the evening we were thirsty, so I took a walking tour near the apartment and found a pita shop, which will inevitably become our new place for last minute meals. When I walked in the three guys behind the counter stopped their conversation to look at me. They were not unfriendly, but I definitely had the feel of "what do you want?". I was going to have to make friends with a new set of fast-food guys.
As the night wore on, we spoke less and less, and the only sounds were the bangs of hammers and the occasional curse bouncing off the empty walls. Finally at 12:30 in the morning, after David damaged one drawer and I dropped the same screw four times, we decided to call it a night. We wearily drove back to Levallois, where we immediately began worrying over details of the next day's move and pushing things into useless piles: stuff staying, stuff going, stuff to throw away. Finally we gave up and went to bed at 2:00.
A mere 5 hours later I was being nudged out of bed and toward the shower. The moving company showed up at 8:30, just as the refrigerator delivery men were calling to complain that no one was at the other apartment. David flew out the door with our valuables zipped into a suitcase and I was left with three surly moving guys.
The guys had a look around, asked some basic questions, and started bringing in boxes. I was remined of our last move, when I had nervously watched three strangers pack and haul away everything that belonged to us. The feeling was the same, and I paced back and forth, watching the guys work. I thought there might be liability problems if I got involved, but after a little experimentation I learned that they could care less if I wanted to pack my own stuff. So I participated here and there, making boxes and packing easy stuff like cds and books.
I just wanted the whole thing over and done with and those strangers out of my apartment. And so did Oliver. When they lifted the box spring from the bed, the cat was revealed. He certainly wasn't expecting to be exposed like that and went into a panic. I felt so bad for him, I scooped him up and asked our upstairs neighbors to watch him for a few hours. They have a little girl and I thought she'd like it.
Half an hour later it occured to me that an upset Oliver might react by making a mess on our kind neighbor's carpeting, so I dashed upstairs with his carrier box. I figured if I put him in the carrier, he'd only mess himself, instead of their flooring. Well, when I got up there, my amused neighbor pointed to the kitchen. Oliver had climbed beneath the sink and wedged himself between the cleaning fluids and the potatoes, completely out of anyone's reach. After a bit of pleading I convinced him to take a few steps toward me. Then I grabbed him, and we had a bit of a struggle, spilling potatoes everywhere. I carried the squirming cat to his box, which was not at all well received. Finally he won, climbed over my shoulder, and darted for their bathroom. What a disaster. I decided that at least in the bathroom he wouldn't make a mess of any carpeting, and left him again.
Back in the apartment, I watched and worried and packed until the early afternoon. As more and more furniture was removed, I noticed the sounds of this apartment were changing. When someone dropped a screwdriver or banged a door, the sound echoed throughout. The apartment was coming less my home and more an empty place I used to live in. I wondered if home is really where your heart is, or where your furniture is?
I went back upstairs to fetch Oliver, who was alltogether angry with me, and clawed me all the way back downstairs. I was starving, so I decided to buy myself lunch before cleaning the apartment. I walked down to the pizza place at the corner, where the guy behind the corner smiled when I walked in and offered me a piece of bread he'd just pulled out of the oven. I put in my order and sat at a table near the counter, and the two of us stared wistfully out the window and talked about the weather, like we always do. I decided not to tell him that we were leaving, he would only have to pretend he cared and I would have to pretend that I believed him.
The rest of the afternoon I spent with our new vaccuum, five bottles of cleaning fluids, two sponges, and a very unhappy cat. Despite being back in our apartment, the loss of furniture upset him terribly, and he proceeded to cry persistantly throughout the rest of the day. He was like a living alarm clock I couldn't turn off. Anyway, I vaccuumed up the colony of dust bunnies living in the apartment, scrubbed the walls, scraped at the kitchen, and was halfway through the bathroom when David arrived. I was so exhausted, he took the sponge out of my hand and instructed me to rest while he finished. Oliver joined me, finally silent, and together we zoned out on the futon, both so stressed and tired, we were just happy to be sitting together, happy that David was back. Let's get out of this apartment.
So we started our move yesterday morning, running a few errands in Levallois before taking off for Conflans. We picked up the keys from the agency and arrived at the apartment just in time to meet the IKEA movers. It took only 20 minutes for them to bring in the components of our kitchen and leave a stack of 20 flat-packed boxes and two appliances on our new living room floor.
As with every IKEA project I've ever undertaken, I paced around the boxes muttering. There is no possible way that all that stuff is in these boxes. It's impossible. Something must be missing. We're going to have to go back to the store and explain in French that something is wrong. The real estate agent came by with the paperwork and saw me sitting on an IKEA box on the floor, eyes glazed over. "She's scared, eh?" she asked David. "Doesn't know where to start?"
