THE RETURN OF TRACY FLICK

I thought it would work.
Who needs SCHOOL?
Gross.
I've got osmosis and French in-laws.
Just open your mind maaaaan, and let the French just floooow right in...

Yeah, it flows in OK.....flows right in, hurls itself around while my brain searches for some sort of order then usually propels itself right back out while leaving a word or two behind. Most of the time the words that really help me understand the conversation....like THE or THEN or NOW.
Wow.
Deep.

I've got zero problems talking (diarrhea of the mouth since birth helps) but having 10% or less comprehension doesn't really make me a very good listener unless you are into confused faces and "Je n'ai compris pas" being repeated dozens of times. After three months of a French comprehension plateau and much internal debate, I decided to humbly accept that I do in fact, need to go....BACK TO SCHOOL.


I dusted off my books and returned to the Alliance Francaise on Friday to sign up for class. I took a month of classes there in February and all I wanted to do is pick up where I left off. Simple. Chapter 5 please. I went to the information desk, stated my query in French and was promptly told by the woman (in French) that I would have to retake the French placement test...

ME: Why?
HER: Because your French level may have changed since February.
ME: To change nothing. Wait, nothing change. My French does not change.
HER: You cannot enter the class without taking the test first.
ME: I want chapter 5.
HER: Take the test first. You are speaking French to me now. See? It is better.
ME: No, no. I do not know chapter 5. I never learn chapter 5. I want to take chapter 5. I do not want the test. It is not necessary the test. My French is same. My husband is French. I know chapter 4. I want chapter 5.
HER: Take this test to the second floor testing room.

GRRRRR. OK, fine. I am clearly not going to get anywhere with her. But I am NOT taking that test again. I already took it once and I am DONE. I march up to the second floor, determined as ever to get out of this test. The man running the testing room escorts me to a desk with the test.....(in French)

ME: Wait. I want to talk. It is not possible for me, the test. I studied here in February and I want chapter 5. I want a class with chapter 5.
HIM: But your French may have improved since February.
ME: My French is terrible. I do not understand. I want chapter 5.
HIM: You are speaking French to me right now. Take this test and we will talk after the test.
ME: No, we talk now about this test. This test that I do not take. We talk. I want chapter 5.
HIM: It has been more than three months since your last class and the policy is that you MUST take the test again.
(pause)
ME: If I take this test, I am dead.
HIM: (stops and looks at me for a moment) You will die?
ME: Yes, I am dead if I am taking this test. Dead.
HIM: (thinks for a moment and smiles) Well, we don't want any deaths here. You can start with chapter 5.
ME: THANK YOU. You are very nice.
HIM: That's what my wife says to me every night.

SCORE. My comprehension kicked into high gear in my hour of need (well, that and the fact that everyone at Alliance Francaise speaks in overly pronounced, extra slow for dummies French) and I learned that yes, you can really talk your way out of anything here. No means maybe means yes. Just threaten to die, that's all. Simple.

BOURGOGNE PART 4 - THE TEST

Our last day here. We spend the day on a walk through the woods with one of FB's aunts. We return to the house and have time to make one last dinner before departing back to Paris. FB's Dad mentions making an omelet and doing a simple dinner with bread and cheese before we leave. I think "GREAT!" and then notice no one is making the move to actually cook the omelet. FB's Mom has departed earlier and I wonder who will actually be doing the cooking in her place. And then it dawns on me.....hmmmmm....um, maybe I should try and make the omelet?

I have not cooked one single thing for FB's family yet, being intimidated and overwhelmed by French cooking as I am and having FB's Mom always making me delicious meals, it just never fell to me to do any cooking. So here it is. The chance to do something. I did not grow up cooking and I only recently started experimenting and cooking in any real sense. So far, FB has been the main one to try my various forays into the kitchen experimenting with recipes and ideas. I knew the moment I took the eggs out, there was some sort of unspoken pressure to prove that I could, in fact, actually cook. My palms starting sweating but my dear friend Adrianne stood in the kitchen with me and calmed me while my thought train went berserk.....

OK OK OK OK OK eggs. It's just EGGS. You KNOW how to cook eggs. Eggs are your favorite. You cook eggs ALL THE TIME. But the Julia Child book said how important being able to cook basic eggs is and oh my god, what did she say to do? OH my god, I don't even know where the pans are. OK OK OK OK here are the pans. Um, this one looks too big....uh, I think. Well, like, I would NEVER cook my own eggs in this pan. OK OK OK pretend no one else is here. You are just cooking your own eggs. OK this other pan is oval shaped. What's it used for? I don't know. I guess you could cook eggs in it. No, you couldn't. Yes, you could. OK, if no one was here, what pan would you cook them in? DEFINITELY the oval pan. OK, crack the eggs.

ME: OK OK, I am using six eggs. There are six people, one egg each, right? I mean, the pan couldn't fit more than six or it'll be too full, right? What do you think?
ADRIANNE: Yeah totally. Sounds great.
ME: (frantically searching the fridge) OK, there are tomatoes. If they have thyme, I could do tomatoes and thyme.
ADRIANNE: They totally have thyme.
ME: OK OK OK OK, but wait....they are French people. Do they like thyme and tomato? Shit, I don't know....what if it freaks them out? What if they hate these flavors? What if they never eat tomato and thyme on eggs? I would put the tomatoes and thyme in at the end but wait, is that right? What if there is a better way to add them? What if they think it sucks? I don't know what to do. OK OK OK I'll make it plain. That's the safest choice. Just a plain egg omelet. Just salt and pepper...or wait, no salt? Let them salt it at the table? Yeah, just pepper. I think. I mean, I don't know. OK OK OK OK wait, salt and pepper them. I would do that anyway. OK, I'll salt and pepper them.....right?
ADRIANNE: Totally......maybe put some cream in them?
ME: Yeah, yeah, yeah....cream. Cream is good. Who doesn't like cream?
(heart starts racing and I choke back a panic attack)

I search for olive oil but only come up with a mystery bottle of some sort of oil. Oh my god, what if it's weird oil? I have no idea what this oil is and I always think everything smells like oregano anyway soooo I don't know, I don't know, I don't know what to do......OK OK OK....screw it.....just use the oil. Done.

I try and turn the stove top on but I can't figure it out so FB's Dad lights it for me. Great. I already have one retard point. I put it fairly low and as the pan heats up, I add the eggs. FB's aunt walks by, proclaims the flame is too low, turns it way up and leaves. Uh......OK. Does that mean she is cooking the eggs? Um, OK, guess not. Great. So now I have eggs cooking faster than I ever would and now I REALLY start sweating. Panicked, I take the eggs off the heat and go to my special place where no one is there and I am only cooking eggs for myself. With tunnel vision, I make an open faced omelet, sprinkle salt and pepper on top and serve it in wedges. I have to say, it looks very pretty and as we sit at the table to eat, FB's Dad comments on what a good looking omelet I made. And it tasted great too. I breathe a sigh of relief. I passed the egg test. Next up...Bœuf Bourguignon. :)

It was truly four days of magic and I could not have asked for a better place to shoot a video. Merci to the Boulés for making two American artists very very happy......xo.....

BOURGOGNE PART 3 - COCKS, BATS, SLUGS AND FISH.

I had zero idea of how many animals would make their way into this music video. A couple weeks ago I half seriously asked FB's Mom if she could cook some sort of animal and keep the head on it so we could possibly use it in the video shoot. She has taken me absolutely serious and got a rooster from the farm next door to make a Coq Au Vin. She has told the farmer to preserve the head and as she takes a large bag out of the freezer, I shriek in surprise as I see two huge frozen rooster heads, the blood still dried on the necks. Adrianne and I burst into fits of amazed laughter as we thank her for such an incredible addition. A random thought that PETA officially would NOT approve of this video crosses my mind.

We shot a scene using the head with the cooked meat behind it and then sat down to eat my new favorite dish...Coq Au Vin. Holy crikes, can someone say DELISH??? Food for art and the art of making and eating food, all in same day. Merci mon petit coq, you were wonderful and delicious.....




