Terrorist Pizza

When French people ask me why I moved to France, I say, "George Bush." It always gets a laugh. And as a comedian, I go for the easy laughs as often as possible. But, as with all things in life, my reasons are more nuanced than that.

I think my life-long love for France began when I was 10 or 11 years old and my mother took my sister and I on a summer trip with her best friend Marianne McClatchy and her daughter. Mrs. McClatchy was looking for a summer camp for her daughter, also named Marianne. So, we drove around New England and ended up at the exclusive girls' camp, École Champlain, in Ferrisburgh Vermont, where the girls were required to speak only in French while they were there. (Holy crap! Elizabeth Clare Prophet was a camp counselor there.) I saw the gorgeous lake and grounds, the beautiful horses, cuddled with a German shepherd who only listened to commands in French. I really, really wanted to go to that camp. But it was a bit too exclusive for my parents' budget. Mrs. McClatchy was married to a politician who came from a long line of Philadelphia developers. My Dad was in business for himself and was supporting six kids, all in private Catholic schools. There was no way.

On the East coast at that time, if you studied any foreign language, it was French. So I studied French all through grade school and junior high and after my family moved to Arizona, even though Spanish was the popular language on that side of America, I continued to study French in high school. If my parents hadn't sent me to Mexico in between my sophomore and junior year, I wouldn't have fallen in love with Mexico (and a certain man named Pepe) and probably would be fluent in French by now.

When I turned 50 and was looking for an escape from corporate America and Republican America (I would add some snark about the two being the same thing, but corporate America owns the U.S. government, on both sides of the aisle. Just look at the health care and financial industry lobbying right now and you'll see what I mean), I went to Mexico looking for a place to live first. But for some reason, that never came to fruition. On a second reconnaissance trip to Paris, I knew where I wanted to be.

My friend K used to say to me, "I know you'll live in Mexico some day." If you saw my condo in Arizona, decorated in Mexican colors and full of Mexican furniture and art, you would have agreed with her. But, here I am in Paris. I think I've come to understand that I'm not so much in love with one place or another, but am in love with travel and learning and living the nomadic life. I have a feeling that Paris won't be the last stop on my life's road.

And K, who had never traveled outside the U.S. except for a few forays across the border to Mexico, came to visit me here this Christmas. K had been influenced by some narrow-minded people and of course, was subjected to Republican and U.S. media fear-mongering about anything Islamic. So I knew she'd have her eyes opened by this trip.

I just didn't know how wide they'd be opened.

The day of her arrival at Charles de Gaulle airport just happened to also be the day that everyone was coming back from Mecca. I stood at the gate, anxiously surveying the crowds of Islamic people and thought, "Oh boy. This should be interesting. She's going to think that even though she narrowly avoided crashing into the ocean from a bomb on the plane, she's sure to die at the hands of terrorists upon exiting customs."

K's plane was late. There was confusion as to which gate she would exit from. I kept shoving my way through the crowds to try and see her as she came out. All the while, women in long dresses and scarves were offering me plates full of dates. My friend G, who was kind enough to come to the airport with me in her car, was happily eating everything that was offered. Then came the ululating. Oh, the ululating. Each time a person of importance came out of customs, the crowds would surge towards them, offering dates and crying "AY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY YAY!" Grrrrreat.

K finally exited customs, but without me seeing her. She went, as I had instructed, to the friendly information desk, and asked them to call my cell phone. I made my way over to the desk and there she was, with her sweet little 3-year-old in her stroller. She looked weary and just a bit wary, but not as wide-eyed from terror as I was worried she might be. "Want a date?" my friend G says to K in greeting. "No Thanks." K says. "I don't take random food from strangers." heh heh.

Off we went in G's car to our neighborhood, full of Halal butchers and restaurants, women in veils and swarthy-looking men who would be instant terrorist suspects in America. The difference is, when there are two or three Middle Eastern men in America, they are suspicious. When you're surrounded by thousands of them, you're forced to admit that they can't ALL be plotting to kill you. Unless of course, you're an asshole. Which K is not. So, as we walked around the neighborhood, shopped in the grocery store and played in the local parks, she began to be comfortable in our multicultural environment.

Luckily, I'd moved upstairs from my first hovel of an apartment, so she didn't get a chance to hear the guy across the hall ululating at the top of his lungs accompanied by Islamic music and, um, slapping himself, every morning at 6:00. Nor did she have to hear the incessant knocking on the guy's door all through the wee hours of the night and morning, as his guy friends came to crash on his floor during Ramadan. If there ever was the makings of a terrorist cell in the imagination of the fearful, that would be it.

A Moroccan woman and her three lovely daughters moved into my old apartment downstairs. The woman wears a head scarf, as does her oldest daughter. K got to see us all kissing in happy greeting each time we encountered each other on the street or in the building's entrance hallway. Those girls are devout Muslims and since K left, I've had wonderful times visiting them, giggling with them about the slapper across the hall (I thought they'd know what he was doing, but they're just as confused as I am) and having serious discussions about the French government's recent burqa ban. Each time I spend time with them, I'm served, with traditional high-pour flourish from a beautiful Morrocan pot, the best cinnamon or mint tea on the planet. And cakes. And almonds. And love.

While K was here, she wore my long black hooded coat. She'd put a wide black headband across the top of her forehead and then pull up the hood of the coat. She looked like every Muslim woman in my neighborhood. I didn't realize this until a miracle happened. We went to see Sacré Coeur and on our way down the steps, heading towards the sins of Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge, we encountered the guys who plant themselves at the base of the steps and try to sell you bracelets made from string. These guys are relentless and I've never been able to escape them. But when they saw K in that coat, hood and headband, they turned and walked away! It made me want to invest in my own burqa.

K and I welcomed 2010 at our favorite local, owned and operated by two handsome Iranian brothers and their gorgeous sister. K and one of the brothers had been flirting with each other for a few weeks prior to New Years Eve. I'll avoid saying anything about sleeping with terrorists (by saying... sleeping with terrorists), but K extended her stay in Paris for some reason. I thought it was because she couldn't stand to leave me. Or because she'd fallen in love with Paris. Um. Well, yeah.

Since I moved to this neighborhood, if I'm too lazy to cook or have a hankering for pizza, I'm lucky to have a place right on my block where I can walk in, order and wait just a few moments while they make the pizza from scratch and put it into a wood-fired oven. The guy who owns it is Middle Eastern, in his late 20's or early 30's and sports something between a 5 o'clock shadow and a closely-trimmed beard. His swarthy friends hang out with him, clad in their leather jackets, sitting on bar stools in front of the counter and watching Al Jazeera on TV.

It could be a little intimidating to go in there, if you're an American who sees a terrorist around every corner. But every time I've stepped in the door, the young owner smiles at me and takes my order. Once, when he had run out for a moment, his friends went behind the counter and started the pizza until he came back. I sit and watch Al Jazeera with them while waiting for my pizza, or gaze at the framed photo they have on the wall, of our street in the 1800's. It was from that photo that I learned that the small parking lot inset in front of the Franprix grocery store used to be where the horse-drawn carriages could turn around.

To this day, I don't remember the name of the pizza place. Instead, I say to G when we're starving and lazy, "How about some terrorist pizza?" It's terrible, I know. But, it's funny, also too.

K returned to America, tainted. She cried all the way home on the plane. She told me she couldn't stop talking about Paris when she returned. But nobody wanted to hear about it. One guy said, "Why do you want to go there? The French hate us." And my sweet friend K said, "I've heard more hatred from Americans about the French since I returned here, than I EVER heard from French people about America while I was there." Amen, sistuh. So, in the end, she shut up about Paris. She feels lonely, now that she's different. Now she knows how I always felt when I lived in Arizona. I was a stranger, in a strange land.

K wasn't crying on the plane about missing her Iranian conquest. Because her reasons for loving Paris and wanting to move here, are more nuanced than that. Her tears were about her discovery that the world is such a big and amazing place, full of people from foreign lands, where there's always something new and different to see and do, new friends to make, new words to speak. Where you can stand in awe in front of Notre Dame's rose window and freeze to death in a line outside the French health administration building, while her friend, that would be moi, was in the last throes of the beaurocratic hell called "getting your French work visa." It's a magical place with exotic food and wine at bargain basement prices.