She was right. I had no idea where to begin. But I didn't have time to stress for long, as we had to return to Levallois to wrap some things up. Back in the apartment, I made lunch while David talked to our insurance and cable companies. Then I finalized our address change with La Poste and confirmed the moving company was coming the next day. We picked up some tools and returned to Conflans.
By the time were back into the apartment, it was 5:30. We circled the piles of boxes again, then finally dove in. Over the course of the evening we began to assemble our kitchen. And, like every other IKEA project, we were pleasantly surprised to find that everything was neatly packaged inside those clever little flat boxes and not a single screw was missing.
At one point in the evening we were thirsty, so I took a walking tour near the apartment and found a pita shop, which will inevitably become our new place for last minute meals. When I walked in the three guys behind the counter stopped their conversation to look at me. They were not unfriendly, but I definitely had the feel of "what do you want?". I was going to have to make friends with a new set of fast-food guys.
As the night wore on, we spoke less and less, and the only sounds were the bangs of hammers and the occasional curse bouncing off the empty walls. Finally at 12:30 in the morning, after David damaged one drawer and I dropped the same screw four times, we decided to call it a night. We wearily drove back to Levallois, where we immediately began worrying over details of the next day's move and pushing things into useless piles: stuff staying, stuff going, stuff to throw away. Finally we gave up and went to bed at 2:00.
A mere 5 hours later I was being nudged out of bed and toward the shower. The moving company showed up at 8:30, just as the refrigerator delivery men were calling to complain that no one was at the other apartment. David flew out the door with our valuables zipped into a suitcase and I was left with three surly moving guys.
The guys had a look around, asked some basic questions, and started bringing in boxes. I was remined of our last move, when I had nervously watched three strangers pack and haul away everything that belonged to us. The feeling was the same, and I paced back and forth, watching the guys work. I thought there might be liability problems if I got involved, but after a little experimentation I learned that they could care less if I wanted to pack my own stuff. So I participated here and there, making boxes and packing easy stuff like cds and books.
I just wanted the whole thing over and done with and those strangers out of my apartment. And so did Oliver. When they lifted the box spring from the bed, the cat was revealed. He certainly wasn't expecting to be exposed like that and went into a panic. I felt so bad for him, I scooped him up and asked our upstairs neighbors to watch him for a few hours. They have a little girl and I thought she'd like it.
Half an hour later it occured to me that an upset Oliver might react by making a mess on our kind neighbor's carpeting, so I dashed upstairs with his carrier box. I figured if I put him in the carrier, he'd only mess himself, instead of their flooring. Well, when I got up there, my amused neighbor pointed to the kitchen. Oliver had climbed beneath the sink and wedged himself between the cleaning fluids and the potatoes, completely out of anyone's reach. After a bit of pleading I convinced him to take a few steps toward me. Then I grabbed him, and we had a bit of a struggle, spilling potatoes everywhere. I carried the squirming cat to his box, which was not at all well received. Finally he won, climbed over my shoulder, and darted for their bathroom. What a disaster. I decided that at least in the bathroom he wouldn't make a mess of any carpeting, and left him again.
Back in the apartment, I watched and worried and packed until the early afternoon. As more and more furniture was removed, I noticed the sounds of this apartment were changing. When someone dropped a screwdriver or banged a door, the sound echoed throughout. The apartment was coming less my home and more an empty place I used to live in. I wondered if home is really where your heart is, or where your furniture is?
I went back upstairs to fetch Oliver, who was alltogether angry with me, and clawed me all the way back downstairs. I was starving, so I decided to buy myself lunch before cleaning the apartment. I walked down to the pizza place at the corner, where the guy behind the corner smiled when I walked in and offered me a piece of bread he'd just pulled out of the oven. I put in my order and sat at a table near the counter, and the two of us stared wistfully out the window and talked about the weather, like we always do. I decided not to tell him that we were leaving, he would only have to pretend he cared and I would have to pretend that I believed him.
The rest of the afternoon I spent with our new vaccuum, five bottles of cleaning fluids, two sponges, and a very unhappy cat. Despite being back in our apartment, the loss of furniture upset him terribly, and he proceeded to cry persistantly throughout the rest of the day. He was like a living alarm clock I couldn't turn off. Anyway, I vaccuumed up the colony of dust bunnies living in the apartment, scrubbed the walls, scraped at the kitchen, and was halfway through the bathroom when David arrived. I was so exhausted, he took the sponge out of my hand and instructed me to rest while he finished. Oliver joined me, finally silent, and together we zoned out on the futon, both so stressed and tired, we were just happy to be sitting together, happy that David was back. Let's get out of this apartment.
1.07.2009
The Latest Installment of David's Parking Feats
If we get nothing else out of our experience of living in Paris, at least David has learned how to park like a Parisian.It's a good thing we don't have a bigger car. He claims that "it was nothing", but he still jumped out of the car to measure the distance from the other cars on either end. We figure there are about 4'' in the front and 4'' in the back. And please note that it is the closest car to the curb. Gold star, David!