4PM
Though warned of the 100 bats in the attic, we nervously decide to shoot anyway in the run down house next to the chateau. After mistaking a salamander for a viper and shrieking "OH MY GOOOOOD!!!!", I enter a dim lit room, close the door and wait for Adrianne's cue to enter from the next room. I suddenly hear "OHHHHH....OHHHHH....OOOOOOOHHHHHHH!!!!!" I desperately hope that her shouts are because she thinks the light is so good. Please oh, please.
"THERE IS A BAT IN HEEEEEERE......"
OK OK OK OK OK OK OK....do NOT panic....DO NOT PANIC......walk out the door......OK OK OK OK....just walk quieeeeetly through the room and out the door....OK OK OK OK OK OK...do NOOOOOT PANIC....down the stairs....OK OK OK OK...keep moving....keep moving.....

We make it outside and after our shaking stops, we decide that maybe the rest of the day we should shoot outside instead. We enter the apple trees....

5PM
Climbing a tree in a ball gown proves harder than I thought. Nerves are shot from the bat terror in the broken down house. My makeup keeps smearing, I am sweating and after seven hours of shooting, all I want are my Converse sneakers and a cheeseburger. We decide instead of climbing, I will simply crouch down and pretend to climb some low branches. I kneel down and put my face to the ground when I see one, then two, then ten giant slugs creeping their slimy way around my sandaled feet, my dress and now my face. Standing up I declare I am officially done for the day. Nature can keep it's creeping and flying beasts. I need a glass of wine. Immediately.


9PM
FB and his friend have gone fishing for the day and return with enough fish to feed six people for dinner. I watch as he deftly chops the heads off and guts fish after fish, all the while thinking "Um, you were like, totally CITY when I met you...". I had NO idea about his livin' off the land skills and I unsuccessfully try and silence my peals of urban girl horror/laughter as each fish is chopped up, gutted and thrown into the frying pan right before my eyes. Hot. And they were deliiiiiicious.

BOURGOGNE PART 2 - KILLER WASPS

I am not from the country. I have never spent time in the countryside. A salamander will send me screaming for safety and a bat could potentially send me into a coma. The meat I ate never had a head on it and the very thought of camping sends me into a Blair Witch terror.

9PM
I am told to keep the windows closed at night because there is a large wasp nest in the chimney. Uh, ok. And if you listen, you can hear them. I listen and um yyyyyes, I can hear them. I am then told that these are not regular sized wasps. They are in fact, REALLY BIG wasps. In my mind I try and picture what really big means and I think maybe half an inch and shrug. Whatevs. Then I am shown to window where outside, drawn to light, I see two of them. My shrug turns to horror as I see the size of the wasps. They are...in fact, REALLY HUGE. Having an overactive imagination, I immediately see graphic and violent pictures of myself being covered in them....arms flailing, running for my life and I am suddenly thankful I do not live in frontier times because I would be dead by now from heart failure.

10PM. DINNER.
A wasp is noticed flying around the dinner table and after a battle by FB's father involving a broom, a knife and finally a lethal dose of bug killer, the wasp is pronounced dead.

11PM
FB and moi are standing outside in the dark looking at the stars. The Milky Way shines bright and Jupiter beams in the dark night. My thoughts wander and I feel my nerves quietly calming.

FB: You know, those wasps can kill you.
ME: (sigh) OK, thanks.
FB: Seriously, if they get the right vein...
ME: Yeak OK, I get it. THANKS.
FB ....and they sting it in the right place, you can die from....
ME: OK! YES! I GET IT! Look, we are OUTSIDE and I am trying to relax here so can you knock it off with the YOU CAN DIE/KILLER WASPS talk?
FB: Sure. (pause) But seriously, you could die. I'm just saying.

At that point, we hear a sudden buzzing in the air and faster than I can say KILLER WASPS, FB runs off like a shot in the dark. Gone. Like a flash. I have never in my life seen him move so fast and as I run to the door to go back inside, I wonder how far exactly FB is planning on terror running into the night........

KILLLLLLLLER WAAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSPSSSSSSSSS

BOURGOGNE PART 1

Adrianne Jorge, one of my amazing film director friends came to France to shoot my next music video for Go Away. As we drove up the driveway to the chateau in Burgundy, she muttered "O......M......G" from the backseat. A smile set in across both our faces as the endless location possibilities unfolded themselves before our eyes.


Monday we embarked on three days of heaven in the middle of France. It was sunny, beautiful and warm. While we ran around the various rooms and garden shooting, we were fed the most delicious local dishes with farm fresh meat and freshly caught fish. It was.....simply......frickin'.........AWESOME.

FB's parents opened their doors for us and invited us to dream the days away......

THE LAST HURRAH

Woke up this morning from a bender that started off a week ago when a friend asked if I wanted to come out and research some restaurants and bars she is writing about for a guidebook. Um, let me think.....YES. Enter another New York friend in town visiting me and another one leaving in a few days and what do you get? Party train central.

The train stopped abruptly about six minutes ago upon realizing I am leaving in an hour to go to Bourgogne to shoot another music video and I haven't packed yet or thought about anything like wardrobe or makeup or I don't know....washing my hair for a week now. Scratch scratch. Um....oops.

Seriously. Pull yourself together. Wipe off last week's makeup and start acting like a frickin' professional. You can pass out in your trailer between takes but at least make it to the set on time.

A bientot!

SUPER! DAY 237

Myspace, Youtube, Facebook, last.fm, Blogger.......it's bloody exhausting to keep up a virtual world. After spending a week holed up in my makeshift office (a.k.a. my bed as it's the only piece of furniture we own) trying to add "friends", "meet" people and mostly sift through bad band after bad band, I jerked myself out of myspace migraine to go run some errands. The joy of being a Gemini is that pissiness never lasts long with me. I wandered off down the Seine with Dr. Dre's The Chronic blasting in my headphones and a smile on my face...."Swing down sweet chariot stop and...let me riiiiiiiide."
Hell yeah.

My French seemed to recognize me again today. I don't know if it was the smile on my face but everyone seemed to want to talk to me. I had a full ten minute discussion with the paint guy about New York bars, I gave a French woman directions (IN FRENCH!) and an old man behind me on the ice cream line told me he knew I wasn't French because French women don't wear purple pants. He said he liked them because they reminded him of the flowers in his yard. That especially made me smile as I said "AWWWWWWW!"

I wandered back home along the Seine, blasted the soundtrack to The Umbrellas Of Cherboug and did my own little dance across Pont Neuf bridge. Note to self: Take it to the streets more often. People are super nice.

HUGE IN FRANCE - PART 1

Is that a crab in your pants or are you just pissy?


My one music and life goal since I moved to Paris is plain and simple.
Become HUGE in France.
As in, REALLY HUGE.
Duh.
I always aim high. REALLY high.

I'm pissy today. Barbie Dream Life Music Vacation is not all fun and games, as many people assume. If my only goal was to be a stoner musician in Paris who hangs out all day "jamming" with myself and the voices in my head.....well, that would be easy. Check. Music Stoner Barbie wants to sit at her piano and play songs all day and drink wine and make some more CDs and music videos with her friends but Business Barbie has to butt her stupid jerk pink face in sometimes with her high pitched chipper voice and pre-programmed "LET'S MAKE A SPREADSHEET!". Business Barbie frowns, tugs at her pink skirt and makes Music Stoner Barbie get the hell off the piano to keep working to put her music out there into the world like a good Saleswoman Barbie in a smart two piece pantsuit with a HI! I'M BARBIE, WANT TO HEAR A SONG? nametag splashed across her shiny bright vest.

Sometimes I really want to tell Business Barbie to go fuck herself.
But I can't.
Because if I don't do the following, no one will.......

