I'm living with a cute couple in an adorable house in a London suburb for a week in a purple bedroom with tigger and eeyore on the wall to keep me company. This is really livin'! It's warm without using a space heater, the showerhead is attached to the wall, and I don't need a flashlight to use the toilet.
I got here a little early so I stopped for a snack. It was an Italian place and the waiter spoke Italian with me before I even opened my mouth, I swear. So, now I'm in London,
happy to be speaking Italian and what do you suppose happened? Enough French snuck into the conversation that
I'm in a place where I should be speaking English but
instead I'm speaking Italian and the next thing you know
the waiter says, "oh, you speak French."
I guess you can take a girl out of Paris, but you can't
take Paris out of a girl.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Breaking new grounds
I cheated on Quirky Girl. I went to another cafe for tea in the morning. My work hours have changed a little and I didn't have to be at school until later, so I didn't go to Quirky Girl Cafe. I went to the one next door to..... my house? My apartment? No, really..... my room.
Anyway, I was a little nervous going in. There was a guy behind the bar and a lady on a stool at the bar. Otherwise, it was empty. I timidly approached them (It's a fact folks. I'm a little timid here.) and ordered a tea. The guy told me that I could sit wherever I wanted to because in his cafe, it was the same price at the bar or at a table. That probably meant, "Go sit at a table and leave us alone," but I decided not to take it that way. I decided to be the Tenley that some of you think I am and I said, "Well, the place that I really want to sit is right here by you." Yes. I actually said that. In French. So, I guess I don't really know what I said.
Anyway, it worked. I have two new friends that don't know my name. This place is called "Les Ecoliers." That means, "The Schoolkids." I like it. I'm kind of a schoolkid, right? The owner speaks some English so we've decided that we'll coach each other. The lady was Portuguese. She didn't speak any English, but we managed with a combo of Spanish and French. I wondered if she came here every morning and for how long she'd been coming. I wondered how she felt about me skipping in, like a schoolkid, and stealing a bit of her time.
And then, it all reminded me of my studio. I was the same as the cafe owner and I had to learn to jockey my regulars so that we all got what we needed. When one had been there so long that I'd see another pass by my window a couple of times, I'd try to wrap it up with the first. I wasn't wrapping up cards or stationery. I was wrapping up little conversations. My regulars didn't really need cards or stationery, just like I don't really need a cup of tea. I think what they needed was a little time to feel like they had a special place in their neighborhood where someone would listen and they could feel at home. They could come for a little chitchat in a cozy place that had nothing to do with the rest of their lives.
I hope I gave them as much as Quirky Girl and my new coach are giving me. I miss my regulars. I wonder if Quirky Girl missed me. She probably didn't and that's okay. She's busy pounding out the coffee grounds under the sink (I love that sound) and lending an ear with one long, dangly earring to one of her regulars. I have a feeling no one else used my teapot and it will be there for me the next time that I don't really need a cup of tea.
Anyway, I was a little nervous going in. There was a guy behind the bar and a lady on a stool at the bar. Otherwise, it was empty. I timidly approached them (It's a fact folks. I'm a little timid here.) and ordered a tea. The guy told me that I could sit wherever I wanted to because in his cafe, it was the same price at the bar or at a table. That probably meant, "Go sit at a table and leave us alone," but I decided not to take it that way. I decided to be the Tenley that some of you think I am and I said, "Well, the place that I really want to sit is right here by you." Yes. I actually said that. In French. So, I guess I don't really know what I said.
Anyway, it worked. I have two new friends that don't know my name. This place is called "Les Ecoliers." That means, "The Schoolkids." I like it. I'm kind of a schoolkid, right? The owner speaks some English so we've decided that we'll coach each other. The lady was Portuguese. She didn't speak any English, but we managed with a combo of Spanish and French. I wondered if she came here every morning and for how long she'd been coming. I wondered how she felt about me skipping in, like a schoolkid, and stealing a bit of her time.
And then, it all reminded me of my studio. I was the same as the cafe owner and I had to learn to jockey my regulars so that we all got what we needed. When one had been there so long that I'd see another pass by my window a couple of times, I'd try to wrap it up with the first. I wasn't wrapping up cards or stationery. I was wrapping up little conversations. My regulars didn't really need cards or stationery, just like I don't really need a cup of tea. I think what they needed was a little time to feel like they had a special place in their neighborhood where someone would listen and they could feel at home. They could come for a little chitchat in a cozy place that had nothing to do with the rest of their lives.
I hope I gave them as much as Quirky Girl and my new coach are giving me. I miss my regulars. I wonder if Quirky Girl missed me. She probably didn't and that's okay. She's busy pounding out the coffee grounds under the sink (I love that sound) and lending an ear with one long, dangly earring to one of her regulars. I have a feeling no one else used my teapot and it will be there for me the next time that I don't really need a cup of tea.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Set up and take down
In the morning when I run I like to see the cafe guys setting up the tables and chairs on the sidewalk. It's still dark, usually cold and sometimes raining. The tables and chairs are neatly placed in rows waiting for the neatly placed patrons in rows to sit for hours and watch the world go by. In the beginning I used to ask myself how they could stand to do this morning after morning after morning. And then I realized that the flower man does it, too. And the shoe man. And the fish man. And......me!
I'm on the opposite schedule though. Before I run, I'm in take down mode. As you may remember, I don't unfold my "click clack" (bed). I sleep on it sofa style. But, I still put on sheets and pillowcases and make it into a little bed every night. And I've never been sad about climbing in. So, every morning, I take it apart. The comforter goes on the back of the sofa. The sheets go in the bin under the sofa. And the extension pillow goes on the floor next to the sofa. What's the extension pillow? The sofa is a little short. So, I pull one end away from the wall and stick a firm cushion between the wall and the sofa and voila.....my sofa is a tiny bit longer.
