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.
;)

LE DINER ETRANGE (THE STRANGE DINNER)

A few weeks ago I asked FB what he wanted for his birthday and he said nothing but a nice dinner. Of course I had to turn it into something much bigger and more complicated than that so the idea morphed into what will be the first of many Le Diner Etrange. We are having a mix of people over tonight and the only rule is that you must bring a strange dish or a strange ingredient which will then be attempted to cook into a dish. "Strange" is totally subjective here. A friend of mine suggested a watermelon/feta salad with some grilled swordfish in it. I went to the fish market today and asked for swordfish, he didn't have any but suggested Requin. "Uh.....oui, d'accord!" Sounds great! I got home and looked it up. Requin is shark. Uh...ok. I will now be serving watermelon/feta/olive/shark salad. LE DINER ETRANGE!
My opening cocktails are supposed to be red and blue jello shots. Why? Duh....F-R-A-N-C-E is red and blue, U-S-A...ALSO red and blue. See the connection here? In actuality, I think it's because I selfishly just want to see French people suck down a jello shot at a Parisian dinner party, that's pretty much all there is to it.

I ran into a problem though. I cannot find Jello anywhere in this city. I even tried to find just plain gelatin. At my local market, if I ask for something, it is usually followed by a question of how I will be serving the item. As the French grocer asked, I choked down a laugh, cleared my throat and slowly tried in French to explain what a jello shot is as though I was explaining a delicacy. The perplexed look on his face told me it was never going to happen. How exactly do you describe a jello shot accurately? "Oui pardon, vous avez plain gelatin? I need to mix it with hard alchohol and some juice, freeze it and then suck it out of a syringe...or just some tupperware will do."
The French will be receiving a touch of REAL New Jersey CLASS tonight.....

ME CAN HAZ CHEEZEBURGERZ

Been a rough couple of days. Am in waiting mode while my album is shipped off to be pressed. I hate waiting. Waiting is unkind, cruel and should be banned from my life forever. Free moments to me are free moments to get bored and to really delve into the true enjoyment of being a broke, illegal alien who still can't understand a word anyone says. The French language took this opportunity to abandon me completely this past weekend. It sensed my fragility, waved a cruel goodbye and proceeded to build a brick wall around my fried brain refusing to let anything in or out. There is only one thing that can make me feel better in times like these...CHEESBURGERS. Last night FB worked late and as I rifled through my bag, I realized I had not one centime. Zero, nada. No cheeseburger. OK OK OK OK, DO NOT panic. Just wait until FB gets home, it's cool, it's cool. Tap, tap, tap..the time rolled by like a drunk snail while I sat and fumed...8PM, 9PM, 10PM....oh my god, oh my god.....

10:55PM
FB enters to find me pacing the living room, hair a mess, makeup stained eyes and the look of insanity.
FB: (smiling) "I'm hoooome!"
DB: (manic) "I need a cheeseburger. NOW. See the place across the street (points to Quick Burger)? It's open still. It's 10:55 and will probably close in 5 minutes. If you love me at all, you will take me to get a cheeseburger. YOU need to order. I'm not dealing with French anymore today. I'm DONE. Finis. Game OVER. I want you to order me the biggest cheeseburger they have and a LARGE fries and a diet coke, DIET coke, ok? And you have to ask for extra ketchup, OK? Got it? EXTRA ketchup, don't forget. OK let's roll!!!" (run to get bag)
FB: (sits down) "I was thinking on my walk home about the hard time you were having the past few days and...
DB: "Why are you sitting down????! I NEED A CHEESEBURGER RIGHT THIS SECOND."
FB: "OK sure, just chill out, we can get a cheeseburger in a second but I wanted to tell you some important things I was thinking about.."
DB: "If it doesn't involve meat with cheese between a bun, I don't want to hear it right now."
FB: "But we can sit for five minutes and I would love to tell you this thing that would make you feel good..."
DB: "YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND. If we are not at that counter, the one I can see right there out the window, THAT counter that may close in THREE MINUTES, I WILL DIE. I will curl up in a ball and DIE HERE. I NEED A CHEESEBURGER. NOW."
FB: "OK, hang on for one sec and just let me say this ONE thing."
DB: (hyperventilating) "Just give me the money!"
FB: "Baby if you're hungry, I could cook you dinner right now, would you like that? That would make you feel better I bet!"
DB: "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING HERE!! I WANT PROCESSED BEEF AND FAKE CHEESE! (tears welling) Please, please for the love of God, pleeeeeease take me to get a cheeseburger, I am beeeeegging you..."