Here's what I've been doing all day every day while most of France takes a month long nap......I run my record label, Ex Best Friend Music. Usually from my bed with my phone, piles of papers and CDs spread all over. I update my six websites, I field music licensing requests, I phone conference with my lawyer, I make club and press contact spreadsheets, do the booking, deal with running a company for my music publishing, send out mailings, work with the graphic designer on my website launch, update my accounting spreadsheet, fix a tax problem with New York State (cause it's so easy and just so much fun), set up a French company (cause it's so much easier and even that much MORE FUN), design business cards and everything else that has to do with the business of launching a serious music career here this fall.

Sometimes it is like sticking forks in my eyes. Especially the "getting yourself out there" marketing part that sometimes makes me feel like a broken record when all I would rather be doing is writing more music and playing more shows that magically appear and all I have to do is show up and magically everyone already knows who I am and I have a magic fanbase already magically there.

Sigh. Not today.
Today me and BIZ Barbie are BFF.
"LET'S MAKE A SPREADSHEET! YAY!!!"

Yeah, I heard you. Let's go.

KNOCK KNOCK, GO AWAY

I don't know what it is about living in Paris, but I have had it with people knocking on my door with a variety of disconcerting situations. I am a calm and peaceful musician who keeps a quiet home but in the seven months I've been in Paris, the ONLY times I have had an unexpected visitor it has been.....
KNOCK KNOCK, it's the police!
KNOCK KNOCK, it's a lawyer!
KNOCK KNOCK, you're evicted!
KNOCK KNOCK, it's some official looking guy and I have no idea what you're saying!

KNOCK KNOCK = BAD.

What happened to KNOCK KNOCK, here's a present!
Or KNOCK KNOCK, I'm your new neighbor and here's a pie!
Or flowers?
Or I won the lottery?
Or sign this petition?
ANYTHING!

9:32AM
Doorbell rings in our new apartment. My stomach does a triple axel as I vomit out....
"OH MY GOD, I HEAR MEN OUTSIDE THE DOOR. OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!"
What NOW? Am I murder suspect? We just GOT here! I haven't even finished painting!
My instinct to clean kicks in as I run hyperventilating for the sponge and soapy water. FB answers the door and engages in what is seemingly an endless conversation with two men. I furiously focus my terror into last night's dishes and die inside as I wait for a search and seizure. I try helplessly to understand the conversation but the fight or flight (or clean) instinct clearly overpowers French as all my mind can do is put "OH MY GOD!" on an ever-increasing volume loop. FB returns and calmly explains it was the EDF and they had come to turn off all our electric.
Naturally.
????
Just add "KNOCK KNOCK, no lights for you!!" to our list of friendly visitors.
Evidently they got the wrong floor and shut off ours instead of the downstairs neighbors.
Thanks for the joke, EDF.
Hilarious.

You know, one of these days I'm going to actually get a flower delivery and begin to erase my Pavlov's Dog terror of anyone at my front door in France = RUN. I unpacked my ninja mask this week so until those flowers get here, I am answering all future inquiries like this.......CAN I HEEEEEEEEELP YOU?

AVEC TOI

Once again, the amazing Corey Tatarczuk surprised me with another beautiful video for one of my songs. This one floated its way into my inbox and made me smile. In French.

WELCOME BACK. (SLAP) DAY 230.

I unloaded my well-worn French verb conjugation book out of my bag. My dictionary I happily kissed goodbye to. I shut off any notion of knowing French whatsoever and boarded a plane to New York where I happily spent two New York weeks talking non-stop and joining in every conversation I possibly could for as long as humanly possible.
It. Was. Glorious.

As I boarded the flight back to Paris I got a sinking feeling as the flight attendant made the announcements in French. My babbling bubble burst as I realized I understood nothing. Maybe the plane is on fire. Or the emergency exits are located in aisle 16. Or I should stow my portable electronics. Should I fasten my seatbelt or is the flight six hours and twenty minutes? Who knows? Certainly not me.
Oh yeah.
French.
Sigh.
I put my best foot forward into CDG, took the train back into the city ready to say "HIEEEEEEE, I AM BAAAACK!!!!!!"
(insert cricket sounds)

When I left Paris, she was still open. She offered me baked goods, wine and green markets close by. She was hot and irresistible. But when I returned, my brain rested and ready again to understand, she had left. Closed up shop for the rest of the summer. And the nights have turned an early fall cold like a slap that says "You want New York? Go ahead. I could care less about you cause I am OUTTA HERE."
Paris, wait! Where'd you GOOOOOOO????

And for those who stayed, yes, I am back to explaining myself again with the vocabulary of a three year old. Embarrassed the first night all over again to order my own dinner with authority, disoriented again to lose the entire subject of the conversation and frustrated again not to communicate with a full language at my fingertips.
I feel like the lover who left only to return to an empty house and the housecat asking for an explanation.
Ah Paris, you sneaky girl, you.

But it's OK. I will wait and she will come back to me. In the meantime I will learn some new words for her return and enjoy the quiet of a sunny afternoon in the park.
DAAAAAAAAAAANA.....LEARN MORE FRRRRRRRRRENNNNNNNCH......

I DON'T MIND

Get me around my talented friends and inevitably, we make stuff.
This is my dream life New York vacation.

ME: "Dude, I need some videos asap for my album."
COREY: "Wanna make one today?"
ME: "Yeah sure. That sounds cool."

A weekend in the country with my girlfriends and 48 hours later.......it's done.
Surround yourself with talented, driven people.
Always.
Merci Corey Tatarczuk for directing, shooting and editing the first of many ....

SUPER SIZE

"Are you okay?"
"Where'd you go?"
"Is something wrong?"

No no, my friends. Nothing is wrong. After a bout of homesickness, I just decided I needed some bagels, pizza and a really fast paced conversation with ten girlfriends, at the same time and preferably switching topics at least six times per minute. So.....New York...here...I...am!

Travel tip for you...gouge your foot open on a screw the day before you leave rendering it impossible to carry anything heavier than one pair of shoes. It works. I also amped up my limp at the airport to qualify myself for pre-boarding both my flights. Just mention "flesh wound" to an airline employee and you'll be surprised how the questions stop. I'm thinking of bandaging my face and crawling my way to the gate on my return trip in hopes of crawling my way right into first class.

As I sat at the bar yesterday at Chili's restaurant in Detroit waiting for my connecting flight, I chowed down a giant taco salad with ranch dressing and ordered a beer. The waitress asked if I wanted a double pint as she pointed to the gallon sized tumbler behind her.

"Uh, no thanks. Do you have a demi pint?"
(blank stare) "A what?"
"Oh...um, sorry. Just a small glass."
(blank stare) "You want the double pint?"
"Uh..no, just the smallest one you have."
"You want to add a double shot of whiskey for only $3?"
"Haha, you REALLY want to get me wasted! No thanks, I just want a very small, tiny, tiny glass of beer."
"Hon, this is the smallest we have."

Ahhhh, hooooooome. Love you to pieces Paris but for the next week I will be busy super-sizing, reading US Weekly and People, talking a mile a minute and understanding absolutely....everything.

I'll be back in a week...this girl just needed a brain break.
Pass the cheese fries, please.

ROOM WITH A VIEW

I just finished reading My Life In France by Julia Child and Alex Prud'Homme. A friend gave me the book to read a few months ago and I had absolutely zero idea how inspiring it would be. All I remember of Julia Child was she that she was that funny, always slightly drunk English lady who did The French Chef shows I saw as re-runs on PBS. In reality, she was a 6 foot 2, hilariously funny, native Californian (how did I confuse that??) who moved to France in 1949 at age 36 without a word of French and proceeded to discover her true calling here to which she would devote the rest of her life to....the art of French cuisine. I almost choked when I read that she lived on the exact same street that I just moved to and I finished the book in tears as I was so moved by her tales of falling in love with France and all things French. Today I went down the street to visit the building she lived in a lifetime ago. I grinned as I stood there, imagining her life here and smiling at my own adventure 60 years later.

Oui, c'est vrai. I just moved into the 7th arrondissement by a random stroke of chance that gave me a small and very cheap apartment near the Seine with a magical and beautiful quiet view. I had wanted to live in the heart of the music scene, in the 18th or the 20th but this apartment fell out of the sky and gave me an unexpected turn.