So far, I've taken things apart every morning and it hasn't bothered me at all. Now when I run past the guys setting up I don't wonder how they can stand doing it. It's Parisian. You work with the space you've got, you develop a routine and it's just what you do. It doesn't even enter my mind that one day I'll return to Chicago and I won't have to wear my down vest to the bathroom and remember to take my keys (so I don't lock myself out) and a handful of toilet paper and my mini-flashlight. Who knows? Maybe I'll kind of miss it.
I'm on the opposite schedule though. Before I run, I'm in take down mode. As you may remember, I don't unfold my "click clack" (bed). I sleep on it sofa style. But, I still put on sheets and pillowcases and make it into a little bed every night. And I've never been sad about climbing in. So, every morning, I take it apart. The comforter goes on the back of the sofa. The sheets go in the bin under the sofa. And the extension pillow goes on the floor next to the sofa. What's the extension pillow? The sofa is a little short. So, I pull one end away from the wall and stick a firm cushion between the wall and the sofa and voila.....my sofa is a tiny bit longer.
So far, I've taken things apart every morning and it hasn't bothered me at all. Now when I run past the guys setting up I don't wonder how they can stand doing it. It's Parisian. You work with the space you've got, you develop a routine and it's just what you do. It doesn't even enter my mind that one day I'll return to Chicago and I won't have to wear my down vest to the bathroom and remember to take my keys (so I don't lock myself out) and a handful of toilet paper and my mini-flashlight. Who knows? Maybe I'll kind of miss it.
The laundroman (this is not a typo)
I don't go to the laundromat in Paris, I go to the laundroman. And he's really nice. If I do laundry at 8:45 p.m. he shows up at 9:45 to clean everything before he closes at 10:00. It's really clean, really close and really not all that dreadful to do laundry.
Before I left Chicago I told Lance to be sure to remind me that in my search for the perfect apartment, laundry was a must. As you may have guessed, if there's no room for a toilet, there's no room for a washing machine in my quarters. (in fact, there's no room to store quarters to use in a washing machine) So, I make a weekly or bi-weekly trip to the laundroman. It's just down the block a bit and I can see it from my window. I like to go at the end of the night because I like it when he comes in with his walkman (okay, I'm sure it's not a walkman anymore). When he sees me he trades whatever he's listening to for a short conversation in terrible French with the American girl in Paris. I'm sure he's not as happy about these evenings as I am, but he does it with a smile.
There is a phone on the wall in the place and if you pick it up, it seems to go directly to him. I've never done it but I've seen other people do it. They tell him the problem and within minutes he shows up through the front door. That's when I realized that he must live nearby.
A couple of weeks ago I saw him on the street and he said hi. To be walking down the street in Paris and have someone say hi is pretty cool. You might think that's dumb, but I'm admitting it, to me it's pretty cool. I asked him about the best place to park my bike. He told me where to leave it and then he said that he'd keep an eye on it for me because he lived right there, and pointed to the building across from mine!
I've always felt a certain sort of anonimity with my neighbors in the buildings across the street. When I open the window to check the weather and someone across is out smoking a cigarette, you don't really acknowledge one another because that's the person you might have seen undressing the night before if you forgot to close your curtains. Who knows where he lives?!
He doesn't know it, but he's really one of my friends. It's not like we've traded numbers or emails or anything, but one of these days maybe I'll pick up that phone at the laundromat just to say hi to the laundroman.
Before I left Chicago I told Lance to be sure to remind me that in my search for the perfect apartment, laundry was a must. As you may have guessed, if there's no room for a toilet, there's no room for a washing machine in my quarters. (in fact, there's no room to store quarters to use in a washing machine) So, I make a weekly or bi-weekly trip to the laundroman. It's just down the block a bit and I can see it from my window. I like to go at the end of the night because I like it when he comes in with his walkman (okay, I'm sure it's not a walkman anymore). When he sees me he trades whatever he's listening to for a short conversation in terrible French with the American girl in Paris. I'm sure he's not as happy about these evenings as I am, but he does it with a smile.
There is a phone on the wall in the place and if you pick it up, it seems to go directly to him. I've never done it but I've seen other people do it. They tell him the problem and within minutes he shows up through the front door. That's when I realized that he must live nearby.
A couple of weeks ago I saw him on the street and he said hi. To be walking down the street in Paris and have someone say hi is pretty cool. You might think that's dumb, but I'm admitting it, to me it's pretty cool. I asked him about the best place to park my bike. He told me where to leave it and then he said that he'd keep an eye on it for me because he lived right there, and pointed to the building across from mine!
I've always felt a certain sort of anonimity with my neighbors in the buildings across the street. When I open the window to check the weather and someone across is out smoking a cigarette, you don't really acknowledge one another because that's the person you might have seen undressing the night before if you forgot to close your curtains. Who knows where he lives?!
He doesn't know it, but he's really one of my friends. It's not like we've traded numbers or emails or anything, but one of these days maybe I'll pick up that phone at the laundromat just to say hi to the laundroman.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Outrunning is no key to befriending
Who wants to be outrun by a girl? Maybe no one. I was doing my Luxembourg laps when I heard someone close behind me. Unless I go in the dark, there is always someone close behind me. But this seemed closer than usual. I could hear the panting. Naturally, I seemed to speed up. (Wouldn't you, if someone was running behind you and panting?) They sped up, too.