9.28.2008
Benoit Turns 30
Continuing my bad habit of updating the blog one week late, here is what we did last weekend:
Saturday morning we met Gerry. Gerry found us through The Blog, after he Googled Levallois-Perret. He's Canadian, but he spends a few months a year living here. He just got into town last week, so we arranged to meet at the market at the foot of his apartment building.
After finding each other we walked into the center of town for coffees, then talked about the delights of living in France, like taxes.
Back at home, David wanted to get some chores done, but the weather was so favorable he decided to go out with me. I'd been having a rough time at work, and I really wanted to get out into the city and go shopping to make myself feel better. In the end, I'm still a girl, and retail therapy can do wonders.
On the way to the metro we passed through the Levallois-Perret garden show, which was on
display in the park close to our apartment. I questioned the logic of a garden show in a town where everyone lives in apartments, but it seemed to be pretty popular.
So I did some shopping, and David waited patiently. In the end I wasn't particularly successful, but it was nice to get out and walk around. On our way home we picked up the strongest camembert cheese we could find and I wrapped it up in paper for Benoit's birthday.
Back into Paris, we arrived at Benoit and Audrey's new apartment, which they had been in
the process of moving into for the past month. We had drinks and hung out on the balcony with their other friends before moving to "Au Denier Metro" (At the Last Metro) for dinner and Benoit's birthday celebration.
On Sunday the Levallois-Perret garage sales were back, and after my trip to the market I took a walk to see all the stuff. When I ask myself "How many of these garage sales have I seen?" I end up thinking about how long we've lived here, and the answer always surprises me.
I was never a big fan of garage sales at home, and French garage sales seem to have most of the same junk. But they also have some really neat old stuff you don't easily see in the US. For example, loads of silverware. Proper silverware, in sets, in fancy wooden boxes. I stopped to admire a full set of new copper pans for sale for 180 euros. I asked the woman why they were new and she gave me a story I couldn't understand about her mother-in-law.
Beautiful old wooden hobby horses, pocket watches, and little sets of snail forks. I only figured out that they were snail forks because...there were little silver snails on the end of every little
fork. Cute, I thought, but what on earth would I do with it?
I guessed that this is where a lot of people sell their parents' stuff after they have died. All of these beautiful bits of classic European history that would be in a museum if there wasn't so much of it still lying around. I wanted to find something old and pretty to put in our apartment and to eventually take home, but we really don't have the space for it right now.
So in the end, I bought David a used Playstation game: Gran Turismo 4. That's a bit of history, too. Gran Turismo 5 has been out for some time now.
Saturday morning we met Gerry. Gerry found us through The Blog, after he Googled Levallois-Perret. He's Canadian, but he spends a few months a year living here. He just got into town last week, so we arranged to meet at the market at the foot of his apartment building.
After finding each other we walked into the center of town for coffees, then talked about the delights of living in France, like taxes.
Back at home, David wanted to get some chores done, but the weather was so favorable he decided to go out with me. I'd been having a rough time at work, and I really wanted to get out into the city and go shopping to make myself feel better. In the end, I'm still a girl, and retail therapy can do wonders.
On the way to the metro we passed through the Levallois-Perret garden show, which was on
display in the park close to our apartment. I questioned the logic of a garden show in a town where everyone lives in apartments, but it seemed to be pretty popular.So I did some shopping, and David waited patiently. In the end I wasn't particularly successful, but it was nice to get out and walk around. On our way home we picked up the strongest camembert cheese we could find and I wrapped it up in paper for Benoit's birthday.
Back into Paris, we arrived at Benoit and Audrey's new apartment, which they had been in
the process of moving into for the past month. We had drinks and hung out on the balcony with their other friends before moving to "Au Denier Metro" (At the Last Metro) for dinner and Benoit's birthday celebration.On Sunday the Levallois-Perret garage sales were back, and after my trip to the market I took a walk to see all the stuff. When I ask myself "How many of these garage sales have I seen?" I end up thinking about how long we've lived here, and the answer always surprises me.
I was never a big fan of garage sales at home, and French garage sales seem to have most of the same junk. But they also have some really neat old stuff you don't easily see in the US. For example, loads of silverware. Proper silverware, in sets, in fancy wooden boxes. I stopped to admire a full set of new copper pans for sale for 180 euros. I asked the woman why they were new and she gave me a story I couldn't understand about her mother-in-law.
Beautiful old wooden hobby horses, pocket watches, and little sets of snail forks. I only figured out that they were snail forks because...there were little silver snails on the end of every little
fork. Cute, I thought, but what on earth would I do with it?I guessed that this is where a lot of people sell their parents' stuff after they have died. All of these beautiful bits of classic European history that would be in a museum if there wasn't so much of it still lying around. I wanted to find something old and pretty to put in our apartment and to eventually take home, but we really don't have the space for it right now.