10 minutes later. I am happily dancing back home across the street, tearing into GIANT bag in hand containing GIANT cheesburgers.

FB: (looks at me) "Seriously. Is THAT all it took?"
DB: (smiling widely) "Yup."
FB: "Wow...maybe I want you to be more complicated than you actually are."
DB: (chomp chomp) "Yup. Love ya!"

p.s. It did the job but Quick Burger is TOTALLY inferior to McDonald's especially in the fries and ketchup department...just in case you were wondering.

ILLEGAL SALAD - DAY 136

BEAUTIFUL, SUNNY, SPRING PARISIAN DAY
10:00AM - FB leaves for work

10:02AM - Stare off into space

10:28AM - Get productive, get productive, look at my list, my list, yes my cherished LIST, must add to list of things to do. Let's see...get evicted...check. Eliminate all personal sources of income. Check. Become illegal alien. Done. Wow, I'm super efficient.

10:35AM - Stare into space some more and twist hair around while remembering that I used to have a real TV Executive day job. I used to answer my phone like all, businesslike and stuff. I don't even have a phone anymore. I had a phone but I lost it in London and it doesn't matter because no one calls me anyway. What do I need a phone for? I don't even know how to dial anymore. Stupid phones. Who needs a phone anyway?

10:36AM - My hair is so dry, it's disgusting how absolutely DRY my hair is. What is wrong with it? My hair has NEVER felt this dry. Especially when I twist it up here like this or maybe I should leave it down. No, I'll put it back up and that way I can't feel how dry it is. Oh but now it itches, maybe I'll....

10:38AM - Dump half a bottle of olive oil on hair, drop bottle and cover bathroom in oil.

10:39AM - Add to list Clean Up Oil Spill

10:49AM - Check.

11:00AM - Lunchtime. Yeah at 11AM, whatever. Stand at kitchen counter and shovel a pound of leftover pasta into face.

11:15AM - Sit down at piano.

11:16AM - Ok, good, good, sit down and write something. Get out of your head. Stop thinking about everything. Just play and write. Work it out, work it out.
"Maaaaan I wish someone would taaaaalk to me...." No no no. That's bad.
"Sure would be niiiice if I understooood what you saaaaaaay..." Horrible. Next.
"I smell like an illeeegal saaaalaaaaad...."

11:26AM - OK just forget it, I give up.

11:35AM - Surf the net doing "research".

12PM - Lunchtime again. Shovel more pasta into face.

1:00PM.....
OK, ENOUGH. Put the baguette DOWN, go wash the bottle of olive oil out of your hair you moron, take off that crappy shirt and PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. Put on a skirt and some heels and for Christ's sake, put some makeup on. Yes yes, poor you. So sad for you to live in Paris and how awful it must be to go wander around the city on a bright spring day. My heart burns with sympathy for you and I might drown in my own tears. Cut the Flowers In The Attic act and just get the hell out of the apartment, OK?
ENOUGH.

Where's my tiny, tiny violin?
"Oh blaaaaackness of niiight, why'd you have to maaaake me live in Paaaaaaaris...."

SUCK IT UP BOULE, SUCK IT UP.

I went to Savate class alone for the first time today. No friends to help me out this time, just me and my shit French, working it out together. During the warm up jokes were being passed back and forth between people but rather than laugh, I merely gave my best "vacant yet interested with a hint of confusion and a scent of nervousness" smile and hoped no one thought I was a deaf mute.
Warm up ends.