All my life I have lived on the outskirts of a city, both in Los Angeles and New York. I have always lived above a bodega or a cheap restaurant, I have always had cockroach problems, rats on the front stoop and a roof that caved in every time it rained hard. I laughed out loud the first day we moved in and I saw that the store downstairs is actually a realtor who only sells castles. Not houses. Castles. As in, real BIG castles. "Honey, I'm just going downstairs to get some milk and a castle, be right back...."

I panicked my first week here. Each time I walked out the door in my worn Converse sneakers, I thought someone would surely throw me out of here. I feel like an outsider in this area. It is rich, beautiful, soft, manicured and quiet. There are lots of old people....old women who slowly walk to the market in beautiful old dresses and smart summer hats. Old men with canes and old couples who stroll down the sidewalk with a dignity from a time long gone by. Not only am I out of my element in a foreign country, but I am also in a part of a city I would have never EVER thought to actually live in. What? No one puked on my front doorstep? No dead rat in the hallway? No heroin addict from the first floor banging on my door asking for money again?
Huh?

So this is my Paris adventure continued, always something unexpected and always something new to be inspired by to write more music. There are interesting people to be found wherever you live, there are stories to be heard if only you just ask, and there is art to be made no matter where you are. Make your own scene....just buy your groceries in a cheaper part of town.

As Julia Child would say, "Bon appétit!"

STEP IT UP

HER
I knew the moment she stepped onto the metro, she was going to sit right next to me. Her hair in a perfect ponytail, bangs in a perfect line, skin aglow and makeup parfait, stylin' minidress, clanky yet understated and therefore chic bracelets, tanned legs, summery strappy heels, manicure/pedicure and an easy oh so breezy attitude. All eyes on the train turned towards her as she slowly and gracefully sat down next to...

ME
Five days unwashed hair in an uncombed mess of what could loosely be described as a "ponytail", fucked up bangs in an 80s hair horror across my forehead, unshowered, no makeup, unstylish yoga pants with a skirt on over the top, old t-shirt, old Converse sneakers, a granny sweater and a ripped gym bag to carry all my Savate gear in.
Hot. I know.

As the entire train stared at the perfection sitting next to me, I thought to myself "hmmm...did I even brush my teeth this morning?" I looked at the various sets of eyes gazing at her, then quickly glancing at me, then back to her. Yeah, yeah people, I get it. I look even more homeless sitting next to HER and she looks even more glamorous sitting next to ME. Quelle surprise. I glanced over her shoulder as she pulled out a date book filled with loopy girly writing of all her activities and she carefully ran a manicured hand down her busy busy schedule that day. I rolled my eyes. All that was missing was 11:48AM - make smelly hippie girl on #4 train realize she could stand to step it up a notch or ten and stop it already with the homeless look.

So I decided to do the most immature thing I could think of. I pulled out my gym bag, pretended to search for something at the bottom and let my boxing gloves "accidentally" fall onto the floor, coughed loudly and then proceeded to put them back as slowly and conspicuously as I could so as many people could notice them as humanly possible. Why? Because I'm retarded and immature and it made me and my fuzzy teeth feel better. After class I went home and dug around my closet for my one pair of heels I have here. I'm wearing them out tonight...complete with gym sock marks, mosquito bite scabs and some leftover pedicure from February.
Hot. I know.

LE SHOW

I have one more week sans internet at home and I've reached my end. McDonald's may have free internet but it comes at a price. I can't bear the smell anymore and I was nearly puked on a few nights ago so I'll be brief here.....the show.....was....AWESOME!! So much fun, loads of great people and an audience attitude I would have killed for in NYC. As I sat down to play, the entire room went silent. At first I thought something was wrong but no, they were just ready to listen. And listen they did! I played for over an hour and they still clapped for more.
HUH?
In NYC I would have had to shoot myself in the face to make a room go silent and even then, it might be sketchy.

Paris, I love you more every day.
:)

MIRACLE CURE

5:12AM Friday morning
ME: (shaking FB) Are you awake? Can you hear me? I need your help right now. Are you awake?
FB: What? What?
ME: I need you to look at my throat. It is covered in white spots and I think it is strep throat. I can barely swallow, my glands are totally swollen, it hurts to breathe...
FB: Quoi?
ME: I HAVE STREP THROAT!
FB: (pause) Are we seriously talking about this right now?
ME: Yes! I need you to look at it with the light. Pleeeeease, I am seriously sick.
FB: (sigh) OK, turn on the light.
ME: Ok ok ok ok ok. There. Look. Ahhhhhhhh.
FB: What am I looking at?
ME: THE GIANT WHITE LESIONS ON MY GLAND, MY LEFT GLAND!
FB: (starting to laugh) I don’t see anything.
ME: Are you KIDDING me? LOOK CLOSER. THE LESIONS, DON'T YOU SEE THE LESIONS?!
FB: (putting down lamp) Look, I am trying to take you seriously right now but you are making it really, really difficult. Yeah, I guess your throat is a little red but I don’t see any “lesions” and I certainly don’t see the bacteria cesspool you are describing. You need to seriously RELAX. Go back to sleep. (shuts off lamp)
ME: WHAAAAAAAT? Oh my god, you totally don’t get it.
(Silence)
ME: I said you TOTALLY don’t GET IT.
(Silence)
ME: Hellllo? Oh my god, are you SLEEPING????

7:03PM Friday evening
I trudge back to my apartment from McDonald’s where I get my internet these days (don’t ask). Thoughts of doom fill my head. I hope I can make it home. I hope I can get up those steps. I hope my throat doesn’t close before the show on Sunday and I die and can’t take over France anymore. Then I see it and stop dead in my tracks.
CHEZ POON
RESTAURANT ASIATIQUE RAPIDE

Oh my god. Of COURSE. Chinese TAKE OUT. DUH! I’m a NINJA! How could I NOT have noticed this restaurant around the corner from my new apartment?? My mouth starts watering as I have not had Chinese take out food since I left New York. My lesions start to settle. It’s the miracle I needed and it’s RIGHT HERE. I funnel all my doom thoughts into positive miraculous rapid Asian take out magical cure for strep throat thoughts. These noodles will SAVE me. Especially if I dump half a jar of mustard on them and wash it down with two-day old white wine...isn’t vinegar an antiseptic? Oh Chez Poon, how I adooooore you!

10:33AM Saturday morning
ME: GUESS WHAT?
FB: What?
ME: My strep throat is GONE. And guess what else? I dreamed last night that I was playing a show for like, 50 THOUSAND people and my hair looked really really good and behind me was a GIANT lit up screen, like in all colors, flashing really REALLY big...HUGE...IN...FRANCE!
Isn’t that AWESOME?!
FB: (laughing) Yeah, that’s really awesome.
ME: Wait, are you laughing at me? Seriously, I had strep throat.
FB: Yep, I’m sure you did.
(smiling)

Adding to the Kung Fu magic, I got an email today announcing my CD is now available for purchase online. It's MAGIC! I’m ready for my show tomorrow and I’m ready for you, France.
BRING IT ON.

HAIR BOMB AND CUTTERS

A few days before I play a show, I usually get sick. It starts with the throat, a fever and then moves onto chills, cough, headache, joints aching, then wraps itself up nicely with me lying in a horizontal position crying “BUT I HAVE A SHOOOOW!! I CANNOOOT GET SIIIIICK!!!!”.
Then it “magically” disappears…usually...oh...right after I am done playing.

No mystery here at all. But I don’t even have the slightest bit of stage fright. My favorite times are spent playing music to an audience but I REALLY wish I could be that “chill” girl, the one whose feathers never get ruffled, the one whose stomach doesn’t hurt all the frickin' time. But I’m not. I am a high strung, over achiever who sometimes vomits at any sign of change. Change being most accurately described as in anything involving leaving the house.