So in the end, I bought David a used Playstation game: Gran Turismo 4. That's a bit of history, too. Gran Turismo 5 has been out for some time now.
5.22.2008
Victory Day
May 8 (yes, I'm still playing catch-up) was Victory Day here in France. Now that I've been to Normandy, I know all about these things.
We had the day off from work, and while I was strolling
through town I saw an entire collection of WWII military vehicles parked on a small side street. There were a bunch of guys dressed in old army gear as well, standing around and answering questions. I guess it was some kind of club. I ran home to collect the camera and Dave
and we spent the better part of the afternoon poking around the old trucks, tanks, and motorcycles.
Upon closer inspection, we realized that all of the vehicles were American. One of the "soldiers" was even wearing an
American uniform. Don't they French have any surviving war vehicles of their own?
I kind of wanted to say, "Hey! I'm an American and we want our stuff back!"
We had the day off from work, and while I was strolling
through town I saw an entire collection of WWII military vehicles parked on a small side street. There were a bunch of guys dressed in old army gear as well, standing around and answering questions. I guess it was some kind of club. I ran home to collect the camera and Dave
and we spent the better part of the afternoon poking around the old trucks, tanks, and motorcycles.Upon closer inspection, we realized that all of the vehicles were American. One of the "soldiers" was even wearing an
American uniform. Don't they French have any surviving war vehicles of their own?I kind of wanted to say, "Hey! I'm an American and we want our stuff back!"
1.14.2008
Velib Comes to Levallois
Happy day! Velib is coming to Levallois!I had heard earlier in the year that the border cities of Paris were petitioning for Velib stations. Now we'll be able to pick up bikes as close as the Hotel de Ville of Levallois, which is about a 4 minute walk from the apartment.
The stations will be done in the first semester of 2008. Already I'm daydreaming about ditching the metro all summer in lieu of hopping on a bike and lazily cruising into the city. Time for me to get a subscription card!
12.15.2007
France Does Christmas Markets
Today I visited Levallois-Perret's own Christmas market. The garden of the Hotel de Ville was packed with wooden stalls, and I hoped for a French version of the Christkindlmarkt. Well, it was a bit of a bummer, because the stalls weren't selling ornaments or anything particularly Christmasy at all. They were rented out by local merchants, who were selling the same stuff they normally sell, just outside in the cold.
It was a cold day for France, beautifully sunny but around 30 degrees, so there weren't many people out. Which was another difference between the French and German Christmas markets: no crowds.
One part of the Christmas market I enjoyed was a little animal farm. Not quite the harsh reality of the pig farm, with animals in labor and raw stench, but a clean, family-friendly petting farm. Soooo Levallois-Perret. There was a pen with chickens, a rooster, and ducks, a dewey-eyed cow, a few donkeys, goats, and a bunch of sheep. The donkeys loved me, nibbled on my sleeves and made me giggle.
It was a cold day for France, beautifully sunny but around 30 degrees, so there weren't many people out. Which was another difference between the French and German Christmas markets: no crowds. There were a few food stands, and I was amused
to see the French version of gluhwein: vin chaud, or "hot wine". I didn't try it, it just wasn't the real thing. No collector's mug, no freezing cold rain, no red and white awnings to hover under.
to see the French version of gluhwein: vin chaud, or "hot wine". I didn't try it, it just wasn't the real thing. No collector's mug, no freezing cold rain, no red and white awnings to hover under. 
One part of the Christmas market I enjoyed was a little animal farm. Not quite the harsh reality of the pig farm, with animals in labor and raw stench, but a clean, family-friendly petting farm. Soooo Levallois-Perret. There was a pen with chickens, a rooster, and ducks, a dewey-eyed cow, a few donkeys, goats, and a bunch of sheep. The donkeys loved me, nibbled on my sleeves and made me giggle.I bought David back later in the afternoon to pet the donkeys, but we didn't bother with the rest of the market.
10.24.2007
Criterium Cycliste
This past Sunday Levallois-Perret hosted a bicycle race right here in town. The course ran along rue President Wilson, which is only a block and a half from our apartment.We walked down to watch for a while, and were surprised to find how short the course was. In fact, it only seemed cover about five square blocks. The same lap, 60 times. At least it kept our interest, because the peleton zoomed by about once every three minutes. I don't suppose they got tired of turning left?
5.13.2007
A Nice Walk, a Haircut, and a Bit of English Cheese
This is why I love living in the city:
Yesterday morning I left the apartment at about 10:30 and dropped off a pair of shoes for new heels, dropped off my dry cleaning, and was standing in line at the post office by 10:40. Not bad. Bought postcard stamps, sent a priority envelope to the bank, picked up a baguette, and back to the apartment by 11.
Then I walked to the Saturday market, where I was again grilled about my origin (this time from another butcher), the fish guy gave me a free lemon and the vegetable woman chatted with me in Franglais about my French lessons.
