Meet me at the opera

Who wouldn't want to meet someone at the opera? (Don't answer that.)

A couple of weeks ago I met a friend (from the suburbs) for dinner. This time she came to meet me in Paris and she asked me to meet her at the Opera. I decided not to ride my bike (it's actually her bike!) in case we walked a bit and wouldn't be returning to the same place that I'd locked it.  So, I took the metro.

When I was a regular metro user in my early days in Paris, the Opera stop was a favorite.  The doors  would open and the gray, depressing train would fill with music for an instant and then the doors would close again.  I never knew if there was a live performer on the platform in the perfect spot for the music to echo through the station or if this particular station had elevator music (do you call it elevator music in the subway?) piped in.  It didn't matter.  I heard it every time and I smiled every time.

So, I took the metro to the Opera.  This time I got off.  I saw the man playing the accordion.  I wanted to stay and listen for a few minutes, but I was late.  I ran up the stairs and was greeted by "The Opera."  It's a beautiful building, incredibly lit, with a grand set of stairs filled with friends waiting to meet each other at the Opera. It is unforgettable. To top it off, there was a tango lesson taking place at the top of the stairs.

The next night I made plans with a my French-German friend that grew up in Spain.  We're both new to Paris and never quite sure where to meet.  One of us always has to blindly choose a place.  It was my turn, so I texted, "Meet me at the Opera."  She was as excited as I'd been. I hope that the next night she sent the same text to another one of her friends and that meeting at the Opera will never go out of style.

How do you spell the sort of chicken that you eat?

Thanksgiving in Paris....no mashed potatoes, rolls and gravy but, thanks to the students, everything was perfect.  They'd seen some tears a couple of days before which prompted questions about what I'd be doing for the holiday.  I told them that I'd be there teaching them English just like every other day.  "But aren't you supposed to be with your family and friends?  Couldn't you get some time off to go home?"  I told them that I'd be fine.

When I arrived Thanksgiving day for the 11:30 class I was greeted by a bunch of smiling students with a big "Surprise!"  There were cookies, little beautifully decorated cakes, cupcakes (handmade by a triathlete that trains 5 hours a day after class that took the time to make little cupcakes filled with nutella),  and a bouquet of roses.  They all signed a little 'merci' card, and by their names they added comments:

"Thanks for the love, Antoine"
"Pretty Boy, Jeremy."
"Sexy Ilan."

They didn't learn those expressions from me, but I loved them all!  If Mr. Cool Twenty-Something (actually he is probably only 18 or 19) only knew that he signed off as "Pretty Boy."  It cracked me up.

In the evening one of the students had invited me to join her and her parents and godparents (who were all my age) for dinner.  We went to a beautiful restaurant that I never would have found myself in if I hadn't been invited by this lovely girl.  Her parents and godparents only see each other once or twice a year, so it was really nice of them to include me.  Helene and I amused ourselves at our end of the table texting a boy from class.

The restaurant is famous for fish, not that sort of chicken that you eat for Thanksgiving.  (Try keeping a straight face for that question!) So what did I find to eat on the fancy menu?  Caviar d'aubergines.  For some strange reason I believed that it was only aubergines (eggplant).  I thought the word caviar might have meant how it was prepared or something.  And maybe I got that crazy idea because when Lance was here he ordered "escalope something or other" and it wasn't scallops!  Had we known what escalope meant in English, we wouldn't have had the problem.  So, I assumed that caviar had another kitchen definition and it wasn't only fish eggs.

Voila!  A green pile of something came.  And guess what?  I ate it.  I ate it.  That's not a computer glitch.  I wrote it twice.  I was still believing that it was eggplant prepared like caviar.  It wasn't until later that I started thinking about it and wondering what I'd accomplished.  It was still on my mind over the weekend and just now, typing the blog, I googled it and I was right all along.  It wasn't caviar!  But, I still deserve some points.  When's the last time any of you saw me eat aubergines?

The strike is over.....for now

The strike in Paris has been over for awhile, but I finally felt it's negative effect today.  The strike itself affected me positively, but now that it's over, I must confess that I miss it a little.