No surprise then that today I woke up sick. Throat ache, check. Feverish. Check. Nice work. Right on schedule. This should flare up nicely into a full blown flu by Friday, leaving plenty of room for a full blown panic on Saturday leading right into Sunday’s show. Voila.

But this time is different. This time I decided to mix it up a little and REALLY up the ante. Give myself something REAL to panic about. So I sliced my finger open across the joint with a bread knife while opening some boxes.
FB: “Are you retaaaaaaarded???!!”
ME: “Uh, yes?”

NICE!! Why stop now? Why not take a pair of scissors to your hair and give yourself a brand new set of...
FANTASTIC NEW BANGS!!!!

Pantera called, they want ALL their fans back. Immediately.

These bangs are not doctored, sprayed, gelled, blow-dried or styled in ANY way. Yes, my friends, they were washed and let to dry on their downy, feathery own. I spent 20 minutes trying to glue them to my head this morning and all it took was one small puff of wind to send them flying gracefully into the unicorn wings they were born to be.

Guess I better start learning some Slo-Jazz numbers for Sunday. Sigh.

GEAR, GEAR AND MORE GEAR.

OH.
MY.
GOD.
WHAT was I THINKING?????
This was my first thought as we tried to carry my 6,000 pound super sized extra large keyboard up the 104 steps to our new apartment. SLAM! OW! OK, 4 more flights, 4 more flights. WHAM! AAAAAGH, ok keep going, keep going, you didn't need that part of your arm anyway. A bus would be easier to move than this thing. And I thought I was going to play SHOWS here with this beast of an instrument? There is simply no WAY. The keyboard is as tall as I am and as long as most of the Parisian taxis. I could just picture trying to catch a cab with this. And to top it off, I also have my 600 pound accordion, an amp, keyboard stand, mic stand, CDs, etc. etc. Why oh WHY did I decide not to play the guitar instead...or the piccolo?

Cue: more panic. I have a show and no gear.

I guess I should have thought about my gear situation more before booking my first gig but this morning I quickly realized I had to go find a smaller keyboard to bring to the show on Sunday. Either that or transfer all my songs onto the pan flute. So off I went to Total Music in the 4th, my crap French in one hand and a huge list of gear I needed in the other. And magically, I found most everything. The staff there was SOOOOO nice to me and helpful, I Frenched it 100% the whole time, they taught me all the words for the music gear and they even called a cab for me to carry it all home. As I waited outside the store, the security guard came out and said to me..."Citroen Bleu."
I nervously handed him my store receipt and instinctively started digging in my bag for my passport and papers, thinking "Oh my god, he thought I stole it, oh my god, oh my god, there's a problem with my card, oh my god, I'm going to French jail, oh my god, oh my god...." I guess it was the uniform. He looked at me puzzled and said again...
SG: "Citroen Bleu." I stopped my digging.
ME: "Uhhhh, Citroen....limonade? Un bois?" (A drink?)
SG: "Hahaha, non. Le TAXI." (pointing to the road)
ME: "AH! Le taxi est jaune comme un citron!" (The taxi is yellow like a lemon!)
SG: "Hahahaha, non." (shaking his head)
ME: "Uh...c'est possible boire un limonade....uh...dans le taxi??"

As the guard cracked up again, a blue taxi pulled up to the curb and I saw the make of the car was Citroen. Ohhhhh. Now I get it! "Citroen Bleu!!! Je comprends!!! HIGH FIVE!" To my surprise, the guard actually returned my high five, helped me load all the gear into the taxi and off I went on my merry way with some cute new Parisian sized gear for my cute new Parisian gig.
ROCK ON.
HIGH FIVE!

BAD MOVE

If you ever decide to move apartments across town in Paris, don't try and use the metro as part of your moving plan (especially during rush hour and on the hottest day of the year)...think it over again and choose something else, like maybe hire some movers or, I don't know...get a van or truck? Using the Paris metro as a moving truck is better known as "the most retarded, inefficient and painful way to move." WHO moves by hauling large garbage bags with crap falling out of them onto the metro? I'll tell you who does. Complete morons who didn't plan right. I don't know why we ended up dragging giant suitcases and various bags of junk down the 68 steps of our apartment, into the subway at 8AM, pushed and shoved out of three different hot and miserable trains, across town, then up the 104 steep steps to the new apartment. Multiple times. For 12 hours.

Uh.....we waited til the last minute and couldn't find a truck?

I tried to calculate the number of steps I climbed yesterday but I stopped counting after 1000. Why even bother at that point? As I made the last trip by myself at 9PM, I had to pull from the bottom of my very soul to find the energy to drag the last two giant garbage bags, one of which had a vacuum cleaner awkwardly sticking out of it and busting the plastic.
61, 62, 63, 64....go, go, go, you can do it, you can do it...65, 66, 67, 68....what would Bruce Lee do? ...72, 73, 74, 75....you're a ninja, you're a ninja, you're a ninja.....92, 93, 94...

As I Rambo-d it down my new street, a short girl wearing dark sunglasses and pouty lips was doing the sexy prancy walk up the sidewalk in my direction. She saw me coming, my face in a crazy grimace, grunting, sweat pouring off me, body shaking, one giant plastic bag on each shoulder with various plastic pieces falling out. As I approached, she made no move whatsoever to get out of my way. I was kind of stunned because I SAW what I looked like yesterday and it is very close to "completely and utterly insane." If I saw me coming down the sidewalk, I would have crossed the street. Maybe it was the fact she was wearing sunglasses on a cloudy night but she didn't move, I didn't move and the bag with the vacuum cleaner slammed into her as we collided. Neither one of us broke speed or looked back (at least I didn't look back). For the first time all day, I broke into a smile.

It was actually a pretty fun day.

LE PREMIER SHOW

I am smiling ear to ear because last night I booked my first show in Paris for Sunday, July 13th. Yes, I will be ringing in Bastille Day with a solo show at my favorite bar and most delicious restaurant, Le Delly's. In addition to serving the best cous cous on the planet and having the best music playlist ever, they have live music twice a week. Last night I gave the owner one of my CDs and asked if I could play there sometime. He looked surprised, looked at the CD, thought for a minute and asked me what my plans were for July 13th.
I said "I'm playing here."
:)

After that, FB helped translate all the details for me. At the very end of the conversation, I could tell it was about money. After they shook hands and the owner left, I asked FB what he said to him.
FB: "Oh, he said they would pay you something at the end of the night. I told him you weren't too concerned about that."
(silence)
ME: "You said I am not too concerned."
FB: "Yeah."
ME: "He offered me money and you said I was not too concerned."
FB: "Yeah, why?"
(silence)
ME: "OK, let me break something down for you real quick. If someone, ANYONE offers me money, never EVER even THINK ABOUT telling that person that I am not too concerned with being paid. I AM concerned with that. DEEPLY concerned. Always, most definitely, irrevocably, indefinitely, ABSOLUTELY concerned. Crystal clear?"
FB: "Oh. Ok. Sorry."
(pause)
ME: "You'd really make a great band manager."

NOTE TO SELF: Must learn French WAY WAY faster.

Sunday, July 13th
8PM, free show
Le Delly's
with Liam Carey

UNE CHANSON

Technically speaking, I played and sang for my first Parisian audience last night in a crowded after hours bar in the 3rd arrondissement at 3AM. Upstairs in the corner was an upright piano. As two French boys made their way over to it, my own French Boy convinced me to play a song. I asked politely if they minded if I played a quick tune, they agreed and so I sat down and launched into one of my songs. It has been seven months since I played my last gig in NY and it felt like a crack rush to sing for an audience again. Put a crowd around me and a piano and I could stay there forever.

