Battling it out with Paris
And so it's official---Paris and me just don’t mix. Even as I write these words it's painful. I want so very hard to get along with Paris---why doesn’t she like me? Perhaps she is just testing me-- to see if I am really cut out for this big city living-- and then, when I miraculously show her what I am made of, she will happily take me under her wing!
As you have probably read, a trend of less-than-fortunate things have happened to me in Paris, most notable a) the burnt hair incident b)the Paris knock down, and now c) the Popped out Jaw!! Yes, you read correctly---my jaw has popped out. Yesterday I sleepily broke out into a huge yawn which resulted in the loudest crack/snap noise I have ever heard my body make (and trust me those 13 years of dance have produced some serious cracks!).
My dentist reassured me that this is apparently quite “normal” and “common” (like sure, I should have know people's jaws aren’t made for yawning!) and I just have to “wait it out, while avoiding as much movement as possible”--which should be real easy, since what do you use your jaw for anyways??! (apart from trivial things like speaking and eating).
Before I get caught up in a full out “Why me?” rant, a la Nancy Kerrigan, I will admit that for every cloud there is a silver lining...
I do think that Paris realizes she has just been too hard on me, and has now planted a big juicy kiss on my cheek. I can’t even tell you what the reward is without smiling like a baboon (ouch, that hurts the jaw). Does the phrase “Paris Fashion Week” mean anything to you? Does the phrase “I am going backstage at Paris Fashion Week” make your heart skip a beat? Well, if it doesn’t then wise up, cause this is bloody awesome!!!!!!
Cheating is as French as Brie? Mais, oui!
And so, please tell me how I end up with a 50 year old French man sitting in my living room pouring his heart out to me and justifying his affair with a married Irish woman?!? Please explain to me why people feel the need to divulge their deepest and darkest secrets to me after only minutes of meeting me for the first time. Last week I met a 45 year old business woman from Toronto at a networking event who almost broke into tears telling me how she can’t find a husband, and a 30 year old African conference interpreter who told me she doesn’t have the confidence to follow her dreams.
I am beginning to see a pattern here...
Back to the married French man in my living room --he personified what I will never fully understand about the French and their laiser-faire attitude towards infedelity. I have met dozens of married men who have spoke openly about their mistresses (heck—two have even offered me the role), and they all say the same thing--their friends know, their wife knows, and even their kids know, but they all still go along with it, pretending to be picture of marriage perfection. Because isn’t it easier that way?
As author Christiann Anderson states, "Cheating is as French as Brie... the French do not view infidelity the same way we do in the United States. The concept of cheating on one's spouse does not necessarily mean that you must give up your family life. In other words, having a lover, and having a spouse is not a trade off."
People may criticize North America’s sky high divorce rate, but what’s worse; ending a marriage or living an elaborate loveless lie?
If you lived here you'd be home by now
As you may have noticed, I have been abandoning my blog for the past few weeks now. Life has gotten so hectic that I haven’t had a moment to think, let alone write.
With less than 2 weeks notice we were, ever so kindly, told to leave our apartment. We had been banking on staying until at least November 1st, and with this being the most hectic month of my (working) life, it was far from perfect timing.
Within a time span of 4 days I saw over 35 (yes, 35!) Amsterdam apartments. I have never in my life seen such a mismatched medley of garbage. I acknowledged that I would have to lower my expectations in terms of space and location (of course my number one choice would be to have a 150 m2 loft in the Jordaan –but lets get realistic), but I was not prepared to settle for a 35m2 apt. with shag carpets and water leaking from the ceiling! I realize now that “character” is a synonym in agency talk for “dump”. And “this may not exactly be your style” is a polite way of saying “this apartment is a hideous joke”.
And so, after seeing 34 less than ideal apartments, we stumbled onto a winner. It’s located in the heart of Amsterdam, a 15-20 minute ride to work, and 3 of my friends are just around the corner.
That’s the good news. The bad new is that M. now has to pack up our entire house-- by himself. I feel more than a tad guilty sitting here enjoying the gorgeous view from my new Parisian digs.
An oldie but a goodie
A few nights ago while I was surfing the internet a familiar grey text box popped onto my screen “L. would like to add you to her msn contacts”. I was very surprised to see and old friend of mine from elementary school’s name and email appear, having lost touch with her more than a few years ago. Last I heard she was living in Thailand and teaching English.
Seconds later we started chatting on MSN. We caught up on the mundane (how are you, how’s your family, etc.), we reminisced on the good old days (remember when we…), we gossiped (guess what so-and-so is up to nowadays). We marvelled how things change (her in Thailand, me in Amsterdam) , and how some things never change (a certain pal still hankering after that same guy from high school).
Over the past two years living abroad, we had both missed out on friend’s weddings, both lost touch with some friends, and both missed close friend’s funerals. We both agreed to that feeling of not quite fitting in to your old life “at home” anymore, yet sometimes still missing it dearly-- but not enough to want it truly back.
We promised to stay in touch, to catch up again soon, and to hopefully see each other on a parallel “trip home”.
We may stay in contact regularly, but I remember how in grade 5 we both chanted a newly-learned song at a mutal friend (for abandoning us a recess) –-“make new friends but keep the old, one is silver and the other gold”. How true, even after 14 years!