I had my first flat tire during the strike.  It was too early for the bike shop around the corner to be open, so I pushed my bike to the gas station for air and in addition to all of the pumps having signs on them that there was no gas, there was also a sign on the air pump that there was no air.  (It's not that I speak French so well that I've forgotten how to say "air pump" in English.  I just can't seem to think of it!)  Did the lack of air have anything to do with the strike?  Or was it just a strange coincidence that it stopped working at the same time that everything else in Paris stopped working?

Anyway, I pushed my bike back home and caught the next metro to school.  The metro?  Something to be avoided at all times and especially when there's a strike. I hate the metro.  Have I mentioned that?  The people on the metro seem so sad and gray and gloomy and lonely and depressed and tired and bored and lazy and dark and glum and every other word you can imagine in a thesaurus when you look up yuck!  But, sometimes you have no choice.

When I got home that night, I'd planned on taking my bike to the bike shop.  It was closed.  Apparently they'd decided to stop working, too.   So, I thought I'd give the gas station another try and voila!  They had air.  I asked the gas station attendant for change and then said that if I couldn't figure it out I might need his help.  I'd really hoped that I could figure it out so I didn't have to be the dumb girl (the dumb American girl) that couldn't take care of her own bike.  Well, I couldn't figure it out so I went back to the window for help.  The guy was far from pleased to have to leave his warm little hut and come out to help me, but he did it.  And after a brief exchange at the air pump full of "I don't understands" and "pleases" and "thank yous", I had a new friend and I was sipping tea and speaking French (and cracking up) in the warm little hut.

I spent several hours there the first night and there were no customers.  With the strike, there was no gas. Occasionally someone would come to the window and he'd just tell them that there would be gas the next morning at 6 a.m.  On my ride to work the next morning there was a traffic jam.  They were lined up for gas.

The next night, I went back for more French and tea. There was no gas again because he'd run out by 10 a.m.  It was perfect for me.  No customers.  Who would think it would be such a thrill to be in Paris hanging out in a gas station booth drinking tea?  Those of you who know me well, know that I would think it would be a bigger thrill than tea on the Champs Elysees.

What's happened now that the strike is over and there's gas?  There's no time to make me tea.  One customer after another comes to the window and there's never a lull.  I wait patiently to see if I can learn anything from the brief exchanges between the customers and the gas station attendant, but it's usually only the pleasantries.

Tonight we had the soccer game on in the hut.  A few guys cocked their necks to watch a couple of plays and talk about the game.  No one seemed the least bit surprised that there was a girl and a bike in the hut.  And no one seemed to care that I didn't have my tea.  Contrary to the rest of the Parisians (especially the metro riders) I'm waiting patiently for the next strike, and fortunately I'm sure I won't have to wait too long.

Mont St. Michel, a must or a bust?

Mont St. Michel.

You usually don't hear it without:

"Don't miss it."
"You have to go there."
"It's my favorite place."

Well, call me a curmudgeon, but I could've missed it.  I didn't have to go there.  And, it's not my favorite place.   If I were writing the guidebooks I'd write,

"See it from afar."

I'll admit, it's amazing to be driving down the winding country roads through fields and farms when out of the blue you see the postcard you've become so familiar with right there behind the sheep. At that point, it's fabulous.  That's when you should stop and take a picture.  Maybe you should even have a picnic packed and pull over on the side of the road for lunch and enjoy the view.

But, no one gave us this valuable information.  So we (Lance and I.  And yes, he agrees with me.) continued driving and never even stopped to take that perfect picture because we were under the impression that it would only get better as we got closer, instead of worse.

The towns turn ugly.  In fact, they aren't towns anymore.  They are only hotel strips and bad restaurants and nothing else.  There are hordes of people walking on the side of the road to get there. It looks like a pilgrimage to Mecca (I think that's what it would look like anyway.  I haven't done that yet.) Our visit was on a particularly rainy, windy day and we didn't feel so bad driving past all of the walkers on our way in because we were sure they would be well rewarded.

So, we filed into a muddy parking lot.  It reminded us of spring skiing when you get to the slopes right at opening time and you join the parade to park.  Everyone gets out of their cars and leaves their doors open (just like skiing) to suit up for the long walk from the lot to the mountain.