Sometimes I do two laps of the garden and then head to the Seine and run on the cobblestones. It's probably not the healthiest or easiest thing to do, but I'm in Paris and I'm going to run on the Seine. This day, I decided to try one more lap with my new friend in tow. I've done this in Chicago and it always has a happy ending. My favorite was a girl that I'd checked out (yes, I check out female runners) on my way north. I thought to myself that I'd be happy to look like her. So, on my way south, I heard someone close behind. Naturally, I sped up but they did, too. I'd slow a bit when I couldn't keep up the pace, with hopes that they'd pass me and the game would be over, but they slowed down, too. When I finally stopped for water, the girl that I'd checked out stopped for water with me and said, "Thanks for being my jack rabbit."
I don't know what I thought I'd wanted from my new Luxembourg friend because I certainly wouldn't have understood "jack rabbit" in French. Running a half-marathon in Italy 6 years ago my answer to unsolicited comments was, "I'm sorry I don't speak Italian," which only caused interest for more comments and by the end I was speaking Italian and had new friends. Maybe I'd just try the usual. "Je suis desole. Je ne parle pas francais," and we'd go from there.
Lap two. Completed. Still panting.
Lap three. Completed. Still panting. And now I'm panting, too. What am I trying to prove? If they do say anything, I probably won't be able to utter my standard French phrase. Okay. I'll do one more lap. But if nothing happens, I'm going home.
Three quarters of the way through lap four I'm not being chased anymore. I slow down just in case they're back there somewhere hoping to catch up. Still nothing. It's my chance to stop and breathe and think about how silly I'd been. Voila! There he was. Sweaty, exhausted and panting. Say something. Say something. I just said, "Merci," and smiled and he slowly ran past and didn't say merci and didn't smile. My jack rabbit had been behind me instead of in front of me, and he wasn't very friendly. The next time he's back there I know just what I'll say. "Hit the road, Jack." Then I'll only run two laps and won't miss my morning at the Seine.
Sometimes I do two laps of the garden and then head to the Seine and run on the cobblestones. It's probably not the healthiest or easiest thing to do, but I'm in Paris and I'm going to run on the Seine. This day, I decided to try one more lap with my new friend in tow. I've done this in Chicago and it always has a happy ending. My favorite was a girl that I'd checked out (yes, I check out female runners) on my way north. I thought to myself that I'd be happy to look like her. So, on my way south, I heard someone close behind. Naturally, I sped up but they did, too. I'd slow a bit when I couldn't keep up the pace, with hopes that they'd pass me and the game would be over, but they slowed down, too. When I finally stopped for water, the girl that I'd checked out stopped for water with me and said, "Thanks for being my jack rabbit."
I don't know what I thought I'd wanted from my new Luxembourg friend because I certainly wouldn't have understood "jack rabbit" in French. Running a half-marathon in Italy 6 years ago my answer to unsolicited comments was, "I'm sorry I don't speak Italian," which only caused interest for more comments and by the end I was speaking Italian and had new friends. Maybe I'd just try the usual. "Je suis desole. Je ne parle pas francais," and we'd go from there.
Lap two. Completed. Still panting.
Lap three. Completed. Still panting. And now I'm panting, too. What am I trying to prove? If they do say anything, I probably won't be able to utter my standard French phrase. Okay. I'll do one more lap. But if nothing happens, I'm going home.
Three quarters of the way through lap four I'm not being chased anymore. I slow down just in case they're back there somewhere hoping to catch up. Still nothing. It's my chance to stop and breathe and think about how silly I'd been. Voila! There he was. Sweaty, exhausted and panting. Say something. Say something. I just said, "Merci," and smiled and he slowly ran past and didn't say merci and didn't smile. My jack rabbit had been behind me instead of in front of me, and he wasn't very friendly. The next time he's back there I know just what I'll say. "Hit the road, Jack." Then I'll only run two laps and won't miss my morning at the Seine.
Who let the frogs out?
I live a five-minute run from Jardin du Luxembourg. It's probably also a five-minute bike ride because the first half is uphill. That strikes me as odd because I live on a hill and no matter where I come home from I always have to come up a hill. Unless, I guess, I'm coming home from my run. Then it's downhill. So, I live on what I thought was the top of a hill, but the Pantheon is on the top of the hill and the Jardin du Luxembourg is back down the hill on the other side. It's a hilly city.
The first night I had my bike I rode to the garden. I knew it was only open for another 15 minutes or so, but I had to go somewhere on my new bike. (I don't think I told you how I got my new bike, did I? I took the train to a friend's house in the suburbs for dinner and she had her mom drive me and HER bike back to Paris. I couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to me. Then I remembered something. Three years ago a young Spanish girl lived in our building in Chicago. She needed a bike and I happened to have one that I wasn't riding, so I gave it to her and she couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to her. And now I am remembering even more. The bike was named Betty. I named it Betty because an old lady that lived in my studio building gave it to me because she couldn't ride a bike anymore. Give and you shall receive. But it's not really fair, is it? I got two bikes. I hope Betty got something.)
Back to the garden. It's 1.25 miles around the outer edge. I run up a hill and down a hill to get there and then I run a few laps and then up a hill and down a hill to get home. Before I go home, I buy my baguette, promise myself I'll only take the first hot bite and go to Arenes de Lutece for my sit-ups. It's an old arena from gladiator days and it's an ABSolutely perfect place for sit-ups. It's really like a big round park with gravel. On Saturdays and Sundays it's filled with little competitions of all sorts. You've got soccer, rugby, badminton and petanque all played simultaneously. When a soccer ball enters a petanque game, the ball gets kicked back to the appropriate group by an old man that probably used to play soccer here 40 years ago. Petanque is a kind of bocce. But, they don't use the same kind of balls we use. Their balls are all metal (steel?) and the two players are denoted by one set of balls with deeper grooves than the other. Maybe? I haven't been close enough to really analyze it yet. My favorite part is when they pick up their balls with a magnet on the end of a string. (It appears to be a sport for the older monsieurs.) When they're not playing they stand there swinging what looks like a yo-yo. When it's time to collect their balls, instead of bending down, they swing the magnet toward a ball and pick it up. Seems to me kind of like a fun game in itself.