After unloading the food I went out again and got a haircut, which was my first in France. I purposely had my hair cut at the last possible minute before leaving the states in order to put it off in France for as long as I could. But it was getting long and unruly and I really couldn't stand it anymore.
While I waited my turn, I frantically text messaged two friends and asked "Do I tip for a haircut in France?". The answers came back: "Only if the service and the haircut are really good" and "no way!". Ok then. Then another message beeped in:
"Welcome to the land of no tipping!"
There were two people working when I walked in, a smooth middle-aged guy with a pony tail and a tall, svelt black girl with blonde hair. I thought "This is going to be cool. I'm going to have a real French haircut". The shampoo girl washed my hair, then led me a chair next to where the black girl was working. Then she walked away and a small Asian woman replaced her. She said (I think) "How would you like your hair cut?"
So my first French haircut was in fact conducted by a Philippino woman. Who actually reminded me a lot of my friend Terry's mom. After I realized the resemblence it was oddly comforting.
The haircut wasn't great, but all that I could expect for not being able to communicate.
Back home, I made our lunch, which I took a picture of to share the global range of our meal. We were still finishing off the English cheese that Adam brought over, plus a block of American cheddar my parents brought and a bit of provolone we got from the Italian booth at the market. When I was in Valencia I bought a bit of meat, and we had some additional meat from the grocery store. Voila.
Anyway, after that the weather was decent and we decided to go into Paris. We visited the 
Viaduc des Arts, which is a group of boutiques in the vaulted spaces beneath an old railway. The shops were all closed, but the area above (where the tracks used to be) was converted into a long garden with nice views of the streets below.
We left the gardens and walked to the Bastille, then a busy narrow street of bars and restaurants. We had dinner in a small Mexican restaurant, an early anniversary dinner because we didn't want to deal with the hassle of finding an open restaurant on a Sunday night.
Today Dave and I took a walk into Levallois-Perret and found that the entire town had been converted into a giant garage sale. Which answers the question "How do people in apartments have garage sales?"
Several roads were blocked off and each family was assigned a table to display their stuff. As we walked through the crowds, Dave said "Wow, they have the same junk we do in the states". We kept an eye out for a city bike for me, but the only one we found was 140 euros.
Dave soon got tired of the crowds and went
home, but I walked for a bit longer, stopping to look at interesting antiques and shoes. I saw wine for sale, (how French), and buffalo skulls (how odd), and a box of old wedding rings (how creepy).
Yesterday morning I left the apartment at about 10:30 and dropped off a pair of shoes for new heels, dropped off my dry cleaning, and was standing in line at the post office by 10:40. Not bad. Bought postcard stamps, sent a priority envelope to the bank, picked up a baguette, and back to the apartment by 11.
Then I walked to the Saturday market, where I was again grilled about my origin (this time from another butcher), the fish guy gave me a free lemon and the vegetable woman chatted with me in Franglais about my French lessons.
After unloading the food I went out again and got a haircut, which was my first in France. I purposely had my hair cut at the last possible minute before leaving the states in order to put it off in France for as long as I could. But it was getting long and unruly and I really couldn't stand it anymore.
While I waited my turn, I frantically text messaged two friends and asked "Do I tip for a haircut in France?". The answers came back: "Only if the service and the haircut are really good" and "no way!". Ok then. Then another message beeped in:
"Welcome to the land of no tipping!"
There were two people working when I walked in, a smooth middle-aged guy with a pony tail and a tall, svelt black girl with blonde hair. I thought "This is going to be cool. I'm going to have a real French haircut". The shampoo girl washed my hair, then led me a chair next to where the black girl was working. Then she walked away and a small Asian woman replaced her. She said (I think) "How would you like your hair cut?"
So my first French haircut was in fact conducted by a Philippino woman. Who actually reminded me a lot of my friend Terry's mom. After I realized the resemblence it was oddly comforting.
The haircut wasn't great, but all that I could expect for not being able to communicate.
Back home, I made our lunch, which I took a picture of to share the global range of our meal. We were still finishing off the English cheese that Adam brought over, plus a block of American cheddar my parents brought and a bit of provolone we got from the Italian booth at the market. When I was in Valencia I bought a bit of meat, and we had some additional meat from the grocery store. Voila.
Anyway, after that the weather was decent and we decided to go into Paris. We visited the 
Viaduc des Arts, which is a group of boutiques in the vaulted spaces beneath an old railway. The shops were all closed, but the area above (where the tracks used to be) was converted into a long garden with nice views of the streets below.We left the gardens and walked to the Bastille, then a busy narrow street of bars and restaurants. We had dinner in a small Mexican restaurant, an early anniversary dinner because we didn't want to deal with the hassle of finding an open restaurant on a Sunday night.