As I happily rocked late night Paris, the two French boys decided it was a good idea to try and make a duet out of my song and play the piano "with me", one encroaching on the left side of the piano and one on the right. Suddenly I found myself being beaten off the piano altogether. Oh no no no no NO, boys. Sorry, but I am NOT a team player when it comes to a hostile takeover of the instrument I am playing in the middle of one of my own songs. And super especially if you have no idea what the chords are and you are now making it sound like total crap. Soooo...using my sharpened Savate skills, I braced both arms, stuck out both elbows and played harder and harder across two octaves (BAM!), then three (KAPOW!), then four (SHAZAM!) and finally strong armed them both off completely....without missing a beat.
Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

After I finished I thanked them though they looked really annoyed with me as they sat down to play and sing "Georgia" (at least show me up with something French?) The crowd dispersed and the bouncer came to tell them they couldn't play any longer.
Sorry fellas, looks like curtain time for you.
Maybe next time....

On another note, it's male fashion week here in Paris which apparently means an infiltration of pouty pretty boys wearing sunglasses at night and carrying bouncy balls around while striking poses. Awwwwwww....

TAKE ME OUT

I wrote and recorded this song this past week. I was putting some books away and it just hit me, the piano was right there and it just kind of came out. Shot and edited by FB......

SIX MONTHS

OK, so I'm a crier. Nothing new there. My initial reaction to stress or anything out of the ordinary has been, and probably will always be a torrential downpour of tears. So no surprise then this morning as I woke up in tears upon realizing:

a. We are moving out of our apartment tomorrow
b. We have no rental van reserved
c. We have no keys to our new apartment
d. We have no bed or ANY furniture for that matter
e. We have 40+ boxes of I don't even know WHAT to move out of storage ourselves and up six flights of steps with no help because....
f. I have nothing and my life is over.

And so the spiral begins. For once I'd like to react to something and NOT immediately go to the worst case/life as I know it is ending scenario. Sigh. But no, there I was with FB this morning...freaking out....again. "WE HAVE TO LEAVE...NOW!! We HAVE...(short of breath)...TO GO GET A BED...RIGHT NOW!!" He was in a great mood this morning and just held my hand as I sobbed my way out the door and into the metro to find a bed. I'm pretty comfortable now openly weeping in public here. People just don't seem to stare at all and I never catch anyone giving me the secret look like they did in NYC when I would shed tears on the subway. So I sat quietly on the metro with my tissue, tears running, dab dab, blow nose, dab dab...
After crying my way out of the metro and down the street for a few blocks, FB's patience with his silently sobbing wife was clearly running out. So I naturally felt the sudden need to kick it up a notch or ten, and stopped in the middle of a crowded sidewalk to exclaim "YOU JUST DOOOON'T UNDERSTAAAAAAAND!"

FB gave me the look of "ohhhhhh kkkkkkk, here it comes..."

ME: "I....sob sob....am just sooo nervous....and (sob sob) I don't have anything here....no papers...(cry cry)...no bank account....no nothing....no furniture...(hyperventilate)....I can't even RENT MY OWN TRUUUUUCK...."
FB: "Baby. Is THAT what you want? A truck? I'll get you a semi truck, OK? I'm gonna drive you to our new apartment tomorrow in an 18 wheeler, OK? Just you and me. On the road, OK?"
ME: "Buuut...."
FB: "But what?"
ME: "Um...nothing."

And so we entered the futon store, one man and his disheveled, tear stained wife.
FB:"Bonjour. We need a bed. (pause) Right away."

As we laid on various beds, I felt a sudden wave of calm and the tears magically stopped. I could just liiiiie here on this futon in this sunny store window foreeeeever because everything is suddenly...awesome. As we left the store with a receipt in hand and a delivery date all set up, I smiled and said, "Um...merci...I really love you...uh, sorry I flipped out...heh...heh.."

On my subway ride back, it hit me. Today is June 27th! I arrived in Paris six months ago today. It's been quite a ride and I thought about all the things I have accomplished since I got here...

I finished my album.
I made one French friend.
I learned how to do Savate and take out someone's knees and then head.
I can say "suck my dick" in French.
I wrote three new songs.
I learned how to snowboard.
And I fell madly in love with a new city.

Life is grand. Happy six month anniversary, Paris. I really do heart you.

WHAT did you just...?

I was walking down the street today in my own world when a man walking past me gave me the leary eyes and said "something something mon cigar". My first thought was, hmmm I am not smoking a cigar, why would he...maybe he meant cigarette...but I'm not smoking a cigarette either so...I was 20 meters past him when it hit me....ohhhh WAIT A MINUTE (as the anger started to boil)...
That guy just said SUCK MY DICK to me.
"Mon CIGAR", of COURSE!

Maybe it was the heat outside or the fact that I just had wasted 30 seconds of my life trying to translate what this guy had said to me...but I was SERIOUSLY enraged. I had just come from Savate class too so it took no time at all for me to wheel around, march right up behind him and yell "BOIS VOTRE CIGAR! TOUT SEUL!" (my bad French roughly translating to Drink Your Dick! All Alone!....it's all I could think of). Then I added a firm "AAAASSHOLE!" just to drive my point home. Before he had a chance to respond, I marched off in a huff. Some people on the sidewalk were laughing and said something else to me but I had already decided my "translate what the nice French people on the sidewalk say" game was OVER for the day and I just kept marching, thinking of a litany of curses I could have said in English.

Five minutes later I entered my neighborhood bakery. Every single person who works there is always really nice and smiley with me (I am there every single day) EXCEPT this one woman who messes up my order every single time and then acts like I killed her family when I correct her order. She is seemingly the only person in Paris who can't ever understand me, she rarely makes eye contact except to sneer at me and oftentimes she will not say the mandatory "Au Revoir" after I have already said it upon exiting the shop. So there she was, Miss Sunshine in all her glory and me, fresh off a badly executed French insult and still racking my brain trying to figure out how to say "suck".

I ordered two baguettes, she gave me one, I said no two please, she sneered, briskly took another baguette out and just dropped it clumsily on the counter, not even wrapping it for me. We've played this scenario out about 650 times since I moved here and frankly, it is getting a little old. As I paid today and said "merci" twice followed by "Au Revoir!" she was silent. I stopped in my tracks and thought, "You know what, Sneer Lady? NOT TODAY. NOT. TODAY. Because I have officially HAD IT." I turned back around and said "Au Revoir!" again.
(pause)
Still, nothing.
So I walked back up to the counter where she could not possibly miss me and gave my best stickily sweet "Au revoir!"
(pause)
Zero.
I clearly wasn't ever going to win this battle so I just said to her "Vous etes siiii gentille, merci beaucoup." (you are soooo nice, thanks a lot) before smiling, mumbling "asshole" under my breath and waltzing out the door.

Au revoir!!!! :)

PASSAGE GRODY.

I live very close to Passage Brady, a quaint passage of Indian restaurants that I've been meaning to try. After Savate class recently, I announced I was going to meet a friend at Passage Brady to have lunch. The local students asked me in unison if I liked to eat rats. At first I thought I misunderstood the translation. "Uh....rats? You mean Nan? I like Nan." But no, they informed me that if I was a lover of rats, I would REALLY REALLY LOVE Passage Brady. I decided to forego the lunch there and instead check it out later myself. That night I happen to pass by it after the restaurants were all closed and there, through the gates, I saw my personal version of hell. Rats, rats, and more rats. Young, old, little baby rats and giant gargantuan monster rats. I seemed to have interrupted their relay race from one restaurant to another. One big rat fiesta. All that was missing was the pinata.
I almost barfed.
Then I cried.
Then I ran home.
Thanks for terrorizing me, Rat Alley.
Eeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww.......

HI MY NAME IS DANA

And I work from my home alone in Paris, France. I like unicorns, rainbows and long walks alone by myself, with no one else. I enjoy talking to myself, writing songs, fucking up the French language and doing shows for pretend stuffed animal audiences in my living room. This is from my hit one woman show called "DEAD EYES ALONE TIME".

It's a tragicomedy monologue song medley that frankly, brought the house down in tears and applause.

As I was writing tonight's hit show (titled "For The Love Of God Can Anyone HEAR Me?!"), I looked out the window and saw this image which lasted all of 45 seconds but enough time for me to get the picture. I'm gonna print it out and use it in Act II of the show tonight for the "Silent Thunderdogs Night" section. It's REALLY gonna help further the narrative and I know my audience is just going to love love LOVE IT.