Back to the garden. My first bike ride 15 minutes before it closed. There were still a lot of people there. Parks in Paris are really lived in. It's amazing. So, I'm enjoying the pond and the flowers and the trimmed trees and especially the green chairs randomly scattered about. Some are in small circles, some are in straight lines, some are used as footstools so they're facing each other and some are all alone (like me). As I'm taking in the sights, I'm struck by the sounds. All at once the frogs started croaking. (Is that what frogs do? I actually sat here for a minute trying to think of what we say frogs do. I think it's croak, but that seems more like toads. ) Anyway, it was bizarre. What made them all start at exactly the same time? It was loud and rhythmical and mysterious. I was really glad I'd decided to take this inaugural ride. I stopped to enjoy the frogs of Luxembourg in case they only had a short season and wouldn't be out the next time that I visited. No worries. They'll be out at 7:15 every night. They were the guards with whistles, all starting on the outer edge at the same time to clear the garden and send us home. It was riveting.
The first night I had my bike I rode to the garden. I knew it was only open for another 15 minutes or so, but I had to go somewhere on my new bike. (I don't think I told you how I got my new bike, did I? I took the train to a friend's house in the suburbs for dinner and she had her mom drive me and HER bike back to Paris. I couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to me. Then I remembered something. Three years ago a young Spanish girl lived in our building in Chicago. She needed a bike and I happened to have one that I wasn't riding, so I gave it to her and she couldn't believe it and wondered why someone would be so nice to her. And now I am remembering even more. The bike was named Betty. I named it Betty because an old lady that lived in my studio building gave it to me because she couldn't ride a bike anymore. Give and you shall receive. But it's not really fair, is it? I got two bikes. I hope Betty got something.)
Back to the garden. It's 1.25 miles around the outer edge. I run up a hill and down a hill to get there and then I run a few laps and then up a hill and down a hill to get home. Before I go home, I buy my baguette, promise myself I'll only take the first hot bite and go to Arenes de Lutece for my sit-ups. It's an old arena from gladiator days and it's an ABSolutely perfect place for sit-ups. It's really like a big round park with gravel. On Saturdays and Sundays it's filled with little competitions of all sorts. You've got soccer, rugby, badminton and petanque all played simultaneously. When a soccer ball enters a petanque game, the ball gets kicked back to the appropriate group by an old man that probably used to play soccer here 40 years ago. Petanque is a kind of bocce. But, they don't use the same kind of balls we use. Their balls are all metal (steel?) and the two players are denoted by one set of balls with deeper grooves than the other. Maybe? I haven't been close enough to really analyze it yet. My favorite part is when they pick up their balls with a magnet on the end of a string. (It appears to be a sport for the older monsieurs.) When they're not playing they stand there swinging what looks like a yo-yo. When it's time to collect their balls, instead of bending down, they swing the magnet toward a ball and pick it up. Seems to me kind of like a fun game in itself.
Back to the garden. My first bike ride 15 minutes before it closed. There were still a lot of people there. Parks in Paris are really lived in. It's amazing. So, I'm enjoying the pond and the flowers and the trimmed trees and especially the green chairs randomly scattered about. Some are in small circles, some are in straight lines, some are used as footstools so they're facing each other and some are all alone (like me). As I'm taking in the sights, I'm struck by the sounds. All at once the frogs started croaking. (Is that what frogs do? I actually sat here for a minute trying to think of what we say frogs do. I think it's croak, but that seems more like toads. ) Anyway, it was bizarre. What made them all start at exactly the same time? It was loud and rhythmical and mysterious. I was really glad I'd decided to take this inaugural ride. I stopped to enjoy the frogs of Luxembourg in case they only had a short season and wouldn't be out the next time that I visited. No worries. They'll be out at 7:15 every night. They were the guards with whistles, all starting on the outer edge at the same time to clear the garden and send us home. It was riveting.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
I'm anything but roundabout
Conquering the roundabouts is the next mission. Or should I say 'adventure'? Don't forget, I'm attempting to accomplish this task on my bike. If you're nervous, stop reading. There's nothing calming, beautiful or easy about a Parisian roundabout. I don't know what makes them seem different than others. Are they bigger? (six lanes of traffic or more) Are they faster? (I don't think so.) Is it that sometimes there's a random light in what seems to be the center of the roundabout? (which people don't seem to obey anyway) Oh yeah. Maybe it's just the fact that I'm on a bike surrounded by other bikes, cars, trucks and motorcycles. The safest place would seem to be in the right hand lane, on the edge of it all. Well, I quickly learned that you're really living on the edge if you try this move. The guy to your left wants to kill you because he's turning right on the next street. The guy from the next street wants to kill you because he's desparately trying to enter the big circle of frenzy. The gentle soul behind you is patient for awhile, but then he wants to kill you, too.