Today Dave and I took a walk into Levallois-Perret and found that the entire town had been converted into a giant garage sale. Which answers the question "How do people in apartments have garage sales?"
Several roads were blocked off and each family was assigned a table to display their stuff. As we walked through the crowds, Dave said "Wow, they have the same junk we do in the states". We kept an eye out for a city bike for me, but the only one we found was 140 euros.Dave soon got tired of the crowds and went
home, but I walked for a bit longer, stopping to look at interesting antiques and shoes. I saw wine for sale, (how French), and buffalo skulls (how odd), and a box of old wedding rings (how creepy).
4.22.2007
Monster Strawberry
Today at the market I saw the cutest cats. They were napping in a little wooden box right in the middle of the pedestrian street. At first I thought they were being given away, and then I saw little leashes around their necks. When people stopped to pet and coo over the cats, their owners took the opportunity to shake whatever they were selling, soap or something, under their noses. At first I thought those poor cats were being exploited, and then I realized that they were getting more attention then Oliver gets in a week. Then I thought about selling Oliver to them. Hah hah.
The market was the usual, and I'm going to start referring to it as the Stress Market because I can't help but get a little claustrophic and panicky when I go in there. So many people and sounds and a language I don't understand.
I try to stay as zen as possible by bringing along my ipod and only unplugging it from my head when I need to communicate. But while the music blocks out the sounds, it doesn't stop people from bumping into me and running over my feet with their little carts and tripping over dog leashes. Between the market and shopping in Paris yesterday I realized that I might not be cut out for long-term city life.
When I came home and unpacked everything I found the most terrifying strawberry I have ever seen. I don't know if it was a product of genetic mutation or chemicals or what, but it looked like four conjoined strawberry twins. Dave walked into the kitchen, said "wow!", and promptly volunteered to eat it.
I wish I had a picture of him eating it, but he wouldn't let me fetch the camera.
4.03.2007
The Garbage Strike
My Second French Strike: Not as Amusing
Yesterday morning as I was leaving for work, late as usual, I came to a stop at the intersection of our road and rue President Wilson, one of the major roads running through Levallois-Perret. Just as the light turned green, a policeman on foot walked by and held his hand up for me to stop. As he walked past, he looked over his shoulder and gave me a sympathetic look and a shrug. I didn’t understand why; don’t the police stop traffic momentarily all the time?
He was followed by a police car and another officer holding up his hand. I thought maybe some politician was in town and needed escorts. Then I heard a whistle. A parade on a Monday morning?
Next there was a flag, further confirming my bizarre parade theory, carried by…a garbage man? Followed by….more garbage men? What kind of lame parade is this? Then I realized that the garbage men of the city were on strike, and by holding up traffic they were calling attention to their cause. And for whatever labor reasons, the police are obliged to escort them.
Three minutes and four stop light cycles later, I was able to pull out behind the strikers. They were certainly taking their time strolling down the street. I followed them for two blocks, then turned down another road to take a parallel street out of town.
I braced myself for a garbage standoff, like in Toronto a few years ago when the garbage workers went on strike and the city was trashed. But last night they were back at it, collecting garbage and vacuuming dog piles. It’s good to know that French strikes are resolved faster than most French administration.
2.18.2007
Lisa and Paris
A former colleague of mine from Detroit is visiting Faurecia Meru for two weeks, so I spent the weekend running around Paris with her. Everything is still so new for me, I had no problem visiting all of the tourist sites.
On Saturday we did some shopping in Levallois-Perret, then took the metro to Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur. We were lucky and had fantastic weather. There were so many people lounging on the grass and enjoying the view. We had lunch in Montmartre and stopped to look at some of the local artists' work.
On Saturday we did some shopping in Levallois-Perret, then took the metro to Montmartre and the Sacre Coeur. We were lucky and had fantastic weather. There were so many people lounging on the grass and enjoying the view. We had lunch in Montmartre and stopped to look at some of the local artists' work.
Next we visited the Champs-Elysees and Arc de Triomphe. The first thing Lisa said when we saw the Arc was "Let's go to the top!". I said stupidly, "You can go up there?" and sure enough, way up at the top you could see tourists. So we paid our 8 euros and hiked 254 steps on a circular staircase to the top. Halfway up I said "Ok, there's no way I'm walking up the Eiffel Tower with you" but, well...I'm a pushover. 
This morning I walked to the center of Levallois for some groceries. It seems that Sunday is the market day in L-P. The whole area was alive with people shopping, greeting friends, and sitting around cafes. It's hard to imagine people sitting outside at cafes in February, but like I said, we've had some great weather.
Last week I broke down and bought myself one of those cute grocery wheelie-bags at Ikea. Dave refuses to use it, but I think it's the cat's pajamas. Here's a picture, it's not a true French wheelie bag unless there's a baguette sticking out of it.When Lisa came by we took the metro out to Notre Dame and Saint Michel. Then we met up with Dave at the Eiffel Tower. As soon as we got to the base, Dave and Lisa looked up and said -- you guessed it --"Let's walk up!" So we walked, although not to the top, just the first tier. We took some photos, shared a few sandwiches, and watched the sun set over the city.