And of course, in a pinch, there's always Terrorist Pizza.

The Enchanted Forest

I wanted you to know I've made progress on my box of letters. I cataloged them by year and they start from the first letter I wrote to my friend on the plane from Philadelphia to Phoenix in 1971 and they end in 1977. I also started a document where I'm researching all the references I made in the letters to music, movies, books, TV commercials and other events during those times. It's been a wonderful trip of discovery so far. When I first got the box, I was kind of horrified at how little I could remember, but as I look things up, memories are beginning to come back.

One of the most joyful discoveries I've made is the spirit of Lisa Wines. I'm beginning to realize that I was funny ("I know you must think I'm insane, but aren't you glad I use Dial?" - a reference to a soap commercial that only other people of a certain age will remember). I was open, creative, curious and most of all, bold. Even though I accepted the negative programming from my mother ("She's our smartest child, but she has no common sense."), I keep seeing evidence of my own young wisdom and being surprised by it. For instance, I discuss the fact that my boyfriend at the time was pressuring me to have sex, but I didn't want to because I knew he'd be going off to college, would probably meet other girls and I would get my heart broken. If I had a daughter at that age, this would be the kind of advice I would give her. I wouldn't be saying that sex was a "sin" or telling her she was "obsessed with sex" or shaming her. I'd be telling her the same practical realities of life and love that my 15-year-old self already knew.

One of the interesting surprises is the fact that even though I told my best friend the most intimate details of my life, when I was raped in college, I told her, just two days after the rape, only that I had a terrible urinary tract infection and the doctors at the student union gave me some tests and I was waiting for results so they could tell me what was wrong. In fact, I went to the hospital only because an old friend found me in my dorm room in shock, and then I was verbally shamed by the doctor, and sent home with medication for the infection. I wasn't waiting for any "results." It was here that I made a turning point in my life. Where I decided that my rape was my fault because I was so open, too creative and way too bold. I decided also that I would never have been raped if I had stayed inside my family and agreed with them and did what they wanted me to do.

My next paragraph in that letter was all about me having to go get a job. Industry would save me from the evils of my creative self and maybe erase the shame of the rape (that my mother said I deserved, because of the way I dressed). If I just worked hard and long enough, I'd finally get the respect from my parents and acceptance from the "serious people" of the world and I could stop myself from foolishly thinking I could be an artist. The tone of my letters changed from that point onward. And I've denied myself the pleasure of my own spirit ever since.

Of course, you can't keep pushing the truth aside forever. And you can't keep dating men who are artists to avoid being one yourself. I made myself sick trying to be a "grown up" and worked myself almost to death. I kept trying to fit into my family, but always failed. At 50, I finally decided I'd had enough and ran away to Paris, with no idea where it would lead me. But it led me back to myself and I'm falling in love with this young, brave girl every time I open a letter. My parents say I'm crazy now - "She's living over there with all those other Socialists." But the sad truth is, they would and will never value my spirit, or my "difference."

So, while I continue my discovery, I thought I'd post one of my drawings I made in my Big Chief tablet in 1972. It's called The Enchanted Forest.

The Pain Unable To Explain

Just before Christmas of 2008, I wrote a blog post about my childhood friend Dina (pseudonym), who found me on the internet and then sent me a magical box filled with every letter I'd ever written to her. She thought it would make a good book one day. So do I.

When I first started coming to Paris, I had recently made a final break with corporate America and decided I would finally, at 50, become a writer. I'd been in denial and avoiding this precious part of myself for way too long. I blogged religiously, finding my voice. But I never worked on my book ideas, some of them quite developed. I had, and still have, an inordinate fear of taking this big step in my life, daring to legitimize myself as a published writer. The devil on my shoulder continues to say, "Who the hell do you think you are? Calling yourself a writer. Pffft!" Instead, I allowed myself to get distracted with other people's problems (my forté) and when I found freelance work, I dove into it with the same obsessive overworking that almost killed me in my past career.

A difficult relationship breakup, a writing contract for a PSP game, a teaching contract at the same time, a multi-year French work permit application process...all combined with my terror of finishing and publishing a book...made me hide in my apartment in a paralysis like I have never before experienced. I stopped blogging. I stopped living. I was just surviving from day to day, as I gathered enough nerve to go to the grocery store or to work, literally gagging from fear at every step.

Last week, I finalized my French work permit and suddenly, just as Paris has been drenched in sunlight for seven rare days in a row, I felt lighter and full of hope. I wouldn't say I'm without fear, since fear has been my nasty little habit for such a long time. I will have to retrain every cell in my body before I could dare to call myself fearless.

But this morning I finally took down the box Dina sent me, from the top of a dusty tall cabinet. It's the first step in cataloging the letters and figuring out how I will present this little gold mine. In the box is a Son of Big Chief writing tablet, filled with letters, poems and my drawings. According to Wikipedia, these tablets were printed for more than 80 years, but died a quiet death in 2001. However, I share the use of Big Chief with other literary luminaries: "In John Kennedy Toole's novel A Confederacy of Dunces, the protagonist Ignatius Reilly pens his philosophical ramblings on Big Chief tablets." What's hilarious about this Big Chief tablet cover, is the fact that because of the time that I bought it (circa summer of 1972), there's a hippie Big Chief instead of the standard Indian.

So, to get me started, I'd like to share one item with you, a story I wrote spontaneously, built around a drawing I made. It's obvious, based on my own drawings, that sometimes I copied other people's art as a way to teach myself. And this particular drawing looks like one of those copies. I named the character "Fwed" and wrote the following story when I was about 15 years old. (I didn't edit the punctuation or spelling.)

This is fwed. Fwed's my buddy. We met in a Chinese hairdresser salon while he was having hairs inserted above his ear so that he'd look like he'd have hair if he wore his cap. (I won't tell you what I was doing there...) Anyway Fwed and I started a lasting relationship over our fortune cookies and bamboo shoots. He was a master at chopsticks in any form and he lovingly instructed me of their use as he noticed most of my meal down my blouse and dribbling down the chair legs whenever we went out to eat. "Tsk Tsk" he'd say (he's got the cutest way of saying that!) and he'd wipe it all up to use as leftovers. He was the swankiest person I ever met - and high society? Whew - you name it - he was there. Remember the 1968 garbage collector's ball that was so highly publicised - Well - I was there - along with Fwed of course. I owe it all to him. He was so suave and debonair (to add a little of that "parlay-vu") (tee hee) that night. He almost swept me off my feet. I'm glad he didn't though - the floor was awful dirty - it needed it more than I did.

Fwed was a professional olive stuffer but out of business since the last pimento strike he's been free lancing as a Presidential campaign delegate - all just night work you know - so I haven't been able to see him lately. During the day he's free though and we go to all the dog shows to see if we can find his lost doberman pincer - the one who chewed up Fwed's round bed and headboard. Fwed was so mad that he scolded "pooch" cruelly which brought on an attack of shame to the dog along with "sticky-paw" (the pain unable to explain). Pooch took off for the mountains - on invitation of course - by the Don Juan of dogs himself whom no one has ever really seen. His sticky-paw dissapeared after a few days of nursing by those sexy poodles of Don Juan's. And the shame? Who knows - hopefully he's forgotten - we wouldn't want him to have a nervous breakdown. I know all this because pooche's girlfriend, smooch, travels to this area once in a while and visits my dog, mooch who in turn reports the latest. Fwed still thinks that pooch is lost and caught an attack of amnesia which stops him from coming home. His taste has become more educated and he prefers satin slippers and the like to round beds.

I've known Fwed for a while now and have gotten to know all about his personality - bad and good. He's the most different person I've ever met - to put it mildly. Why, he sleeps on top of his kitchen counter at night - due to the fact he has no bed anymore. I once asked him how he managed to stay up there all night without falling off. He claims there's a bottomless pit below which explains why he jumps onto the chandelier every morning and makes a dive for the couch which also was a surprise to me because I was sleeping on the couch. I don't know how he ever had anything to eat because the bottomless pit was right in front of the stove, sink, and refrigerator. I also wonder how he gets up on the counter to go to sleep at night - the chandelier is only a one-way deal. Yes, Fwed is a very peculiar person.