Then you reach the base.  It's always a little more crowded at the first lift, but you're sure the crowds will thin out.  But, at Mont St. Michel, they never do.  They get thicker and thicker and your ski slope turns into Mackinac Island and instead of a peaceful ride on a chairlift to the top you walk single file up a hill lined with I Heart Mont St. Michel t-shirts and miniature plastic cameras hanging on rubber strings.  (Okay.  I know that you can't have a rubber string, but I don't know how else to describe it.)  I don't even understand this one.  Why is a tourist souvenir shop selling a 2 x 3 inch brightly colored plastic camera on a string like a necklace?  Are the sellers making fun of us in some bizarre way?

So, we climbed up a bit, went to one of the lookout points for a look down at the cars in the parking lot (that were only safe from high tide until 21:00......a detail we found far more interesting than the abbey), turned around, and fought the crowd back down to the exit.

And believe it or not, that's all I have to say about Mont St. Michel.  I think I'd rather climb the 110 steps of Mont St. 40 Rue Monge (that's my address if you want to google it) and smell the smells from the kitchen on 2, smile when I make it to my favorite striped welcome mat on 4, curse the guy's door on 5 that came up one day and yelled at me for making too much noise (it wasn't me of course, it was my neighbor) to finally arrive on 6 (which is really 7 because they count 1 as 0) with a sigh of relief that I'm home sweet home.

Real wimps don't eat quiche

It's all out there.  Everyone knows my eating secrets now.  It's officially safe to tell you about the tuna and tomato quiche I ate several weeks ago.  I was invited to a new friend's house for dinner and didn't know quite how to tell her that I was a bit.........what do you call me.........fussy?  Picky?  Please don't say "demanding."  Anyway, I had decided to try to turn over a new leaf.  I couldn't believe myself.  And I hesitate to tell all of you this because I don't want you to think that I'll return and you can invite me to a dinner party without preparing my plain side of pasta or my special cheese pizza or all those wonderful things you do just for me.  Don't get any crazy ideas.  I'm still Tenley.

So, the first course was zucchini soup.  Um......dare I say.......I loved it.

The second course was the difficult one. It was the above-mentioned quiche.  What could I do?  I couldn't even try to mask the bites with other things from my plate, because there were no other things on my plate. A quiche is a quiche.  It's all inclusive.  You've got your meat, vegetables and bread all in one.  I don't know how I did it, but before too long, it was gone.  I could tell her 8-year old son was starving and dying for his next piece, but she had been making him wait until I had finished my first piece because she wanted me to have first dibs on the second round.  So, I decided in an attempt to make a new 8-year old boyfriend, that I'd offer to let him have my next piece of quiche if I could eat his leftover crust.  You've never seen such a smile.  He thought that was the best idea in the world and had no idea of the favor he was actually doing me!

More food adventures?  I was invited to another new friend's for dinner.  This time the "new leaf thing" wasn't seeming like such a good idea.  I sent an email saying that I would be completely happy with something simple like salad and bread because I was kind of a fussy eater.  When I arrived they had printed out the email and told me that they brought it home to ask their 16-year old son the definition of fussy.  This lovely host knew that I was a fan of Italy and went out on a limb and prepared TWO lasagnes---one veggie and one meat.  They thought that would cover the fussy issue.  It worked.  And this "kind of vegetarian" friend of yours that isn't really a vegetarian because she doesn't really even like vegetables, preferred the meat lasagne!

How 'bout dinner with Caroline my "half German, half French that grew up in Spain" student that invited me over for dinner?  We'd gone out once and she'd gathered from my selection of french fries and bread at a kebab place that I was a vegetarian.  So, she prepared sauteed vegetables.  Zucchini, red peppers and onions are actually really good with balsamic vinegar and fresh mozzarella.

Why the freedom to speak now?  Because I've seen the tomato and tuna quiche friend again and I told her everything and we've laughed about it.  I think I confessed to her the night we were at a restaurant  when my cheese arrived with a big glob of tomato in the center and she actually called it "tomato jell-o." Can that possibly sound good to any of you?   That's when I had the courage to tell her I wasn't about to eat tomato jell-o and that I never should have tried to eat a tomato and tuna quiche.  I'm afraid some leaves are better left unturned.

A cheeseburger, fries and a fork s'il vous plait

I know you're thinking that I shouldn't be eating a cheeseburger in Paris, but the name of the place was Charley Buns and it advertised "French Burgers".  There was no English on the menu and not a tourist in sight.  I think it's safe to say that I was surrounded by Parisians eating burgers.  The only difference was that they didn't eat them with their hands.  EVERYONE (including me and Lance) ate them with a knife and fork.  So, the only real way to tell that we didn't belong was that we still don't have the hang of the ol' eating with the fork in your left hand and never setting your silverware down thing.  I have a bit more time to accomplish that but it feels so unnatural that I'm sure everyone can tell I'm a novice.