(Some of Dave's best Eiffel Tower photos are on the Flickr page, check them out)
All this walking (and climbing) brings on a hunger that can't be satified by a few little baguette sandwiches, so we rode back to Saint Michel for gyros and a stroll through more boutiques and tourist shops.
It was a great weekend; Lisa got to see most of the highlights of the city and I worked on my soon-to-be-amazing calf muscles.
2.12.2007
The Drive Home
Ok, my drive home wasn't as smooth, especially the last 10 minutes in Levallois-Perret. The roads were wet, people were darting into the street, and I could have sworn I ran over a few motorcyclists' toes.
Which reminds me, the motorcyclists in Paris must have a death wish. They charge up the middle of lanes, weave between cars and squeeze between others with complete disregard for traffic rules. I can understand that driving like that allows them to pass through traffic faster, but personally I don't think it would be worth the risk of personal injury.
Anyway, I was pretty tired when I finally got to our street and I was worried about parking. We have a rented parking spot in a garage about 15 minutes away on foot, but we're learning that street parking isn't too difficult to find.
The parking garage is amazing. It's spotless, freshly painted with colored floors and murals on the walls. It's extremely well lit and heated, and there are speakers piping in American music. When you pull up, a camera reads your license plate and grants you access. It's just bizarre. Not only that, but when we went to sign up for parking at a local municipal building, we were escorted to a plush office and an elegant woman behind a large wooden desk. Who promptly opened her appointment book and started proposing times for our meeting. For a parking spot?? In the states you would expect a plexiglass window, a cash exchange, and a sticker.
But like I said, street parking hasn't been hard to find. And it's free from 7 p.m. to 9 a.m. and on weekends. And holidays. And the month of August. So if I leave before 9 and get home at 7, then what's the point in the garage? Levallois-Perret is really safe, I'm pretty sure I don't need to worry about theft. Besides, there's nothing to take in our little Ford Fiesta.
Tonight I parked a block and a half away on the street. I'd like to take the opportunity to thank my dad for teaching me how to parallel park.
Here are some photos Dave took tonight in the apartment. The transformer in action (thanks Roch!) and Dave's new slippers in action (thanks Lisa!).
And here's one I took of the ceiling
2.10.2007
We've Moved!
I don't know how many times I've said that "we've moved" over the past 3 months, but hopefully this will be the last for a while. Going back a few days, we signed the lease for the apartment on Wednesday, February 7. The apartment owners turned out to be a really nice couple not too much older than we are. Amalia is Spanish and Eduardo is Italian, and this was Amalia's apartment before she moved in with Eduardo. She explained the brightly colored walls with: "Paris is so gray in the winter. So I painted it like Spain!"
Anyway, they're both engineers, too, what are the chances. We spent a lot of time chatting while Magali (the relocation company rep) and the rental agent worked out the contract and did an invetory of the apartment. Dave and I picked out all of the furniture we wanted to stay and they agreed to remove the rest that night.
Thursday morning, the movers beat us to the apartment as were stuck in typical Paris traffic (we should have known better). Their English was limited to only a few words, but we managed to communicate enough to put everything in the appropriate rooms. We had to send away a few items that we didn't have room for, which was a little sad because Dave has had some of those things since he was a kid.
We were thoroughly amazed that Amalia and Eduardo were able to move everything out of the aparment the day before. They must have been working all night. And who knows where they put all of it.
The movers were done by noon and we were left with piles of boxes and the impending fear that we wouldn't have the space for everything. We spent all day Thursday and Friday unpacking and organizing, and finally took a break on Friday night to meet Irantzu and her boyfriend Ludovic for dinner.Irantzu and Ludovic live in Pontoise, which is only a few minutes from the town where we were living in the hotel. They have a cute little home with all kinds of charming (or irritating, depending on your height) slants in the ceiling and steps up and down into various rooms. We had a small feast of raclette, which we both really enjoyed.
If you don't know what raclette is, I already wikipedia-ed it: raclette is a kind of cheese, or typically a meal made up of melted raclette cheese with boiled potatoes and a variety of meats. Back in The Day, herdsmen would sit around the campfire at night, place their round of cheese next the fire, and scrape off bits as it melted (the word racler means "to scrape"). In more modern times, a heating device sits in the middle of the table, and everyone has a little square ceramic dish they put a slice of cheese on and place on the heat. About 30 seconds later the cheese is bubbling and you can slide it right onto your waiting potato with its little hat of meat. It's quite rich but very tasty.