But I like him just the same. I would never marry him I'm afraid - I wouldn't be able to stand listening to that garbage he plays on the radio.

The End.

As I read this story, I can see all of the influences at the time I was writing it:

• I had a best friend in Arizona whose swingin' single mother had a round bed...covered in deep purple velvet, no less.
  
• My father used to say he wouldn't eat Chinese food because he hated eating "grass and bamboo shoots."
  
• My mother hated rock n' roll and frequently called it "that garbage on the radio."
  
• When my mother looked at my skinny brother, she'd say, "I don't know why he can't gain weight. His stomach is a bottomless pit."
  
• "Suave and debonair" was a favorite saying of my brothers, for some reason, who pronounced it like this: swave and dee-boner.

I have no idea where the following line came from however, but I know I must use it someday, somewhere in my writing: the pain unable to explain.

French Work Permits, Xanax And Finally, Spandex

This week we had a tempête in France, where more than 50 people died. Thankfully I wasn't one of them. Most of the problems were in the West of France, but Paris received her dose of pouring rain and howling winds. So, when I woke up Tuesday morning, I was very happy to finally see blue skies and bright sunshine out of my window.

Since I'm from Arizona, where rain usually comes only twice a year during monsoon season, I actually don't mind the rain. But this particular morning I would be dealing with the French government and since this almost always means standing outside in a long line for hours, only to arrive at the reception desk to be told that you're missing one document, or the 6th copy of another document, or some other strange thing that you couldn't possibly know about even if you had the divination skills of the Oracle of Delphi, I wasn't looking forward to getting soaked and blown about with 75 other people outside of the OFII office (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration) as I waited for my last step of my visa and work permit process - the Visite médicale obligatoire. This is the step where the government doctor screens you to make sure you're not carrying the bubonic plague into France.

My appointment was at 9AM, way across town near Bastille, where the July Column in the center of Place de la Bastille marks the place where the peasants stormed the prison and started the French revolution. The Bastille was built during the hundred year war as a fortress, later to be turned into a prison by Louis XIII. I can't help but feel like I've been in a 100-year war myself, trying to make it through the French visa process without, well, losing my head. At least they let me eat cake while I was waiting.

And I've been in my own prison of sorts - paralyzed by dread and anxiety as I awaited the verdict at every convoluted step. I think that the French have a certain affinity towards torture-through-bureaucracy, as if all my waiting and document gathering and xerox copying and line standing and number taking and stamp buying and phone calling (to phones that are never answered) builds character. If that's the case, then I could start a shop and make a fortune selling all my extra character. I might as well sell it, since I've become a twitching, drooling mess and couldn't use all that character if I tried.

I actually started this process more than 9 months ago, when I hired a great attorney (and blues guitar player) to help me figure it all out. I gathered old birth certificates and divorce decrees and took pictures of my work space and made a million copies of bank statements and even had a nice policeman in Carefree, Arizona write a letter verifying that I wasn't now, nor had I ever been, a criminal. Of course, before I went to the Carefree police station to pick up the letter, I was absolutely positive that they'd be waiting to arrest me for some minor offense that I'd forgotten about, but for which Sheriff Joe Arpaio, the FBI, CIA and AARP had been hoping to catch me for years but just couldn't find me (across the street from them).

Even though you're allowed to pack a pistol in Arizona public buildings, no guns were drawn when I arrived at the police station/town hall and the nice receptionist just handed me the letter and the cops were nowhere to be found. I had 21 glasses of wine to celebrate.

When I finally had a 4-inch-thick dossier compiled, I confidently contacted the American representative of the French consulate in Arizona, to ask for my interview. He was quite impatient over the phone and couldn't possibly understand how I could have ever imagined that I could get a French visa:

Him: Are you marrying a French man?
Me: No.
Him: Did a French or American company offer you a job?
Me: No.
Him: Well, what are you going to do, then?
Me: Write and publish books and collaborate with a French university developing video online courses.
Him: Well, I just don't think this is going to fly. Send me the cover letter of your dossier and I'll email the consulate in Los Angeles and see if they will even consider your case.

I guess the idea that an unmarried woman in business for herself was outside the realm of possibilities for him. I looked him up online and he's an older gentleman and a Mormon, so I began to see why he might think this way, even as I became overwhelmed with fear that I was heading for one more religious persecution in my life. For some damn reason, I attract Christian zealots like fly paper.

The very next day, the Arizona honorary consul forwarded me an email from the Los Angeles consulate. The LA consul said that, not only will he receive my case, but that I qualify for a much better visa, the three-year Compétences et Talents visa. It's a good thing I do qualify for it, because getting this visa has taken me 9 months and if it was a normal one-year visa, I would have to start the visa renewal process NOW. I don't think there's enough Valium in France to get me through it again.

Needless to say, I was tempted to say NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAH NAAAAAAAH! to the Arizona honorary consul, but I avoided the temptation since I was scheduled to interview with him the following Monday. Instead, I had 42 glasses of wine to celebrate.


For my appointment, I dressed like a Mormon. I looked like I hadn't been laid in 20 years (unfortunately not too far from the truth): pleated knee-length skirt, puffy-sleeved blouse buttoned to my chin, don't-come-fuck-me pumps. He didn't notice. He was impressed, instead, by the thickness of my dossier, and the two professionally-bound copies obligatoires. He said, "Wow, you're serious about this." Uh. No. I'm just a fluffy girl without a brain in her head who thought she might want to live in France so she can drink wine and eat cheese. Jayzuz. (OK, the wine and cheese part is true but I'm definitely not fluffy.)

He asked me about 6 questions and then told me to send my dossier and my passport to Los Angeles and wait for their review and approval. So, there I was, without a passport, hoping they would send it back to me with my visa in time to catch my flight to Paris in less than 6 weeks.

I had 842 glasses of wine (and a few shots of tequila) while waiting.

I was in Las Vegas visiting my friend when I received a voicemail from the French consul in Los Angeles. I wish I had kept the voicemail. It was soooooo French (i.e. cheerfully threatening): "Hello Madame Wines! This is the French consulate calling! It is obligatory that you send us three copies - not two! - of your dossier. This is clearly stated on our website! If you do not send the third copy to me by Friday, you will have to start the visa application process all over again. Tank you!"

I overnighted the third copy and then I can't actually remember how many glasses of wine I drank, trying to drown my terror that he'd find one more thing I had forgotten to send him. But when my brother called me a week later and said I'd received a package from the consulate with a new shiny visa inside my passport, I had 685 glasses of wine to celebrate.

Back in Paris, I had exactly three months to go through the rest of the steps to get my carte de sejours (work permit) before my visa expired. That was July. Days and weeks crept by, and I never heard anything from anybody. Nada. Finally, two weeks before the visa was to expire, I asked a French friend to call the immigration office for me. After multiple tries and many hours on hold, she finally got through. They had never heard of me. She persisted. They finaly found me in the computer and said that they were waiting to receive my dossier from Los Angeles. My friend asked them what I should do if I needed to go in and out of France (i.e. to England with my brother and his girlfriend when they visited me in November). The immigration official said, "She'll have to apply for a new visa." So, I was stuck in France.

I emailed my friendly Los Angeles consul and used my best indirect, polite corporate-speak and said, "The Paris immigration office informed me that they can't process my visa until you send them my dossier. Since my visa expires in two weeks, if I can do anything to facilitate the mailing of my dossier to the Paris office, just let me know." I received a very brief reply in all caps: I SENT THE DOSSIER TWO MONTHS AGO. Oops! So sorry! Gulp.

I bought 8 bottles of cheap wine (they don't have any good tequila here) at Franprix and drank them all in one go, sitting in my apartment, in the dark.

A couple of weeks later, I received a letter, telling me I had to go to the prefecture (police station) to start the work permit process. I went to my neighborhood police station and the line was all the way out the building and around the corner. I turned around and went back home. A few days later, after fortifying myself with...coffee, I went again. No line! I breezed right through the front door, up the steps to the immigration room, and as I fumbled with the ticket machine, I looked at the 85 people waiting in chairs in front of one tiny reception desk. Good thing I had nothing to read.