So, a few days later, I decided to try the left lane. It seemed to work at first. No one can turn left, so you're really not in anyone's way. The funny thing is, I usually have to go all the way around the roundabout. Maybe if I just had to go right two streets after I entered, I could manage. Back to picking the left lane. It's working. It's working. I've tucked myself safely against the fence thats protecting the monument in the middle of this grand plaza. But suddenly I realize that eventually I have to turn right and now I'm at the far left side of 23 lanes of traffic wondering how I'm going to work my way back to the right side so I can get out of this mess. Voilà! There's a break in the middle and I can go left! But, I can only continue going left around and around and around the same statue. If only there was a prostitute around to save me from one more lap. (You won't get that one unless you've been reading from the beginning.) So, I hold my breath, smile, perhaps wince a little, and work my way back to the right. I made it.
The next day I left for work a little earlier. I took a paper and pencil and stopped at the first one to study it. Did I say 'first one'? It's true, I have to do two a day. That's really four if I don't have some fabulous plan after work that ends up taking me home in a different direction. Which I seldom do. So, I decide it makes sense to pick the middle lane. Then you're not making EVERYONE mad, just your immediate neighbors. And, it kind of worked! Don't ask me how. I was still having the same heart attack I had before, but when I finished, I pulled off on the sidewalk, sighed and reevaluated. And I actually laughed (out loud). In some strange roundabout way, I'd conquered Bastille.
So, a few days later, I decided to try the left lane. It seemed to work at first. No one can turn left, so you're really not in anyone's way. The funny thing is, I usually have to go all the way around the roundabout. Maybe if I just had to go right two streets after I entered, I could manage. Back to picking the left lane. It's working. It's working. I've tucked myself safely against the fence thats protecting the monument in the middle of this grand plaza. But suddenly I realize that eventually I have to turn right and now I'm at the far left side of 23 lanes of traffic wondering how I'm going to work my way back to the right side so I can get out of this mess. Voilà! There's a break in the middle and I can go left! But, I can only continue going left around and around and around the same statue. If only there was a prostitute around to save me from one more lap. (You won't get that one unless you've been reading from the beginning.) So, I hold my breath, smile, perhaps wince a little, and work my way back to the right. I made it.
The next day I left for work a little earlier. I took a paper and pencil and stopped at the first one to study it. Did I say 'first one'? It's true, I have to do two a day. That's really four if I don't have some fabulous plan after work that ends up taking me home in a different direction. Which I seldom do. So, I decide it makes sense to pick the middle lane. Then you're not making EVERYONE mad, just your immediate neighbors. And, it kind of worked! Don't ask me how. I was still having the same heart attack I had before, but when I finished, I pulled off on the sidewalk, sighed and reevaluated. And I actually laughed (out loud). In some strange roundabout way, I'd conquered Bastille.
Live and let love
I'm not going to erase it anymore. It seems like at least fifty percent of the time that I send an email, (from my iPod, of course) I make a typo at the end. It often comes out:
Live,
Tenley
I kind of like it, but I still always fix it. And I always wonder why I'm fixing it. Each time I see it and erase it I smile a little at the coincidence of the error. I don't think I'll correct it anymore. I'll take note of which word I type most often and who most often receives the reminder to live. Maybe it's a sign for the sender AND the receiver. So, I'll start loving up to my end of the deal if you start living up to yours. Live, Tenley
Live,
Tenley
I kind of like it, but I still always fix it. And I always wonder why I'm fixing it. Each time I see it and erase it I smile a little at the coincidence of the error. I don't think I'll correct it anymore. I'll take note of which word I type most often and who most often receives the reminder to live. Maybe it's a sign for the sender AND the receiver. So, I'll start loving up to my end of the deal if you start living up to yours. Live, Tenley
Monday, October 11, 2010
Just one word
Not bad. My temporary blogger only made one little mistake. It was a teary night, not a testy one. But I suppose one might say I'm a little testy, too, after a two-hour session with Mike on the phone trying to make my computer work and getting nowhere. I finally said that I needed a break and would email him later with my progress. Guess what? I don't have his email address. So this is for you, Boog! MUCHAS GRACIAS.
I've stepped out for a nutella crepe
The original blogger on this site has taken a break (or had a breakdown). She's filling this post with kind words from her faithful followers. After rereading them, then rewriting them, she hopes to reevaluate and see that she really is kind of cool and she'll survive this testy night.
-Please be happy.
-You're on the right track, girl!
-I read your book. (she meant to say 'blog' but she's French and still struggles with English a bit). I love it:
funny, realistic and it shows us how you are brave.
-This is your day, 10-10-10! I've been celebrating this day all day!
-"Flexibility is the key to your power."
-The Chicago Marathon is this weekend. I'm not going to
watch it because my runner is not in it.
-You are on my mind as I try to speak English properly and realize how many languages you are speaking.
I think of you in my mind very often. I never forget those days when you were by my side with all your fruitful advises and help. I always have the deepest gratitude for you. (a refugee)
-My whole family is in awe of what you're accomplishing.
-Just remember, you're loved all around the world.
-Be well and BE TENLEY...the girl who flirts with people in front of coffee shops and makes people laugh.
-You've called me crying on EVERY one of your trips and you've always pulled through. I promise you you're going to make it this time, too.
-Don't be like me....be like YOU!
-It's not easy to live in a new country if you don't know the language. You might better understand your students (me) a little better. A big hug!
-My sister is quoted as saying she 'has channeled some Tenley synergies while on her trip' by navigating independently and meeting new people on the road.
-It pleases me the way you succeed in making friends with people even if it's the first time you see them. I remember with pleasure when I came in the churchyard and I found you encircled by people...men, women and children. All of them asking you questions and listening to your answers. In this moment I didn't have the courage to interrupt and I only sat on a bench and watched. I thought, "It reminds me of Christ with his disciples." Maybe it's not like you say, that I'm your teacher, but instead, that you're MY teacher. (translated from Italian)
Hopefully the Tenley that so many of you see as strong, will return tomorrow. (Because I can't continue to blog in her place on this iPod! It's crazy. You can't proofread anything.) She'll sleep on your words tonight and be
reenergized for a sunny tomorrow. MERCI BEAUCOUP!