TEACHER: JDFHKSDHFE!
ME: Uh.....je suis la? (I am here?) Oops, I mean je VAIS la? (I go here?)
TEACHER: OUI. JDHSDFKHSKDHFU!
ME: Um, pardon?
TEACHER: KJGKJGSJHFDHGFD!
ME: Uh, oui d'accord. (Uh, yes ok...it's my staple standard answer for everything when I have no idea what was just said to me)
TEACHER: KJKJSBJDVHSGFS!

My teacher does not care that I don't understand French, he proceeds as though I do, instructing me the same as everyone else and taps me in my stomach with his glove to show me how I have let me guard down. He then taps me in my head every time I take my eyes off his. Dude, this is all getting vaguely familiar.
And then I feel it coming.
Oh no.
The tears have decided to make an appearance.
OH NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NOOOOOON!!, I scream to myself. You are NOT crying here. No fucking way. LOCK IT UP, BOULE. LOCK. IT. UP. Just WRAP those tears RIGHT on up because you are the middle of a SAVATE class in FRANCE and they ALL know you come from Brooklyn. If you cry right now, it will be NOTHING compared to what I will do to you after class when you realize you are now the "fake New York/I want my mommy" girl who was HUMILIATED by CRYING on her first day alone in class.
LOCK.
IT.
UP.

We move onto kicks.

TEACHER: KJSDHFKSDGFAJKHFGDFJSH!!
ME: Oui, d'accord.
TEACHER: JHSGJHGJSFDJHGSFDAFG!!!!!
ME: Oui oui, d'accord d'accord (crazily move arms around hoping something I randomly do is something he actually asked me to do)
TEACHER: LA MAIN DROITE....DERRIERE!!!
ME: OH MY GOD! WAIT! I KNOW THIS ONE! RIGHT ARM BEHIND ME!!! OH MY GOD! I UNDERSTOOD!

In my glee, I flew my right arm back and proceeded to smash it into the open window behind me which promptly slammed shut with a BANG.
"Um, pardon."

I feel like an oversized retarded martian playing Wheel Of Fortune French while simultaneously learning to kick box. Sweet. But everyone is so nice to me there and after working out, they all helped spell out the names of the kicks so I can write them in my notebook. They even correct my French.

Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
Je ne pleurerai pas pendant le cours de savate.
(I will not cry in savate class.)

:)

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

I got lost in Pere-Lachaise Cemetery today, by myself on a warm and sunny spring day. I knew of some of the notable tenants there but I just went with my camera and the intention to just get lost. The only ground I was truly excited to randomly find is that where Frederic Chopin was buried. To be at the resting place of one of those who most inspires the melodies that float around my head all the time...well, that would be something to make me smile that smile. Surprisingly, there were not that many people and I could wander without much human contact and just listen and look.


Mostly I saw old women, tending graves. Bottles of water sparkling in the sunlight, brought to carefully tend to the bursts of color through the moss. They move silent like ghost wives, laying down a rainbow of reminders that someone was loved.

Nothing is more devastatingly beautiful than flowers at a gravesite, even old flowers, long ago knocked over by the wind and faded with rain. I sat quietly by myself, listening to the sound of children playing in the schoolyard over the fence, the spring birds singing a cantata, and the wind through the trees that line the cobblestoned paths.



I thought about all the people gone from my life. And I thought of those who are left behind to keep the memory alive that yes, you were loved.

I stumbled upon a gravesite on my way out that made my heart jump into my throat. I held in a silent cheer as I looked closer. It said F. Choppin and the names below I did not recognize. The dates were a bit off and I knew it was probably not the grave of my direct influence but I stood there anyway and for a moment in time, I smiled that smile.

Rest in peace, F. Choppin. Someone loved you today.

AND IN THIS CORNER....DAY 132

I just returned from Savate class and on my walk back, I decided my new competitor/fighting name will be The Silent Vomit.
Disgusting, distracting and DEADLY.
All at the same time.
NOTE TO SELF: Satin red cape.