Since my French is bad and all of this is new to me, I just watched what everyone else was doing while I waited for my number to be called. All of a sudden, a guy at the reception desk started yelling. And slamming his fists on the counter. And yelling. All 85 of us stared. The lady behind the desk was nonplussed. She kept repeating herself - something about the fact that he had the audacity to show up ONE DAY after his visa had expired. He was yelling that it wasn't his fault, that he had been sick. She remained obstinate. He screamed and pounded. People came out of offices behind the desk and just stared at him. We were in the freaking police station and this guy was flipping out. After what seemed like hours, two big cops sauntered in and casually placed themselves on either side of the guy and listened to him yell. They quietly asked him a couple of questions. He yelled again. They quietly answered him. Finally, he calmed down. He and the two cops casually sauntered out of the room. And the receptionist started calling numbers again. And my visa was way more than one day expired.

Finally, it was my turn. I really only had to wait about 15 or 20 minutes....to find out I was in the wrong place. I had to go to the MAIN prefecture, downtown. The receptionist kindly wrote down the address, and the room number, where I needed to go. I didn't yell at her. Or pound my fists on the counter. I was excited about having the chance to stand in another line.

By some miracle, when I arrived at the downtown prefecture, there was NO LINE. There has always been a line outside of this place. They even constructed an awning along the side of the building so people don't die from sun stroke or frostbite or malaria, depending on the season. But nobody was there! I ran inside, found a place where 85 people were waiting, and figured that was the place for me. I took a number. Then I looked at my little piece of paper that the other prefecture had given me. I was in the right building, but the wrong room.

When I found my designated room, there was NO LINE! Just 3-4 people sitting in front of desks. I was called to the desk in less than 10 minutes. This, I thought, was where the rubber met the road. This is where I had to supply 900 more copies of my entire life (and all the same damn documents I had given to Los Angeles, in triplicate) so that they could give me my work permit. Of course, I had 899 correct copies but didn't have a copy of document number 900, which I didn't think they needed. I gave them the original. They said, "Don't call us. We'll call you."

I think something was lost in translation. I think they actually said. "Don't call us. We won't call you."

Keep in mind that I was already working, without a work permit. My school was actively paying me and paying the French government's social taxes for me. But I didn't have a work permit. Awkward!

November, and my brother's visit, was looming. I'd booked three tickets for us on the Chunnel for a day trip to London. I had visions of being stopped at the border and not allowed back into France. I drank more wine. And shot some heroin.

Three days before my brother and his girlfriend arrived, I got a phone call (!!) from the downtown prefecture asking me to come in and get my work permit. I actually answered that call and actually understood her French and actually spoke French back to her. Woohoo! I went downtown the next day and went to the little office and waited for 5 minutes and when I met with the guy, he gave me an official-looking paper with my adorable mug shot affixed to it, but it wasn't that laminated carte de sejours that everyone else has. I thought I was finished. And alas, I was not. It was just my temporary work permit. "You go here," he said in English, as he pointed to the address of the OFII. "You bring these things." There was a nice and easy bulleted list that I was sure I would be able to figure out. I nodded and told him how happy I was! He grunted.

The temporary work permit was fine for my London trip and my bro and his girlfriend and I had a blast. After they left Paris, my pal Kelsie arrived mid-November, so she and I got ourselves and her little daughter all bundled up and we made the trek by bus all the way to the OFII office at Bastille. We stood in line outside and froze to death, me with my lovely documents, including one timbre (stamp) worth 15 Euros and one worth 55 Euros. I don't know why they make you go to a Tabac (tobacco store) and buy stamps instead of accepting other forms of payment, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to do or die (of alcohol poisoning).

Finally, inside at the reception desk, I did my best "Bonjour Madame!" and handed in my papers. She stared at them and got angry with me in French. I didn't have a clue what she was saying, but she kept pointing to the one thing I didn't have - the medical certificate. Well, I was standing in line that day to GET the medical certificate. How could I bring it with me when I was there to get it from them? I was so confused. She finally said in English, "You work?" Yes. "You got a boss?" Yes. "Tell your boss he must do this." and Then she shoved my papers back at me and went on to the next person in line. I showed her my timbres. She ignored me. That hurt. I was proud of my timbres.

I was very depressed on the way home. I decided to have 1,276 glasses of wine. And some Xanax.

The next day, I took all my documents to the admin guy at work. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. We made some wild guesses. "Maybe they want you to send me to your official doctor for my medical exam and he'll give me a certificate to take back there?" "But we don't have an official school doctor." "Well, can you make me an appointment anyway?" "Well, OK." And...he never did. He's a busy guy and he forgot about it.

So, I called the director of the school and sent her all my docs and she spent an entire day trying to call the OFII office. They never answered the phone until late in the day. They told her that when I got my papers from the prefecture downtown, a letter was supposed to be sent to me automatiquement that gave me the date and time for my medical exam. I had never received that letter. She told me that I had to call them and remind them to send me the letter.

Oh sure. I'm capable of that. 7,832 glasses of wine might give me the courage to try it.

Finally, I begged for the assistance of my neighbor and partner in dinner-party crime, G. She spent one week trying to get through to the OFII office. They never answered the phone. She called nine other government agencies and they all told her to call OFII. Then, in my documents, she saw a filled-out form and asked me if I had sent it in. I said, well, no. She looked on OFII's website and found out that I was supposed to have sent this form in order to get that freaking "automatic" letter sent.

So, since I was waaaaaaaaaay expired on alllllll my deadlines and, according to the threats written in my official documents, would be hanged at noon from the Arc de Triomph for this crime, G suggested that we put a yellow sticky note on the document that said, "deuxieme envoie." Yes, my friends, it said that this was the second time I had mailed the document to them. Technically, this is a bald-faced lie. Since nobody told me to send the damn thing and only told me to go to the place. But I figured that one day in line and getting yelled at by the OFII receptionist was the same thing as sending the form in.

Two days later, I received the appointment letter. G's my hero. We took a bath in wine. Now, it isn't only our teeth that are stained red.

Oh, and by the way, I received the appointment letter last Thursday. I worked on Friday. My appointment was for Tuesday at 9AM. The letter told me all kinds of new things that I had to bring to the appointment. All of them were different than the original list that was given to me by the prefecture. You know those 15E and 55E timbres? Well, I didn't need ONE of each. I needed NINE 15E stamps and THREE 55E stamps. That would be 300 Euros in stamps. Oh and I also needed a chest X-Ray and records of all my vaccinations and hospitalizations. I had Monday to make all of this happen.

I stopped in at my local, L'Insolent, for a feeling-sorry-for-myself drink. I told Afsanet, my friendly barmaid, of my problems. She handed me a card and said, "The X-Ray place is down the street." Just go there. And it was. And I did. And they took me right away, without an appointment. And it only cost me 35 Euros ($50). And I found my vaccination record from when I was a baby. I know. Incredible. But I haven't been in the hospital lately - not since I had a boob job and nose job 30 years ago and my uterus boiled 4 years ago. I don't have those documents. I figured I'd just show the doctor how I can make my boobs dance and that would be enough.

By this time in the process, I didn't have great expectations. In fact, Tuesday morning, I was nauseous and only remembered to breathe when I noticed I was turning blue. During my sleepless Monday night, I imagined the following things:

• The Metro would be late and I'd miss my appointment
• I'd arrive and the line would be wrapped around the building and it would be pouring rain
• I would need TEN 15E stamps and FOUR 55E stamps (instead of 9 and 3, respectively) - the two from the original letter and the 12 from the second letter
• They would throw me out because I didn't have any record of hospitalization or because I'd never had a vaccination since 1957
• I hadn't made enough copies or I didn't make copies of the right things
• They'd finally notice that I was way past all the deadline dates for this process and my temporary work permit was expired
• I actually do have the bubonic plague

 Luckily, my ex-boyfriend volunteered to accompany me on my mission, even though he wanted desperately to argue with me about why I wanted to leave my apartment at 7:30 to get to a 9:00 appointment. "Humor me," I said. "Like you never did when we were together... Darling." He was not offended. Thank you.