Gotta run, have to go to hair and makeup now. Call time is in 30 minutes.

SO SAD TO BE YOU

"So...what exactly do you DO all day?" is a question I am frequently asked.

This is what I do. I spend my days gorging on cheese and sucking down canned Rosé and Chardonnay from juice boxes on sunny days in Jardin du Luxembourg.

Sometimes I have lots of powerful internal revelations.
Like....I can BEEEEE somebody.
Or...That cloud is AMAAAZING.
And...I LOOOOVE juice.

Yeah yeah, I took a day away from my press lists and contact spreadsheets to live up the Barbie Dream Life Musician Vacation Fantasy.

Then I went home and ate a whole chicken.

It ruled.

THE ARRIVAL

My finished album arrives to me in Paris today.
And now, after a six month wait...it is truly GO TIME! (punch punch).
My "Paris Launch" excel spreadsheets are completed, my new army is in place and my big beautiful album in the palm of my hand today.
Nothing in this world beats the feeling of finishing something big.
I made this.
:)
And here I come......

BUTTERFLIES

Up, down, up, down.

UP = Yesterday, I spent an hour with a French friend speaking mostly in French. Came home in a frenzy of confidence, did air punches around the room and made mental note that I might be ready for the golden chalice of comprehension, see a French film sans subtitles. Yeah, NO PROBLEM! (punch punch)

DOWN = Today, I had the following conversation with the chicken guy in French...

CG: "Where do you come from?"
ME: "Very well, thank you! And you?"
CG: "No, WHERE do you come from?"
ME: "Ohhhhh! I live near the train station."
CG: "NOOOO. WHEEEERE DO YOOOOOOU (points to me) COOOOOME FROOOOOOM?"
ME: "Um (getting flustered)...I....I...arrived in January?"
CG: "NO!!!! You are ENGLISH or AMEEEEERICANNN???"
ME: "Oh my God. Yes. I mean, no, I mean, wait....ok ok, I'm from New York. (verge of tears and suddenly blurted out) and I don't know why I talk like this."

I am leaving in a few minutes to go spend the weekend in the country with a French family. FB is not coming with me. It's the first time I will spend two days without my safety crutch. I naturally decided to pack every French book I own along with 1500 flashcards and 58 French podcasts. You just never know.

French french french french....here I come.....but hey, at least they already know where I come from.

Rock.

OPEN LETTER TO H&M

Dear H&M Store in Paris,

Thanks for being here for me on my very first birthday spent in Paris. Remember those times I yelled and cursed at you in NYC for only selling clothes for short people who have no ass? Or the times I sat in the corner of your dressing rooms crying my eyes out because I couldn't get your stupid dresses over my hips and I burst the ass out of your pants when I tried them on and had to call my friend crying to talk me down? Well, I didn't REALLY mean it when I called you a no good horror house of badly made clothes for midget fashion lickers. Actuuuually...I DID mean it...but whatever, you were HERE for me this week. I thought long and hard about what I wanted for my birthday and in the end, all I wanted was a small piece of familiarity. Forget the shops where I'd be force to say "um do you have size USA 10 1/2 shoes?" or "uh...how do you say...does this come in A LOT BIGGER?" No. I chose YOU. I knew when I walked through your doors, I was going to be sold some disappointment and a side of "not the right cut" frustration. But you know what? I didn't care. Because I know you. I spent over an hour in the dressing room pretending I was both short and pretending the too short cut of your shirts didn't make me look like Asbury Park, NJ '87.
I didn't even cry.

Instead, I walked around Paris smiling all day in your 2 euro bug eye sunglasses and 1 euro plastic piece of crap bracelets. So thank you, H&M. Thanks for selling me your cheap dates who will fall apart and leave me in a month. Because in the end, you gave me a really good birthday. :)

xo Dana

CE QUE TU DIS II: BAUDELAIRE

Part II of the Ce Que Tu Dis film series. Though I try my very best and I have no problems actually speaking it, I study all the time and listen sooooo hard, my French comprehension is still somewhat.....um, lacking. Shot in the countryside and inspired by the beauty of a warm spring day, I tried to invoke the spirit of Baudelaire to spin the poem into my head....

COME A LITTLE CLOSER, GARCON

This is a tip for all you single ladies in Paris who are looking for a way to pick up super cute French boys. It's very simple. Wear fitted black workout gear (skull on shirt optional but helpful) and carry a pair of boxing gloves around with you.
That's it.
That's ALL it takes.
Your hair can be a total mess, you can be sweating profusely and you can have no make up on too but if you have the gloves, you are GOLDEN.

I know this because I received my boxing gloves this week at savate. Today I decided to take them home with me over the weekend but I forgot to bring a bag to carry them in. So out the door I whisked, skipping down the stairs. Sweaty and disheveled, my little purse over one shoulder and my boxing gloves in the other. Two cute boys were on their way up the stairs so I smiled brightly while chirping a "pardon!" They eyed the gloves, eyed me, smiled and backed up against the wall "Ohhh, pardonnez MOI" said one as he gave me the ole' flirty eyes. I decided this would be a great opportunity to pretend I was in a Cover Girl ad so I winked and gave my best drawn out "Meeeeeerci" as I breezily slung my gloves over my shoulder, danced my way down the stairs and looked back with a wispy "Au Revoir!".

Giggling my way down the sidewalk, I decided to really test this theory out. I purposely pranced my way up the street, carrying my gloves as conspicuously as possible.
Are you talking to ME Monsieur?
Or the SKULL?
Or my GIANT boxing gloves?
Come a little closer garcon...and you might SERIOUSLY regret it.
Wink.

Ladies, I am telling you. THIS WORKS. If you want to meet men, CARRY BOXING GLOVES EVERYWHERE. The chicken guy started asking me flirty questions about the class, then the two guys in line behind me joined the conversation. The fruit guy made a comment, along with the post office guy followed by the grocery store clerk. This is in addition to the countless smiles and stares along the way. Something about a girl with boxing gloves just REALLY intrigues the manfolk. I am totally happy with my most perfect French Boy at home but today left me with a smile on my face because it's nice to know sometimes....oui, I still got the goods. ;)

ALL THIS CAN BE YOURS...AND MORE!

It's HERE!
May and June!
BEST times to visit the major sites of Paris!
Come one, come all! Stand in line for hours for the opportunity to be pushed through famous sites such as Monet's garden with jovial and decibel breaking tourists including my personal favorite...SCHOOL GROUPS!
Looking for really loud and unsolicited running commentaries on art? We've got EVERYTHING you could want.....AND MORE!!!
Are you stuck at the Museé Orsay silently pondering...Hmmm, I wonder what that sculpture IS?
Well, Jean from Rhode Island has your answer:
"BOB, LOOK! IT'S A SNAKE BITING HER HAAAND!"
Thanks, Jean!
Never again will you be lonely.
May and June in beautiful Paris, France.
Half the world is here.
Come join the fun!

DISCLAIMER: I am actually happy to see that most tourists do not in fact, go off the beaten path here and it is easy to find alternative and interesting sites in May/June without the crowds. You just have to look. :)

SAVATE, A LOVE STORY - 5 MONTHS IN PARIS

I NEVER feel like going to my Savate class. Unless I am in an extreme state of agitation/anger and want to break things and put my fist through stuff, like a FACE. Then I can't WAIT. But ever since I quit my day job, became a hippie and moved to France to be a musician and cook real good, I am unfortunately no longer in a borderline rage most of the time.