All morning my stomach was in knots about going to class today....I lost my appetite worrying about if I'll understand anything, maybe it will be just me, what if I have to speak French again, what if what if what if, blah blah blah blah. Even though I really liked the class last time, even though I spoke only French for the past four days straight and I am feeling more confident. Logic defies my frequent nerve flare ups but it is nothing new to me as it's been the same story my whole life. Whether it's a test in school, a performance of any kind, making cold phone calls, starting a new job, sport, etc. And in the case of France, add the following to the list...going to the grocery store, meeting new people or basically any activity that involves leaving the apartment in any way. They all follow the same steps, sometimes I'll mix and match them just to shake things up a little but here's what it usually involves:

1. Break out in hives
2. Freak out (internally or externally depending on who is around)
3. Tears (either cry profusely or in small whimpers)
4. Lose appetite
5. Silently vomit
6. Sudden fatigue

I am a master at making myself physically ill. I could never ever fake being sick, even as a child. I always have to subconsciously take it to the umpteenth degree for "believability". The flip side of this is that I can also make myself NOT sick and I am extremely good at walking off any illness or pain. It's a trade off, I suppose. These days I just treat my nerve explosions like an annoying tick...yeah, one that makes me cry and vomit, but whatever. If I repeat an activity enough, it usually gets better.
You know why?
BECAUSE THE SILENT VOMIT CANNOT BE STOPPED.
EVER.
What would The Silent Vomit do?
Duh.
Silently vomit and KEEP MOVING before you can ask "what the hell is that horrible smell????"
Let me tell you mi amigo, that was me.
Silently vomiting my way to the top....one day at a time.

DESTINY CAME CALLING = DAY 128

I found my future this week in a little room off the beaten path. I have one word for you....SAVATE. Mention to the French you want to learn savate here and chances are, you will get a quizzical look if you are a girl. I think it is just not that common to train, much less for women. But being the ninja from NY that I am, I have been interested in finding a martial arts school here since I moved to Paris. I just really like to punch and kick things. Beating the crap out of a punching bag fulfills so many unspoken desires. I think everyone can benefit from having a safe target to beat on when the going gets rough. So when a friend recommended a school she knew of, I decided to wait until my French was somewhat passable before trying it out. She agreed to come with me and therefore I would have a translator. One of my black belt ninja friends from NY was in town this week as well so we all decided to try out the class.

My NY friend and I found the school down a little narrow street and after having to ask for directions from the cute yoga guy downstairs who seemed surprised and intrigued that we were not actually looking for yoga but instead SAVATE, we made it past a little courtyard and up a hidden flight of stairs. I purposely came a little late so my French friend would be there already to translate. But something in me knew I was gonna have to fly solo.....

ENTER two giggling American girls. We open the door loudly and walk straight into a class which has already begun. Twelve French men (ranging from 9 to 70 years) abruptly stop what they are doing. They stare at us as though as though martians have invaded their school and then proceed to burst into laughter. I frantically look around and see that my French friend has not arrived.
Shit.
Shit.
Looks like it's French solo time pour moi.
"Um, hello, um, my French is so bad and we look for savate class" I manage to say. The teacher is an old school French man in his 60s whose father is a world renowned savate champion. This is a real deal school for locals. He looks at us for a moment and then motions towards the back where there is a changing room. We make our way back there amidst stares and I flub my question to him about my shoes which came out as "my shoes, ok, my SHOES, OK???". I quickly realized there was no English to be had here and it was time to just roll with it. He put us down front and center in the sea of boys and men who took every opportunity to smile at us. Two hot NY ninjas walk in to a bar......

Throughout the warm up, the teacher kept insisting that we "take it easy", stop if we got tired, rest some more. We kept laughing because the school we both came from in NY would push you past what you thought you could humanly do and if you did not leave class drenched in 20 gallons of sweat, you just didn't work hard enough. And now this teacher is telling us to put our heads down while doing leg lifts.

What????