-Please be happy.
-You're on the right track, girl!
-I read your book. (she meant to say 'blog' but she's French and still struggles with English a bit). I love it:
funny, realistic and it shows us how you are brave.
-This is your day, 10-10-10! I've been celebrating this day all day!
-"Flexibility is the key to your power."
-The Chicago Marathon is this weekend. I'm not going to
watch it because my runner is not in it.
-You are on my mind as I try to speak English properly and realize how many languages you are speaking.
I think of you in my mind very often. I never forget those days when you were by my side with all your fruitful advises and help. I always have the deepest gratitude for you. (a refugee)
-My whole family is in awe of what you're accomplishing.
-Just remember, you're loved all around the world.
-Be well and BE TENLEY...the girl who flirts with people in front of coffee shops and makes people laugh.
-You've called me crying on EVERY one of your trips and you've always pulled through. I promise you you're going to make it this time, too.
-Don't be like me....be like YOU!
-It's not easy to live in a new country if you don't know the language. You might better understand your students (me) a little better. A big hug!
-My sister is quoted as saying she 'has channeled some Tenley synergies while on her trip' by navigating independently and meeting new people on the road.
-It pleases me the way you succeed in making friends with people even if it's the first time you see them. I remember with pleasure when I came in the churchyard and I found you encircled by people...men, women and children. All of them asking you questions and listening to your answers. In this moment I didn't have the courage to interrupt and I only sat on a bench and watched. I thought, "It reminds me of Christ with his disciples." Maybe it's not like you say, that I'm your teacher, but instead, that you're MY teacher. (translated from Italian)
Hopefully the Tenley that so many of you see as strong, will return tomorrow. (Because I can't continue to blog in her place on this iPod! It's crazy. You can't proofread anything.) She'll sleep on your words tonight and be
reenergized for a sunny tomorrow. MERCI BEAUCOUP!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Au revoir, Monsieur Thomson
I went to see Mr. Thomson today and he wasn't there. Actually he locked me out. My work lunches consist of a baguette with Camembert and get this....butter! Yes. A cheese and butter sandwich. And it's bigger than a "footlong". And I eat the whole thing. I seem to have broken the 'I must have something crunchy with my sandwich' rule. Maybe the baguette gives me the crunch I need. Or maybe I've just realized that I don't really need a bag of chips in addition to a cheese and butter sandwich! It comes with a drink (I haven't kicked the Diet Coke) and it's only 4€. One day they only had cans instead of bottles and with a can it's only 3.50€. If the exchange rate is still what it was when I left (you probably shouldn't tell me if it's not), that's cheaper than my bagel at Einstein's and Coke and chips at the Sev. Anyway, I like the lady I buy it from. She knows what I want everyday and she quizzes me on my French. So, I get my goods and head to the canal to eat. It's perfect. The first day I tried my iPod I didn't have to log in to the usual free wifi spot (which works less than half of the time and doesn't seem to let me send messages) because Mr. Thomson opened his door to me immediately with a very strong signal. So, for two weeks this was my routine. I thought about making a little "merci" sign to hold above my head everyday at lunchtime in case he was looking out his window and could see how happy he made me when I got to connect with you! But today, I decided to test a different bike route to school on a non-school day to see if it was better. I stopped at the canal to check email and there was no signal. Mr. Thomson had locked me out. I'd never thanked him like I'd wanted to. He has no idea how much I appreciated him. My iPod wouldn't send messages from home. I couldn't get wifi at the quirky girl cafe. And it won't work at school. This was one place where I knew I could get what I needed and now it's gone. I can only hope that as things continue to improve I won't have to rely on Mr. Thomson like I used to. I'm going to try to be a bit more independent and when I'm stuck I'll spend my lunch hour figuring out the problem instead of emailing someone in Chicago for help. That will be good for all of us. Encore, merci, Monsieur Thomson! You've given me a little more independence.
Friday, October 8, 2010
To tea or not to tea
I briefly mentioned the quirky girl at the cafe where I got tea before school the first morning and she remembered me the second morning. She's a highlight of my day. She always wears green patent leather boots. She always wears one very long dangly earring and one short earring. She always wears something fabulous. A pink skirt with giant white polka dots down on her hips (just like me) because it's too big (and I'm hoping it's because she bought it at a secondhand store... just like me). A denim ultra miniskirt with leopard underpants sticking out the top to match her leopard shirt. Wool, horizontally-striped multicolored tights with cutoffs over them. Bib overalls unbuttoned at the hips and rolled up at the bottom. All with the green boots and asymmetrical earrings. And messy hair in a saggy ponytail. I don't know her name (yet) but I hope it's something like Cosette.
Do I drink tea in the morning in Chicago? No. I've always wanted some kind of morning ritual, but running and a bit more time in bed have always won. So, I'm trying it in Paris! So far, I'm enjoying it. Not the tea, really, the quirky girl. She apologized after the first couple of days that it was so expensive. She thinks it's dumb that it's more than coffee. So, a couple of times I've had hot chocolate. I really don't need that before work, but it's delicious.
So, Monday through Thursday, I leave for school a little early and get my expensive tea that I don't even want just to see quirky girl and feel like there's a cafe in Paris where everybody knows my name! (even though they really don't)
Do I drink tea in the morning in Chicago? No. I've always wanted some kind of morning ritual, but running and a bit more time in bed have always won. So, I'm trying it in Paris! So far, I'm enjoying it. Not the tea, really, the quirky girl. She apologized after the first couple of days that it was so expensive. She thinks it's dumb that it's more than coffee. So, a couple of times I've had hot chocolate. I really don't need that before work, but it's delicious.