Today we woke up early (Oliver won't let us sleep in anymore) and walked down to the market area. The covered market wasn't as active as we expected, only a few stalls, but we managed enough elementary level French to get a few days' worth of vegetables. We visited the fromagerie to see our favorite English-speaking cheese guy (he says "have a good trip" when we leave..I wonder how long it will take for him to realize that we live here) and the Picard for some interesting frozen foods. We're still intimidated by the bucther shop, so we went to a local grocery store for meat. We also picked up a quiche lorraine for lunch.
We've learned that stocking a kitchen is difficult when you have to haul everything by hand.
The weather has been mild, so Dave went for his first good run since we got here. He ran down to the Bois de Bologne and back and was disappointed in the lack of hills. While he was stretching in the park, a French college student took his picture and asked him to write in a little notebook for her art project. He came home with a poloroid photo of himself crouched on the ground writing in the book.
I'm guessing she chose him for her project because he stuck out like a sore thumb in his bright blue running shirt and white running hat. Not to mention he's taller than almost everyone else on the street.
Anyway, we're still on hold for internet access. Magali promised to call and make the arrangements for us, but we don't know what the status is. Luckily, there are a few unsecured wireless networks in the area we've been using at a snail's pace.
2.03.2007
Levallois-Perret: Our New Home
So it appears that I will be able to post blogs from the French computer from the hotel. Although all my Blogger functions are in French, so that makes for an interesting challenge and good practice for me.Dave took me into Levallois-Perret today to see our apartment. It really is cute, he did a great job picking it out. Here are some photos:
Our apartment is the one with the closed shutters at the top of the photo.The kitchen and the bedroom face a tiny courtyard that I'm sure Oliver will have to check out. Unlike most kitchens, ours is equipped with all of the appliances: stove, oven, refrigerator, dishwasher, and washing machine. We were lucky because the owner offered it as a furnished apartment. Obviously we have our own things, but we were able to select some items we wanted to keep and the rest he is going to store.
It's right in the center of town, and there is a park only a block and a half away. After visiting the apartment we spent the rest of the day walking around the city. The Hôtel de Ville is only a short walk, as well as many markets and shops. The metro Anatole France is about a 6 or 7 minute walk.
The Paris border is also within walking distance: right into the 17th arrondissement.
The weather was cold, but it was sunny and we really enjoyed our day there. We can't wait to move!!
Here is the address:
BASSON - Appartement 7
6 rue Camille Pelletan
92300 Levallois-Perret
Until later....bisous!
2.01.2007
Levallois-Perret
Yesterday Dave went apartment hunting with the relocation company (Crown) consultant, Magali. The night before, she sent a list of the 6 apartments she had lined up for us to review. She was cheerful and optimistic that we'd find a place by the end of the day. I was fairly sure it would take at least a week.
So you can imagine my surprise at four in the afternoon when Dave called me from Magali's phone and said "I've looked at 3. Two of them are great. I'm submitting applications by the end of the day". I really wanted to see our future home before we committed to anything, but it seems that Paris is the same as any big city; if you find an apartment, you jump on it immediately.
When I met him back at the hotel at 7, he said "Forget what I said earlier. I found two more that are even better". We went through the pictures he took and we talked it out until we settled on one. I'm not going to share any more details until we sign the lease, just in case we don't get it. But he loves it and he loves Levallois-Perret, (I'm still learning how to say it), so I think it's going to be great.
Originally we wanted to begin our search in the northern-most arrondissements of Paris. But after my lunch with Irantzu, I e-mailed Crown and requested that we focus on the town of Levallois-Perret. I had never been there, but Irantzu assured me that it was where we wanted to live. It's just outside the Paris periphery, but still on a Metro line.
On other good news, we seem to have a very interested buyer for the house. I'm also not going to jinx that by giving too much detail.
More later.
In the meantime, here's a funny picture I took in Paris over the weekend.
So you can imagine my surprise at four in the afternoon when Dave called me from Magali's phone and said "I've looked at 3. Two of them are great. I'm submitting applications by the end of the day". I really wanted to see our future home before we committed to anything, but it seems that Paris is the same as any big city; if you find an apartment, you jump on it immediately.
When I met him back at the hotel at 7, he said "Forget what I said earlier. I found two more that are even better". We went through the pictures he took and we talked it out until we settled on one. I'm not going to share any more details until we sign the lease, just in case we don't get it. But he loves it and he loves Levallois-Perret, (I'm still learning how to say it), so I think it's going to be great.
Originally we wanted to begin our search in the northern-most arrondissements of Paris. But after my lunch with Irantzu, I e-mailed Crown and requested that we focus on the town of Levallois-Perret. I had never been there, but Irantzu assured me that it was where we wanted to live. It's just outside the Paris periphery, but still on a Metro line.
On other good news, we seem to have a very interested buyer for the house. I'm also not going to jinx that by giving too much detail.
More later.
In the meantime, here's a funny picture I took in Paris over the weekend.
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