And we arrived a half hour early. And there were 50 people in line. NAH NAH NAH NAH NAAAAAAAH NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! OK, I didn't say it. But, I wanted to.

The line moved like The Roadrunner with Wile E. Coyote on his ass. We were inside that building in a flash. I wooden-smiled my way up to the reception desk. She looked at my letter and told me to go RIGHT UPSTAIRS TO THE DOCTOR. Everyone else had to wait. Holy shit!

I had my finger pricked and was told my blood sugar was awesome. I was weighed - with my boots, heavy coat, hoodie, shirt, jeans - and didn't even try to take it all off. That's because happily, I don't know Metric measurement. As far as I can tell, what I saw on the scale made me think I should start looking for modeling jobs. As I stood on the two blue-painted footsteps and tried to read the eye chart, I couldn't explain in French that I had laser surgery, with my right eye adjusted for distance and my left eye adjusted for reading. That's why I couldn't see anything when they asked me to cover my right eye. They didn't let me explain. This was a factory and I was just one more widget to shove along the line. They noted on my chart that I was blind.

Then they sent me to get undressed for the...chest X-Ray. Now, why in the fuck, if they were going to do it there, FOR FREE, did they put in the letter that I had to bring one with me? I waved my X-Ray envelope at them and they let me move along down the assembly line.

Next was the lady doctor. She was very cool. She smiled at me! I wasn't just another cog in the wheel! She even spoke English. And I didn't have to show her my boob trick. She examined me and asked me a couple of normal questions and told me I had to get a few vaccinations. My heart sank. "So, do I have to go to a government doctor to get them?" "No. If you have your own doctor, you can go there." "And then, afterwards, how many millions of copies do I have to make of my vaccination receipt and where do I send them or do I have to come back here and stand in line to hand it in...and then after I do that, THEN can I have my carte de sejours? Or do I have to do 43 more things?"

I didn't say it exactly like that. But, close. She laughed. "No. Just take these documents from me and wait in front of that desk over there and she'll call you and tell you what to do next." I shuffled my black lungs out of the room and frumped my model-like body on a seat next to my ex. My name was called. I approached the desk. She mumbled something that I didn't understand. Then she pointed down the hall and said, "Third door on the left." Off we went.

Now, this is when it gets interesting. (That is, if you are still reading this epic.)

The sign on the 3rd door on the left said "prefecture." Thankfully, I didn't have time to process the fact that there's a police office in the OFII building (and that they probably were sending me there to get arrested). There was an L-shaped counter. Two chubby, gigantic-breasted, older women sat at desks behind the counter, facing each other. They were deep into a discussion of the pros and cons of buying clothes with elastic. They greeted me with chubby and friendly Bonjours! And one of them, still discussing spandex, stood up. She kept talking while she opened up a Tupperware container. Her friend laughed. Then she offered her a chocolate and then she turned to me and offered me one. Holy shit! I said no thanks, but in retrospect, I should have taken such a lovely gift.

She kept on talking to her friend as she made her way to the counter and took my documents. She continued to talk to her co-worker, standing there waving my documents to make another joke. She then went to a bookcase and found my file, still talking. Her friend laughed again. She came back to the desk and asked me for my stamps. I held my breath as she pasted every single one of them all over my pristine documents. Then she handed me my laminated carte de sejours. Holy shit again!

I was not expecting that. I really thought that I would have to wait for another three months and come back and stand in line and be told I didn't have the right documents and to come back with all the right stuff and then maybe, if I could recite the French alphabet backwards, I could get my card. But there it was, all nice and shiny and pink.

She went back to her desk. "C'est tous?" (That's all?) I said. "C'est tous!" she said.

I left the room in a happy daze. My ex looked up from his book, sitting with 25 people who were waiting outside the office. I put a depressed look on my face. His face fell, but then he quickly settled into a keep-your-chin-up mode. Then I flashed my card at him, with a big smile. His eyes lit up. I said, "Let's get out of here before they change their minds."

It's been sunny for the last three days. Even though it's still cold, Spring is in the air. Parisians are sitting outside at cafes, or lying in the brown grass in parks, soaking up the sun. And I have my carte de sejours. For three years.

My ex called me this morning, to play me a song about being in the darkness and going out into the light. He knows, better than anyone, how difficult and scary this process has been for me and how much I have been paralyzed by it and hiding in my apartment. He said, "You know, if you think about it, you and I are in the Winter of our lives, but we are in the Spring of this moment." It's pretty amazing that he and I started this journey together and despite our huge differences and a very difficult breakup, he happened to be with me on the day that the journey was completed. I'm very happy that I could share it with him...and that there is plenty of good cheap wine in France.

Pardon moi, while I celebrate.

Would I, If I Could

Would I, if I could, remain distant
From the relentless desire around me
For love, or its counterfeit

I stand back, alone
And watch the pursuit of fleeting pleasure
That has no depth or meaning

Would I, if I could, pass no judgment
Of humans and their folly
Without remembering my own

I stand back, alone
Muffled by layers of clothing and resistance
Gagging at the thought of a lover's touch

Would I, if I could, remove the layers
And stand naked in the fray
To try, once more, this human game of tryst

Yet I stand back, alone
Knowing the risk is too great, too personal
My heart, like my aging skin, is no longer resilient

Would I, if I could, know for sure
If in the quiet of my aloofness
I've created a haven or a fortress

All The Corners Of The World

When I was a little girl, my parents would cram all six of us kids into the station wagon (real wood panels!) every summer and drive us from our home in Pennsylvania to my grandparents' farm near Ontario, Canada. There's an old family legend about me during one of these trips. At some point during the long drive on the turnpike, I said, "I have to pee!" and my Dad kept saying, "Just hold it in for a little bit longer. There's a bathroom just around the corner." I sat there wriggling desperately in the back seat for a while until I said, "But Daddy, there aren't any corners on this road."

You see? I was a genius way back then too.

Move forward about 225 years to this December when my lovely friend K came to Paris with her little three-year-old PJ for Christmas and New Years. Some of my friends here put some money down and bet that I would not be able to handle having a three-year-old in my tiny apartment for six weeks. Hell, I even put money on that one. You see, I never had kids because I never wanted kids. They're little foreign objects with mysterious things called diapers.

As a matter of fact, I was in my friend G's station wagon recently, late for something or other and barreling down the peripherique, and her child started bawling from her car seat. G says, "Can you climb in the back seat and find her sippy cup and give it to her?" (Knowing her, I'm surprised she didn't say, "Can you climb out the window, onto the roof, unstrap the skis and snowmobile and find my pink Samsonite luggage and get her sippy cup out of it and then open the cooler and get some milk and pour it into the sippy cup and then climb back in the window and give it to her?" But, she didn't.)

I looked at G in my best you-gotta-be-shitting-me eyebrow lift and she simply smiled back at me. She knows I'm a sap. I said, "I hate children." and climbed into the back seat to do my duty.

ANYhoo, even though I'm a certified child hater, we all lost the bet.

Because PJ is kind of special to me. I used to talk to her while she was in her mommy's belly and I was even allowed to hold her when she was just a tiny baby. One time, K took the risk of leaving PJ in my care for an hour or so and I managed to almost kill PJ by leaving her on my pillow-top bed. I surrounded her with extra pillows, but three seconds in the kitchen and I returned to see she had climbed right on top of the pillows and was staring down at the floor 500 feet below, just ready to do her best tuck and roll. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I screamed. She almost died from that, too.

I climbed into the bed with her and held on to her for dear life. She was delighted that I was there to play with her, but after a while she started to cry. Uh-oh. Bottle? WAHHH! Guess not. Vodka? WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Ok, OK! You're right, PJ. Not funny. (Please god, please don't make me change a diaper.) WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Just hang in there, honey! The bathroom's just around the corner. WAHHHHHHHHH! OK. I guess I'm going to change a diaper. Holy crap.