So, Monday through Thursday, I leave for school a little early and get my expensive tea that I don't even want just to see quirky girl and feel like there's a cafe in Paris where everybody knows my name! (even though they really don't)
Sorry I fell asleep on you
Sorry about last night! To continue and clear things up a bit. In fact, there was a key on my bike, I just didn't see it! He used white tape to tape it to my white bike. So, I got his text the next day after I parked my bike at school. I ran back out and there it was. I took a picture because I was feeling so happy to have a "bike message." I've always thought it was a fun way to communicate and I didn't think I'd be doing it in Paris. I was "super contente." (they really say this!) I couldn't be luckier to have this fabulous neighbor. (he does have one flaw. He speaks English. :-( But......he also speaks Italian. And he's French, so he speaks French.) He helped pump up my bike tires. He gave me the key. He installed Internet at his place because he's been thinking about it lately and just not getting around to it. He said he'd do it for me and I don't even have to pay him! And......get ready Mike, he leaves me LENGTHY notes telling me just what keys to push on my
computer to get me hooked up. He already knows to treat me like a three-year old in this department. I thought it might be wiser to get through all of the internet
stuff in English and then I might ask him to switch to italian! Grazie to Alex, it won't be long and I'll be
connected at home and can blog from my computer instead
of from my iPod. And just as I've started to get used to
my French keyboard at school, I'll try to type from my computer at home and I'll be back to my zills and
zoulds.
computer to get me hooked up. He already knows to treat me like a three-year old in this department. I thought it might be wiser to get through all of the internet
stuff in English and then I might ask him to switch to italian! Grazie to Alex, it won't be long and I'll be
connected at home and can blog from my computer instead
of from my iPod. And just as I've started to get used to
my French keyboard at school, I'll try to type from my computer at home and I'll be back to my zills and
zoulds.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
I think I need to update you on the keys in my life.
The front door key that I broke.....
I feared everyday that I would come home, the door would be fixed and locked and I wouldn't have a new key. I told my neighbor that I might have to buzz him one night in case this happened and he said it would be fine. One day that I knew I'd be pretty late I left him a note to say that if he could pick up my key if the door was fixed that he could just tape it to my bike. (yes!! I have a bike. I can't remember if I told you. It's white with a red seat and I
love it!) anyway, I told him to text me if he did it. I got home at 00:30 (I think that's how I'm supposed to be learning to write the time. That's 12:30 a.m.)voilà! I was locked out. I went and checked my bike. Nothing. I couldn't check my texts because I forgot to charge my phone. No key! And it seemed a bit too late to buzz Alex, don't you think? I considered sleeping in the lobby which might have been nice--it's a lot bigger than my apartment. Fortunately, within minutes, two boys came running out and I ran in,
went to bed and decided to worry about the key the next
day.
The key the next day.......
I couldn't go running because I couldn't get back in. Oh well. The Seine can wait. As I was leaving for work another neighbor ran out in her pajamas and said she had my key. The lobby door that I broke more than a week ago is fixed and now I have a key. One more down...how many to go? (don't forget about the bureau key.)
The trash key....
There's a back door in the lobby that leads to the trash cans. You need a key for the back door and I don't have one. The trash cans get wheeled to the front of the building around 7:30 and I just pop my trash in the front can on my way to work. I was sure that one day I'd make it all the way down (how many stairs do I have?), the trash cans wouldn't be there and I'd have no choice but to climb back up and leave my garbage in the apartment until the next
morning. I'm sure yesterday wasn't the last time that will happen.
Why don't I just get that key......
I'm a little worried about disturbing my landlord these days. I'm sorry I can't remember if I already wrote this, but when I realized last week that my "private" bathroom wasn't really private, I called my landlord and said I was moving. He agreed to return the check for october and the security deposit. I said I'd have to stay awhile longer now and he said that'd be okay.however, yesterday around 3:00 pm (oops. I mean 15:00) I decided to stay put. I just can't bear the thought of searching for an apartment again and then moving. (uh oh. I just fell asleep with the iPod in hand. That's not safe for a girl like me that bumps the wrong button even when I'm awake.
So, I met a spanish ......oops. No joke. I just fell asleep again and as far as I know, I didn't meet anyone Spanish. I don't think this post can be finished and get posted in my current condition. At this point, I think a good night's sleep is KEY.
The front door key that I broke.....
I feared everyday that I would come home, the door would be fixed and locked and I wouldn't have a new key. I told my neighbor that I might have to buzz him one night in case this happened and he said it would be fine. One day that I knew I'd be pretty late I left him a note to say that if he could pick up my key if the door was fixed that he could just tape it to my bike. (yes!! I have a bike. I can't remember if I told you. It's white with a red seat and I
love it!) anyway, I told him to text me if he did it. I got home at 00:30 (I think that's how I'm supposed to be learning to write the time. That's 12:30 a.m.)voilà! I was locked out. I went and checked my bike. Nothing. I couldn't check my texts because I forgot to charge my phone. No key! And it seemed a bit too late to buzz Alex, don't you think? I considered sleeping in the lobby which might have been nice--it's a lot bigger than my apartment. Fortunately, within minutes, two boys came running out and I ran in,
went to bed and decided to worry about the key the next
day.
The key the next day.......
I couldn't go running because I couldn't get back in. Oh well. The Seine can wait. As I was leaving for work another neighbor ran out in her pajamas and said she had my key. The lobby door that I broke more than a week ago is fixed and now I have a key. One more down...how many to go? (don't forget about the bureau key.)