This reluctancy to just GO....it makes no sense whatsoever because I am in LOVE with my Savate school and thoroughly enjoy every moment of training there. I'm not sure if it's just my usual hyperventilating "oh my god, I am walking out my front door into FRAAANCE" nerve flare-ups but every morning I think of about 250 reasons why I should NOT go to class. My stomach hurts, I'm tired...I deserve a break.. you know, I need to reLAX more and anyway I have to go grocery shopping...I should write more...being a shut-in is like, WAY more fun...I can always go tomorrow...I don't have a clean shirt...I just can't deal today...I'd rather play piano...it's better if I just sit and eat some more...I need to watch the finale of Top Chef...I HAVE to vacuum the rug for the 1600th time......blah blah BLAH. Nothing new really, I never once felt like going to Kung Fu in New York either. My mind just seems to fight my body. Oh well.

Eh, just walk it off and go. I have never once regretted it and every time have walked out of class feeling like I can truly conquer the world. Today I strolled my way to class where I am now getting used the routine. Usually four to six guy students (some young, some old) my teacher and me. Almost same exact warm up and I am starting to understand "kjdghkjhgfjdh on your back dkcuieurtb sndkjbjkrfgfjk vertical legs djvoixufrenbfnjd reverse direction coivurbngjkd....it's like little poppies in white noise that get through somehow. Each one leaves me with a small smile of understanding and one step closer to communicating. I feel rusty parts of my brain pushing to work and naturally string some order together from the jumble of sounds that are backwards and unfamiliar. I talk very little and just listen which is so beyond the norm for me. To be in a group of people and NOT speak is just, well...unSPEAKABLE! ARGH!

Occasionally, I know they are talking about me. I know enough French now to understand the subjects of conversations (well, most of the time...whatevs). I heard "anglais" mentioned several times. Most surprising to me (but not really) is how you can tell so much from a persons physical actions. I just smile and give my look that I have perfected here. "I'm smiling at you in my knowing way and you are not too sure if I understood but I am looking at you so you just don't REALLY know how much I understand...maybe I understand nothing.....but maybe not ;) The fact I am forced to not rely on any language communication but instead read purely physical actions has taught me to shut up and just SEE someone. Somehow I think this is a skill that will serve me well here.

Today in warm up my teacher asked me if I was staying past the warm up to do the fight class. There are a few women who come just for the thirty minute warm up but don't stay for the actual Savate class. This is incomprehensible to me so it came as a surprise when he asked me if I was tired and not staying. Suddenly understanding the question, I blurted out "MOI?! FATIGUE? JAMAIS!!" (NEVER!) Then I burst into my larger than life laughter at the absurdness of my outburst. He smiled and seemed taken aback and a few of the guys in class looked at me funny. Not being able to stop, I added "J'ADORE DES COUP DES PIEDS!". I had WANTED to say "I love to kick things!" but instead it came out as "I ADORE SOME KICKS!" which made me laugh even HARDER because I suddenly got a third eye view of myself as the silent foreign girl who only speaks to yell out to a group of people that I do, indeed, love me some kicks. And now I am also in the corner hysterically laughing at my own joke.

My teacher is excellent and precise. The last two classes I have dropped the nerves and just gone for it kicking. He works with me solo and as I figure out the new kicks and nail some golden bullseyes, he smiles and says my progress is fast. Today I learned an over the head fake-out followed by a side thrust kick. As my leg sailed above my head and followed up with a BAM!! Chassé THAT!!, I smiled wide and full. My teacher patted me on the back and said in French "you worked hard this week", as I grinned. Then he totally surprised me by saying in perfect English "It's good."

Yeah, just walk it off and GO.
France is yours.

OVERBOARD & EXCESS

I usually cook my meals at home but yesterday I ate out twice in one day. Naturally jumping at any opportunity for extreme excess and overboard behavior, I thought it'd be a GREAT idea to REALLY go for the French cuisine thing and eat the following:

6 oysters
1 steak tartare (HUGE)
1 plate of fries (LARGE)
1 creme brulée (MASSIVE)
3 glasses of wine
2 beers (HUMONGOUS, as in tumblers)
1 bowl of moules frites a la moutarde (GIANT amounts of mussels with mustard and yes, MORE fries)
1 chocolate bar

This is also better known as..HOW TO MAKE YOURSELF FEEL LIKE YOU WILL DIE. I had an alcoholic seafood and raw meat revolution in my guts this morning that has flattened me like roadkill. Between the hot and cold sweats, I have managed to peel myself out of the bathroom and my bed long enough to warn any other moronic IDIOT who decides that shoveling THIS amount of raw beef and cream into their mouths and mixing it with some shit eating larva from the ocean/large quantities of alchohol...

BACK AWAY from the plate.
It's a BAD DECISION.
MORE does NOT = better.
MORE = SICKER.
MORE = DUMBER.
MORE = MORE SUFFERING, YOU DUMBASS.

I'd give my left arm for some Premium brand saltines.
Do they even HAVE saltines here?
PLAIN ones with no butter or pork?
Sigh.

I DUNNO

YOU: "What is that?" (point to Notre Dame)
ME: "I dunno."
YOU: "What's that huge building?" (point to Louvre)
ME: "I dunno."
YOU "What's that monument?" (point to Bastille)
ME: "Dunno."
YOU: "So uh, what DO you know about Paris?"
ME: (silence)

I have had variations of this conversation with just about every visiting house guest since I got here five months ago. People show up here with various levels of expectations. Thankfully, in the "know your city's history" department, it's been on the low side. It's not that I don't care. I do. Just not right now. I am sure I'll get into the "fun facts" mode soon but for now, I am fine with big, broad strokes..

"What's that?"
(reading giant ECOLE sign) "Uh, an old school."
"Who goes there?"
"I dunno. People."
(silence) "Wow, you're an amazing tour guide." (cue rolling eyes)

I walked through Notre Dame yesterday for the sixth time in 3 months. I have yet to actually read any of the signs inside or bother to look at any guide book about its history. I could tell you how much the candles cost though and what days they do confessions. Mostly I just look at the pretty lights and play "guess the tourists' country of origin" with myself as the crowds pack by.

Yes, I should probably brush up on some basic knowledge of when the Eiffel Tower was built and how long the Louvre is but really, for now, I am content to wander the streets and discover the present Paris, the one who painted her face for me and intoxicates me with her smells, her looks and her sounds. There's plenty of time for her baggage later. Just let me enjoy a pretty face for a moment.

SHARKS AND DONUTS

Last night, great strides were made in France/USA relations as two American Girls cooked and served "Le Diner Etrange" to a roomful of French people (..and one Chilean:). My friend and talented chef, Jessica, showed up with not one, but two dishes that crazily fit perfectly with the two I had made. As the living room lit up with French, I had to laugh as it was not planned at ALL, but it looked like the Americans were cooking for French this evening.
Game time.
We got serious.
"What do you think about the jello shots? Dessert or apertif?"
"Apertif for sure."
"How about mint on top of each one?"
"Awesome."
"And some strawberry fans."
"Awesome."
"And a cherry sprig."
"Totally."
"OK, IT'S GO TIME!"
AND VOILA. "Mesdames et monsieurs..Le Diner Etrange commence."
JELLO SHOTS APERTIF. Yyyyeah, that's right. I got a roomful of French to suck these babies down like candy. I finally figured out how to use the sheet gelatin yesterday, whipped up some homemade lemonade, mixed with vodka, popped in the fridge, garnished with some fresh mint and POW. A jello shot that the French can hang with...all it needed was a pair of heels and a Lacroix dress. Next course was a deliciously hot chili that Jessica made. She used espresso and it had this warm spicy chocolatey taste. We snickered in the kitchen as the people commented on the "spiciness".
Man up, pardners. That's how WE roll, heh heh.

My main dish was the watermelon/feta/olive/mint salad with grilled shark. It turned out way more awesome than I EVER thought it would. The pairing of salty and sweet was perfection. And last but not least, Jessica brought the house down with an AMAZING dessert....A shot of spicy hot chocolate, a homemade donut that was the right amount of chewy on the inside, lightly dusted with flavored salt and served up with some berries. I LOVED seeing people's faces over the course of the night as dish after dish of "strange" and delicious food pairings were brought out. The compliments were plentiful and it was really a fun time had by all.
Jello shots, chili, shark and donuts....American girls rule.
;)