K came back and the fresh new diaper was on PJ's head. Well, that was just a diversion so that PJ couldn't tell that I had NO idea how to put a diaper on. "Stop watching me!" I said to her big, serious eyes, while her chubby legs languished lazily in the air. "Here, play with this." And I gave her the diaper. Finally, I managed to put another diaper on her "area." But when K returned, she told me it was backwards. It was all ok in the end, though. No spillage occurred on my watch.

When K and PJ arrived in Paris, PJ took one look at the metal ladder up to my suspended bed and she scrambled right on up. No fear. No stumbling. Then she would hang her head over the edge and show us her hair. I'm more grown up now, so I didn't scream when she did all that.

But PJ? She screamed. Yes, she did. But only 39 a few times during the entire stay. This happened when Mommy took away her DVD player and told her to go to bed. Or when Mommy gave her lunch and said, "I don't care if you don't like pasta, you're going to eat it." Or when her Mommy told her she could NOT wear her glass slippers on our trek to the Louvre and to put on her pink princess boots instead.

Sometimes, these crying sessions would be quickly solved, since K is the calmest Mommy on the planet. But other times? Not so much. It went like this:

K: If you don't stop crying right now, I will put you in the corner.
PJ: WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
K: OK! That's it! Get in the corner!

I'd be in the kitchen thinking, "Is there an official bad-child corner in my apartment? I'm not an official parent. So, I can't possibly have an official, designated corner." And I'd come out of the kitchen and there PJ would be, sitting with her back against the wall and her side against my tall cabinet. Or, she'd be in my entryway, with her back against the coat rack and her side against my closet doors. Well, I guess those can be considered corners. PJ thought they were. And that's all that mattered.

She'd be sitting there wailing, her legs kicking the wood floor, her arms outstretched like a 50's sci-fi B-movie robot.

PJ: MAAAAAA-MAAAAAAAA! HOOOOOOOOOLD MEEEEEEEEEEE!
K: I won't start the clock until you stop crying. So, the sooner you stop crying, the faster you can start your one minute in the corner.
PJ: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!
K: OK, now it's three minutes.
PJ: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Legs in a blur, slamming the floor. Arms still outstretched in take-me-to-your-leader fashion)
LISA: Wow. She's gonna hurt herself.
K: Nah. She did this in Newark airport right before we boarded the plane to Paris.
PJ: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
LISA: OMG. You're kidding!
PJ: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
K: Nope. I just put her in the corner until she finally stopped.

I'm in awe, thinking, "There are CORNERS in Newark airport TOO? Wow."

I guess I just got a little peak into the esoteric Mommy world of Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny...and corners. PJ didn't believe us when we told her Santa was going to come into my apartment to deliver her gifts. She said, "There's no fireplace here." Uh-oh. It's just a matter of time. Pretty soon she'll say, "But Mommy, these are not REAL corners." And K will have to make some new shit up to stop PJ from throwing a fit.

I'll be on the roof of G's car at that point. Hanging on to the corner of the luggage rack for dear life, missing K and PJ like crazy.

Wanna Know What I've Been Up To?

For those of you who follow me and are wondering what I've been up to, I wanted to let you know that I'm entertaining my friend K and her 3-year-old P at my tiny apartment here in Paris. She wanted a way to record her first trip to Europe, so I showed her how to blog. She's writing about what we do every day, if she can find the time to sit down and do it, with pictures and videos that we've both taken. I'm hoping that you will visit her blog at http://mommakandpj.blogspot.com and encourage her with comments, etc. She's a bright person and a brave person - a single mom and a former high-tech recruiter and excellent sales person who lost her job AND is a recent cancer survivor. I'm grateful that she's living in my condo in Arizona while she looks for a job and tries to get her life back in order. This means my condo doesn't sit empty while I sit out this terrible downturn in our economy. It also means that she and her child are safe and cozy while she finds her way. She's a testament to public-option health care, since she would not be here if not for the fact that Arizona has a good public plan (called Access). When I think about why I pay taxes, I think of her.

I hope all of you have had a wonderful Christmas or holiday and may we all look forward to a New Year full of love, joy, health and community. Without our friends, close and far away, we are adrift. I'm grateful for all of you that I've met along the blogging way, who have delighted me with your own writing, and inspired me to write some more. Much love to you and your families in this holiday season.

Tiger's Wood: Woops!

Inspired by my new friend over at Jayne's World and her Sunday Recap post, I thought I'd do a little Mish-Mash of My Own Musings...

This morning I put cumin in my coffee instead of cinnamon. I took a sip and thought, ok, I can do this. I took another and said, um, no I can't. Last week I put the coffee on and stood there bleary-eyed and when it was done, I realized I hadn't put any coffee in there. I think I have a few things on my mind.

I've been super busy with school - creating & updating course modules and then standing up to teach them. I finished my first video course module on Thursday and other than a few perfectionist changes, I like it very much. We'll see what the students think of this grand experiment when they see it this week.

I promised in my last post that I'd tell you about the pumpkin clusterf*ck I made for Thanksgiving. It could be a whole post in itself, so we'll see if I get it done by next Thanksgiving.

Tomorrow I pick up my friend K and her little daughter P at the airport. I'm very excited. They're coming in to Paris for a few weeks to celebrate Christmas and New Years with me. They've never been out of the US except to Mexico, so it will be so cool to show them around Paris. After 4 years living with Ebenezer Scrooge, it will be fun for me to once again have a tree and celebrate a holiday I've always loved, with people I love. I've been itching to get a tree and decorate, but am waiting for their arrival so we can all do it together. Now, if I could just get Santa to make an appearance...

My illustrious government is getting closer and closer to finalizing the healthcare bill and killing my grandmother. I would be very worried about this, except she's already dead. Whew. I wonder where they'll be setting up the new death panels? Will we all have to make an appointment at our local town hall and defend ourselves in front of The Socialists? I can see all of us pleading, "Please let me live, Mr. Marx! I still have so much to contribute to the world." Well, all of you will be pleading. I'll be enjoying The Socialists' medicine over here in France. So far, based on all the grandmothers I see out on the streets, they haven't implemented death panels. I'm sure it will start any moment, based on what Sarah Palin has been telling us.

Tiger Woods is getting crucified in the press. I imagine they'll set up impeachment proceedings at any moment, and start inspecting cum stains and soggy cigar butts for evidence. All the righteous funda-mental-ist Krishtians will rise up in indignation about that black boy who has the balls (and very large cock, of course) to fuck white wimmens and models. How very stereotypical of him. Thank The Lourd there's no black boy in the White House, or we'd be witnessing flagrant rapaciousness upon the well-groomed White House lawns and atop George Washington's desk and even the satanic growth of watermelons and pig's feet in the White House garden. What's that? Oh. Woops!

Meanwhile, back at The Family C-Street ranch, David Vitter is fucking prostitutes and wearing diapers inflagrante (no, that's not a flaming French dish, and from what I hear, she wasn't either), Mark Sanford receives a get-outa-jail-free card as his wife divorces him so that he can run off with his Argentinian paramour. But it's true, tear-inducing love, dontcha know, so that excuses everything. Nevadan son-of-a-casino-owner (or son of a something else) and silver-haired (and evidently -tongued) John Ensign gets one-upped by the cuckolded husband of his fuckee. Woops! Chip Pickering got into a Pickering Pickle, also too. Chip n' Mark n' John all voted to impeach Clinton, so I'm sure they will vote to impeach themselves at any moment. Oh, and we can't forget Conservative California Republican Michael Duvall's bragging to embarrassed colleagues (on tape! how unfortunate...for us) about his girlfriend's dripping, cum-filled eye-patch undies. What a Panty Pirate he turned out to be! Yo ho ho and a bottle of Yum!

These are the conservative Krishtian white guys whose peccadilloes get a smattering of press coverage and who stay snugly in office so they can fight to the death to "preserve marriage" by denying the civil rights of gay people to marry. And where is the Krishtian outrage at their behavior? Uh. Nowhere. Because, of course (Lisa slaps forehead), all they have to do is say they're sorry (very very sorry) and they're forgiven! This all makes a lot of sense to me, as I'm sure it does to you.

Ahhh, I love the smell of hypocrisy in the morning.