The trash key....
There's a back door in the lobby that leads to the trash cans. You need a key for the back door and I don't have one. The trash cans get wheeled to the front of the building around 7:30 and I just pop my trash in the front can on my way to work. I was sure that one day I'd make it all the way down (how many stairs do I have?), the trash cans wouldn't be there and I'd have no choice but to climb back up and leave my garbage in the apartment until the next
morning. I'm sure yesterday wasn't the last time that will happen.
Why don't I just get that key......
I'm a little worried about disturbing my landlord these days. I'm sorry I can't remember if I already wrote this, but when I realized last week that my "private" bathroom wasn't really private, I called my landlord and said I was moving. He agreed to return the check for october and the security deposit. I said I'd have to stay awhile longer now and he said that'd be okay.however, yesterday around 3:00 pm (oops. I mean 15:00) I decided to stay put. I just can't bear the thought of searching for an apartment again and then moving. (uh oh. I just fell asleep with the iPod in hand. That's not safe for a girl like me that bumps the wrong button even when I'm awake.
So, I met a spanish ......oops. No joke. I just fell asleep again and as far as I know, I didn't meet anyone Spanish. I don't think this post can be finished and get posted in my current condition. At this point, I think a good night's sleep is KEY.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
At least my iPod is in English
Sorry guys. I write a blog and then try to reread it before I actually post it. But, sometimes what I've written seems to have disappeared up into the top of my iPod and no matter how much I scratch at the screen, it won't come back down. So maybe I hit the backspace a few times to try to get back up there and sometimes I watch myself erasing something that I know I'll have to rewrite, but I just have to get back to the top to proofread. And sometimes it's the other way around and I can't get to the bottom. It's like my words are hidden under the keyboard. So, sometimes the only option is to hit "post" and hope that something sensible comes out! In the 'bureau' blog, I seem to have erased the part where I explained my issue to my office mate and asked for help. Suddenly, he just had me by the hand leading me to find a key. It wasn't a terrible transition, but for those of you that I've spent hours with a red pen in hand editing your writing, I had to let you know that this really isn't MY writing. It's Tenley in Paris typing with one finger on an iPod with NO technical support. I'm sure the solution is very easy if I could just ask someone for help. Can you imagine me at school with my whole computer in French? I don't know how to cut and paste or save or print or copy (can you do that on a computer?) on my Apple in English without someone standing right over my shoulder guiding me. With a French keyboard and screen, I'm helpless. I couldn't even get the caps unlocked yesterday! So, please read my blog with a smile. If something doesn't seem to make sense, I'm sorry I've lost you. The words were there before, you just can't find them. It's kind of like me trying to figure something out on my computer at school. I know it's all there, it just doesn't make sense and I can't always figure it out. Thanks for hanging in there. I'm hanging in there, too.
You can't lock a bureau if you can't find one
As trusting as I generally am, I decided the other day that it might not be the smartest move I'd ever make to leave my bag with my iPod, French phone, Italian phone and passport in my office with the door unlocked when my office mate or I weren't in there. So, in French (need I remind you again that I really don't speak French?) he took me by the hand to go find a key and then told me to lock my bag in the bureau. Seemed like an easy enough solution. But, I went back to the office and couldn't find a bureau. A french office is really quite basic. You don't leave any clues about your personal life in an office. No photos. No Star Trek calendars. No extra high heels hidden under your desk. And as far as i could tell, no bureau. Fortunately, somehow, as I was walking back out to tell him that we didn't have a bureau in our office, it dawned on me that a bureau IS an office. The key worked just fine in the office door, so I locked my bag inside and went to teach English to 19 adorable French boys and 3 beautiful girls that I'm sure would never steal my bag
anyway.
anyway.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Am I too old for dreadlocks?
I've stayed in plenty of cheap hotels where the shower head was handheld. I always saw the little attachment to the wall and it was always broken. I guess maybe my current living quarters might be even worse than a cheap hotel. There's not even a spot that it was ever attached to the wall and now broken! Im sure it was never attached because my "telephone booth shower" next to my stove is plastic and there's no way to attach it. But, there's a small pipe going around the top of the room and im thinking i might be able to tie the handle to that and hang it in my roofless telephone booth. Kind of like one of those camping showers. So, how do I wash all of this hair with one hand and a constant fear that I'm almost out of hot water? There are a lot more people in the streets of Paris with dreadlocks than there are in Chicago and maybe now I know why. So, maybe I'll have a surprise for you when I get home. Dreadlocks kind of go with my apartment. 110 stairs. Hot in the summer and cold in the winter (my only heat is a space heater). And there's not enough room for a space heater because when I open my sofa bed (which is called a "click-clack" because I'm sure it makes my neighbors nuts) there is only an extra two feet at the bottom and at one side of my bed. Period. It's smaller than any hotel room I've ever stayed in other than a night on Tokyo! I know the song is about Bangkok, but my room in Bangkok was bigger. All in all though, the place is growing on me. Even though I found out last Thursday that my "private" toilet in the hall isn't so "private", when I spent today thinking about starting the search again and making appointments in French and doing paperwork in French and not being called back and if I am called back taking lots of trips up and down those stairs and up and down the stairs in the metro and moving in and breaking off another key in my next new front door....it makes me think that my little turquoise (Mer des Caraibes is the paint name, and yes, I chose it) isn't so bad. One friend likes to remind me that I'm not sharing barracks like a soldier that can't fly off to Spain and London and Italy whenever they want to use an appropriate toilet. He's got a point. So maybe I should go for a military haircut instead of dreadlocks?
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