The only problem with noticing tonight that no one ate with their hands is that two weeks ago when I took a student out for dinner I was so happy to be out with him that I didn't notice until about my last three bites with ketchup dripping down my fingers that he was using his silverware.  Maybe I should send him a quick note to apologize.  There I sat asking how the line in the grocery store worked because it seemed like everyone waited in one zone until they were called up and I think I'd been cutting in line. Then I asked if it was okay to jaywalk at 2 a.m. because it seemed like everyone patiently waited for every light when there were no cars in sight.  And then I asked if anyone in Paris ever left a voicemail because it seemed like they all either text or call and hang up.  And after a question like, "Do I have to wait to be seated in all restaurants?" it seems like he wouldn't have been too shy to tell me that I really shouldn't eat a burger with my hands.

And there's one more thing about the bizarre Parisian burger.  We all know that bread is a big part of the daily life here.  I can't imagine that one diet book on the South Beach Diet ever left a bookshelf.  In fact, I would find it hard to believe that a bookseller would ever even stock the book.  "Give us this day our daily bread" is a famous French quote, isn't it? And I think the phrase used to conclude with "...and then some."  It's everywhere.  They're all making it.  They're all carrying it down the street.  They're all eating it.  I can see three boulangerie  (I don't know how to make that plural in French) from my window and all of my neighbors have a different vote for the best one.  Anyway, the point is, they love their bread.  So, a couple of the other times that I've ordered a burger (it's true, tonight wasn't the first time) the waiter was polite enough to remind me that normally a burger in France is served without a bun!  Maybe that explains the name of tonight's restaurant.  Charley Buns.  This keeps the waiters from having to remind all of the customers that their burger will actually come with a bun.

I saw London, I see France

I survived with Tigger and Eyeore and returned home safely from London with all 21 students and no major problems.

In seven days, I saw Wimbledon (tennis, of course), Wembley (soccer), Twickenham (rugby), Chelsea (soccer) and a few more normal tourist sights like the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace and the National Gallery.  I thought I would have a lot more time by myself,  but I got a big surprise halfway through the week.

The students decided that they didn't like their English school.  One day when we were finished at a stadium and I said goodbye and told them to enjoy their class, they told me that they weren't going back to school.  What?  They were actually telling the teacher that they were skipping class?!  So, like any professional teacher would do (right?), I said, "That's fine.  If you don't like it, you don't have to go back.  What would you like to do this afternoon?" They were a bit surprised by that, but not too surprised.  They were still getting used to the fact that they could call me "Ten" and not Madame Ysseldyke.  So, we got out the map and made a new plan.  Then, that night when I thought I'd be alone, they asked me to meet them at the pub.  (For the third night in a row).

The next morning we met in St. James's Park and they passed me from arm to arm just strolling along and practicing English.  My favorite part was their fascination with the squirrels.  21-year old boys were taking pictures of squirrels like I would take pictures of elephants on a safari.  Squirrels!!  They don't have them in Paris.

That afternoon, (of course they weren't going to school) they asked if they could divide themselves into three groups of 7 and each group have a 2-hour lesson with me at a pub.  Why not?  To be paid to sit in a pub for 6 hours on a Friday afternoon and speak English with a bunch of kids that could have officially skipped school and run off to do whatever they wanted to do, but instead chose to spend time with Madame Ysseldyke, was a pleasure.

That's about it.  No blogging.  No emailing. No art galleries.  Just the chance for me to  learn the real differences between rugby players and soccer players (I think I prefer rugby), learn to navigate the Tube effortlessly, and learn that foxes really do wander the streets of London and when you leave a pub you might bump into one (okay.  I was as fascinated by this as the boys were by the squirrels.  It's true.  Foxes just walk down the street like dogs.  I didn't know this.  I suppose I probably should have).

In a nutshell, my first experience as the International Coordinator was rather bizarre.  I'm sure I didn't make any new friends back at the office, but I have 21 new fans that gave me a standing ovation on the train and said they would've been lost without me.  If they only knew how lost I would've been without them.