Speaking of Woops! (Back there, a few paragraphs, I said it. A couple of times. Pay attention now, children.) I was packed like a sardine in the Metro the other morning and when the door miraculously closed without cutting off anybody's body parts, the train lurched to a start and threw a woman into me. She said, "Woops!" and she was French. I didn't expect this. I expected Oop-lah! She must be tainted by foreigners. Any moment now, she'll be watering down her coffee.

I'm just noticing that I said f*ck when referring to pumpkins and fuck when referring to politicians. It must mean that I feel more respect for pumpkins than for politicians. I'm sure this surprises you. I also just realized that I wrote about politics and religion in my Life And Times Of Lisa Wines blog, which is a no-no. I try to separate church and state from my sordid life, I really do. But I have failed, just as my government's representatives do on a daily basis. Oop-lah!

Thanksgiving In Paris 2009

I worked all Thanksgiving day. The French don't celebrate Thanksgiving because they didn't murder American Indians and steal their land and shove the whiskey-sotted, small-pox-scarred survivors onto reservations. Oh, I'm sure the French murdered somebody over the last 100 years or so and at least tried to steal their land (after all, it's a country that has been and still is run by white men, so it's an easy bet) and they have their own celebration for that. And in America, I imagine we don't recognize any other country's traditions, either. Other than Cinco de Mayo, but that's just an excuse to get drunk and eat chips and salsa. And if we happen to encounter anyone from another country in a shop or on the street, we say, "Speaky dee Eenglish, wetback?" Or some such thing as that. So much for the "Bring me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free." Oh, I forgot, the Statue of Liberty was a gift from the French. Damn socialists.

But, I digress.

It was a long day - standing up and bloviating in front of students from 9-5. But it was satisfying, since they laughed at at least one of my jokes and I got to say the word "bullshit" in reference to corporate America. Some might call this heaven.

As I trudged wearily but happily home, I stopped off at my local, fittingly named L'Insolent. I used to go to the other local, Desperado's, but they have new owners and a new name, and I don't feel as welcome. I used to tell people that I lived somewhere in between Insolence and Desperation, but now I can't say that any more.

Thomas and Teddy, the Iranian-born, French-raised owners of L'Insolent were in the midst of their shift change but welcomed me to the bar and gave me a Picon Bierre (beer with a dash of orange bitters). I perused the menu and lo and behind, the special was Dinde Normande. "Dinde?" you may ask. So did my former boyfriend when we first arrived in Paris and would spend hours exploring the exotic magic of the local grocery store. "What do you think din-dee is?" He asked. I shook my head, fixated on the fact that I knew he was slaughtering the pronunciation and wondering myself if it was pronounced danduh or dahnduh. You might think you could look at a piece of flesh in the grocery store and know immediately which animal it came from. But you would be mistaken. Well, dinde is turkey in French. And Dinde Normande is turkey in a Normandy-style cream sauce.

The turkey was lovely and tender. I could cut it with a fork. I ate and watched the constant horn-honking, near-death traffic confrontations on the busy corner and all of the people scurrying home in the rain. I had warm apricot tart for dessert and Thomas, who is always trying to make me stay longer so I can keep him company, plied me with some Armagnac. Finally, it was time to go home and I realized I'd forgotten my umbrella, so Thomas gave me his. It was kind of him, and also it was like girls who leave their underpants at a guy's house. It's an excuse to go back. Thomas wants me to come back, and so I will.

Earlier in the week, one of my students asked if she could make a short announcement in the class, and I said yes. She said, "You guys...(such an American phrase)...I'm having an American Thanksgiving dinner at my place Friday night, so please email me or come talk to me at the break and tell me if you're coming, so that I'll know how much food to make." I raised my hand a tiny bit and said, "Um. Can I come?" Ha! Inviting myself! Terrible. Of course she's going to say yes. Poor girl. But I was lonely for a Thanksgiving meal and therefore, had no shame.

She lived right near the Eiffel Tower, so it was a bit of a trek for me. And as usual, I suffer from the always-early disease, and left my apartment an hour ahead of time. I stopped into my local Franprix and bought a bottle of Mercier, a Champagne that I love. There was an "incident" somewhere along line 13 (yawn, tell em something new) and the crowds on the platform and in the train were massive. Me and the Mercier were crushed in between woolly coats, listening to everyone breathe.

Finally, I popped above ground right along the Seine and the Eiffel Tower was sparkling in blue and white lights, as it does every hour on the hour. I walked across the Pont d'Alma and watched the wind stir up waves in the Seine. As I walked past the Quai Branly museum, someone came up behind me and said, "Is that you?" It was one of my students, a handsome Brazilian. We walked the rest of the way and when we got inside the building and into the beautiful glass and wrought-iron-filigreed elevator, we got stuck. It was stopping halfway between floors, so the door wouldn't open. He kept pushing the buttons and we'd go up to the 5th, then down to the 3rd and up to the 4th, but no luck. I started to think that we might just have to sit down and start drinking my Mercier and his beer. But alas, we finally got to the ground floor and escaped. We were relegated to the winding, red-carpeted stairs.

Inside the apartment, a few people had arrived before me (thank you!) and it smelled like heaven. There was a huge roasted turkey on the counter, two roasted chickens, creamy mashed potatoes, au gratin potatoes, lentils with fried onions on top and stuffing. Other students brought dishes from their own countries - Japanese sushi, Moroccan eggplant (incredibly good) and a green vegetable soup with chick peas. In the end, I think there were about 40 students there, et moi. I was honored that they included me.

The coup de gras was dessert. My student announced that she had New York cheesecake and pineapple upside down cake, among other things. Oh my. Now, I've actually had Junior's cheesecake in New York and my mother used to make pineapple upside down cake all the time when we were kids, so I was drooling. And I wasn't disappointed. Both were delicious and authentic. When I complimented my host, she was happy to know that her food was authentic and said, "I just went to Thanksgiving.com and got the recipes. I couldn't get Philadelphia cream cheese, of course, so I used mascarpone." Well, there ya go. Student ingenuity at its best.

The familiar sound of American football was never in the background that evening, like it was when I was growing up. But suddenly there was loud salsa music and a Venezuelan student started teaching the girls to dance salsa. "Madame Wines! Madame Wines! You must dance." They didn't have to twist my arm. I got up and moved my hips as if I still felt sexy, which I don't. So it was a nice change for me. Recently, bad-boy Teddy at L'Insolent told me as I was standing at the bar that he'd be right back and then he'd throw me down onto the bar. He says things like this. Strange, but true. I said, "OK, I'll go home and find my sexy body and be right back, too. I know it's somewhere. In a box probably. But I'll try real hard to find it."

So, I danced and sweated off the huge meal and had a grand time. I talked for a while with one of my students' boyfriends about mortgage-backed securities, debt risk tranches and the worldwide financial crisis. He works at the same bank where they busted that guy for his risky trading. I can't tell you what he told me, but if you were following the case at all, you'd know what he said. Then I spoke to a Chinese student who is from the town where they had the terrible earthquake last year. We laughed about cultural differences - Chinese, French and American. Another student's boyfriend was from College Station, Texas, where I know I've been at some vague point in my corporate life, probably staying in a no-tell motel on my way from somewhere and going to somewhere else. I probably got stuck there on the way to Waco. Who knows. But when I said, "Remind me of where College Station is." he showed me on his face. Houston was his left cheek, Austin his right cheek, and College Station was his nose.

Another student's boyfriend said, "I think it's amazing that you would come to a party thrown by students. French teachers would never do this. They think that they must maintain their distance in order to maintain respect and control." Ah. And they're probably right. But I see my students as fellow human beings, who have as much to teach me as I have to teach them. Unfortunately for me, I've always seen titles - like Professor, Vice President, CEO, etc. - as illusions. Which means that I never gave corporate owners and managers the bloated respect they desired. I have respect for all human beings, because they're human. If I suddenly put on a suit and call myself a Professor, do I instantly require respect just because of the title? If I do, it's a mirage. If I teach them something worthwhile, that they can use in their life and career, then I am a Professor.

I decided around midnight that I'd head home and leave them to their partying. Filled with wonderful food and the graciousness of my students' hospitality, I walked back to the Metro. I'm thankful to have the opportunity to live here, meet and talk to students from all over the world and hopefully give them some useful tools that will serve them well.

This wasn't the only Thanksgiving meal I had. On Saturday night I was invited to a lovely feast, that I'll tell you about soon. Especially the hilarious clusterf*ck of a pumpkin dish that I made. But for now, I'll sign off since I have to prepare for school tomorrow. À Bientôt!

Miracle On Taitbout Street

OK, so...Remember how I told you all about the big bad French post office? Well...

I had a fun little experience courtesy of my young Irish friend who worked at a horrid Paris restaurant called Indiana Cafe this summer. It's a terrible place, so don't go there when you visit Paris. Of course, if you're in Paris, you want to go where the Parisians go, not to some fake-ass supposedly American-style eatery. Right? RIGHT? OK, now that we have that sorted out...

It's an easy place for the Irish girls to get jobs for the summer, since Indiana evidently only hires girls for waitress jobs and only hires boys for management jobs. Another reason to hate it. But the girls need their spending money to buy 1.20E wine bottles and .75E baguettes and go sit on the steps of Sacre Couer at 3AM and celebrate their Irishness. I'm all for this kind of behavior, even though I go to sleep at 9PM and can only dream of being Irish.

At the end of each summer, the girls went back to Ireland, undoubtedly without their virginity intact, and one of them asked me to go over to Indiana and pick up their last paycheck BECAUSE ALL THOSE SMART MANAGER MEN CAN'T FUCKING FIGURE OUT HOW TO PUT A CHECK IN A FUCKING ENVELOPE AND PUT A FUCKING STAMP ON IT AND MAIL IT TO FUCKING IRELAND.

Well, neither can I. And I'm afraid of the post office, also too.

So, I put it off. And the penniless Irish girl had to sustain herself on a diet of Guinness (that's ok, it's like drinking bread) while she waited for me to gather my courage, find the restaurant on my map, figure out the Metro trip, walk completely around Place Clichy looking for the damn place, walk in and ask, in French, for the check. And then, of course, I had to PUT THE FUCKING CHECK IN AN ENVELOPE AND BUY A FUCKING STAMP AND MAIL IT TO IRELAND. In other words, go to the dreaded post office.

My poor little Irish girl was growing faint from months of Guinness and pleaded with me to go get the check. I enlisted the help of my friendly ex-pat G, asking her to go with me on this trek into the wilderness. She said, "We better call them first." This is why we all have friends. She called the "manager." He said, "We have no record of any person named Lisa Wines being given permission by said former girl employee to pick up said check." G had the temerity to ask the "manager" why he couldn't just PUT THE FUCKING CHECK IN AN ENVELOPE AND MAIL IT TO IRELAND." He said, "I know. It isn't me, it's my boss." Weasel. So, I had to ask my Irish girl to write a letter - the manager actually said he would accept a print-out of an email from her to me - giving me permission to pick up the check.

Then I had to print the mother fucker. I don't have a printer. So I went down to G's place and her printer wasn't working. It took me two days to get a printer, plus I had to go enlist the aid of my friend from Kazakhstan, who has a van. Twice. Luckily, she needed a printer, also too. But she doesn't drive. So she got her French pal to drive us to the store. Twice. This is because Madame Kazak called the store before we went, to make sure the printer was in stock. (If you're starting to see a theme here, of always calling first before making the trek, you would be right.) And after cursing our way, in French, English and Russian (OK, don't ask me why Madame Kazak curses in Russian. It's a long story), through Armistice Day holiday traffic, jumping out of the van with horns a honkin' and sending Mr. Van Driver off to park, we found out that there were no printers in stock.

It took our pal longer to park the van than for us to find out there wasn't a printer to be had.

We did get the cashier at the store to make sure there were two printers at their other store waaaaaaaaaaaay across town, but it was too late to make our way over there. So we reconnoitered the next day and bought our printers.

Now I had my printed letter and my passport in hand, because they also told us that I had to show them my ID. SHOW THEM my ID. OK? Just show them. I arrived at the restaurant and walked into the glory of orange plastic booths that instantly brought me back to 1965 and all the Pennsylvania Turnpike roadside Howard Johnson's we stopped at on the way to my grandmother's farm in Canada. Except this time, I didn't have to pee and I wasn't in the mood for fried clams or one of their 28 flavors of ice cream. Just gimmee the freakin' check, K?

"Je suis ici pour la cheque de la Irish Girl." (Fab French, n'est-ce pas?)

I hand the boy manager my passport and the printed letter. He says, "I have to have a COPY of your passport." #@! and furthermore, &*^??!!! He says, "I know. It's not me, it's my manager." Well son, you suck, and so does he. (I didn't have time to look that up in my handy dandy iPhone French translator which I haven't downloaded yet God knows why.)

I walked around the corner and made a copy of my passport and returned with my jowls wobbling angrily about my frownie mouth. This always scares people. I'm not sure why.

So, Lisa, you might be saying, what about the post office? Ahh.

After addressing the envelope with a typical Irish address...

Miss Irish Girl
Just down te rowd, past the big tree and after the leprechaun, up the wee creak and across the mill bridge
Old Cotton Mill, County Doohickey, Ireland

...I was late for work so I shoved the envelope in my purse and ran to the Metro. After work, I realized that there was a post office right down the street from work. So, with trepidation (because I had to BUY A STAMP! OMG!), I walked in the door.

There were no lines. The place was huge and sunny and clean and shiny. A very nice middle-aged man smiled brightly at me and started babbling happily in French. I just stared at him because he was wearing postal employee garb and he was actually OUT FROM BEHIND THE DESK and like, smiling and shit. My mouth was open as I pushed my envelope into his hands. His eyes lit up. "Ah! l'Irlande!" Wow, I thought. He's a Frenchman and he knows where Ireland is even though it's closer than New York is to Philly? Amazing. And then this nice man walked me over to the little machine and put my letter on the little scale and dialed up the postage for Ireland and pointed to the coin slot and smiled at me so I'd put my money in there.

Freaking amazing. I felt so loved and welcome, that I didn't want to leave. For a second, I even thought I'd ask him if I could close my post office bank account and get my 6.95E. But I figured that would be pushing it. I waved goodbye to my new best friend and walked back to the Metro in a daze.

Last week, I had a friend in the states ask me to go buy something (I can't say what. He might kill me.) and ship it to him as fast as possible. I started to gag at the thought of this great feat, until I thought of my nice man at the post office near work. I actually got excited about going back. But my natural pessimism won out and I figured that he was so cheerful that they'd already fired his ass.

I walked in with my package and I had no idea how to send anything big internationally and quickly. I stood in the middle of the huge place and scanned the room. There were all these pretty mailing boxes of different sizes and in pretty colors. A very nice young girl came up to me, "Bonjour Madame!" Then she said something that looked like she wanted to know if she could help me, so I told her, "Je voudrais envoyer ceci aux Etats-Unis." I looked it up ahead of time and repeated it 87.6 times on the way there. I even knew how to say that I wanted it to get there fast, but not cost me too much. She pointed to one of the boxes and its reasonable price, then took me to the desk where the nice man from the other day was standing and helping a lady. I waved goodbye to her and stood waiting. Until a really nice middle-aged woman came up to me smiling and asked if she could help me TOO.

They all got into the act. The women stood on either side of me while I filled out the shipping form, with the guy behind the desk chatting away. They corrected my spelling on my contents description. They had typical French side conversations about whether or not I should get additional insurance or just take the normal 30E. It's like they do in restaurants when they argue about the perfect wine for each course. It can take an hour before they decide, but the right wine is always worth it.

As the man was ringing up my purchase, the other woman showed me these cool gift cards that the post office is selling for the holidays. She showed me all the participating stores and how much money my lucky friends could save using the card. I ohhh'd and ahh'd and said I'd think about it. And she smiled and said, "Certainement!"

So, this wasn't a dream. Because I've been there twice, and both times, everybody was nice as pie. Warm, buttery, apple tartish kind of pie. Here's the address, in case any of my Paris compatriots want to behold the miracle: 78 Rue Taitbout, 75009 Paris