We were then told to watch for the rest of class while the other students practiced their fighting moves. We both sat on the edge of class, tortured, because all we wanted to do was kick some shit. I quickly sized up whose asses I could easily kick and who might prove a bit of a challenge. It is an interesting sport and I am going to have to unlearn some of what I already know but the students in the school seemed warm, friendly and happy to have some female blood there. Especially Martian NY badass chick blood. We were told there are two women in the whole school. Um, can we say BFF??? I have decided that I will learn WAY more French at this school than any formal French class could ever teach me. And it's harder to be intimidated when you have already sized up how you could take down the person with one blow. Conquer the fear and the language will follow.

Total immersion while kicking some ass.

That's my new system.

DESTINATION VACATION

The steady stream of visitors continues at Hotel Boulé. I was warned of this when we moved to Paris. I live in a destination vacation with a guest room. It's right up there with ocean side Caribbean resort. I adore all the visitors and am happy to receive all our friends but the pitfall is that everyone is on vacation and it's hard not to partake in the vacation festivities 24/7. This week we had three house guests, went out 5 nights out of 7, made fancy dinners and painted the town several coats of red. Spring Break Paris '08!!

The doorbell rang at 9:30AM a few days ago. I was in the kitchen and immediately went into Anne Frank mode. I naturally left the egg I was frying on the stove and went running in terror into the bedroom, dish towel in hand and a crazed look on my face.
ME (frantically whispered to FB): OH MY GOD!!! SOME MAN IS AT THE DOOOOOOOOOR AGAIN!!!"
FB: What kind of man?
ME: I DON'T KNOW!!!!??? How am I supposed to know what kind of man!!????"

As FB answered the door, I ran into the living room and frantically started cleaning while trying to look cool. It seems like that is my instinctual reaction to terror these days. If someone held a gun to my head, I'd probably start mopping. As FB returned from the door I could tell by the look on his face that the time had come. In his hand was the official eviction notice.

Hotel Boulé is closing for the season as we have six weeks to find an apartment and move. I am excited that the transitory period is coming to an end and I will finally have a home to unpack the 43 boxes we have in storage. I want my stuff. I want my blue lamp and my yellow cookie jar. I want walls I can paint purple and I don't want to run in terror every time the doorbell rings for fear of the police again with a search warrant.

The wind is a changin' and it's time to pick up the stakes and move along again.....happy trails mes amis, it's been fun.....

THE JOYS OF ALBUM ART

FB: "How about this one?"
ME: "No, my face looks like a fat chimp."
FB: "OK, this one?"
ME: "I look like a horse on sleeping pills."
FB: "OK, maybe this one?"
ME: "Yeah, if the title of my album was Triple Chins."
FB: "OK this? You look beautiful here."
ME: "Sure, if you're into giant bag eyes."
FB: "Where do you see any bags? There's NOTHING THERE."
ME: "If you truly cannot see the steam trunks of luggage under my eyes, then I don't know what to tell you. No way. This is NOT the album cover. NEXT."
Sigh.

My art direction for my album cover has been shamelessly narcissistic and simple:
Hot picture of me.

I don't really care what style, what colors, what genre, whatever. As long as I look smoking hot, it's AWESOME by me. I have picked apart at least 250 photos of myself, crazily scanning every inch of my face for the flaws. The major problem I have run into is that apparently in a photo shoot, my "sexy" look actually reads as "I hate you/die now/I am miserable and want to kill everyone."

Thankfully, before I had to resort to watching America's Next Top Model for clues (actually, I'm lying...I have already watched every episode of every season, who am I kidding?), FB found a treasure trove of photos he took of me in Coney Island before we left New York. The second I saw them, it hit me. These are the album art.
Score.

Coming soon, hehe.

JE NE TE COMPRENDS PAS. (I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU)

"You will learn to speak it better from women and children in three months than from men in a year." --Thomas Jefferson on the French language in a letter to T.M. Randolph, 1787

I thought by having a French husband, I would learn French easily. I mean, I have a native French speaker living right under my roof! PERFECT! I dreamily pictured the long, complicated, philosophical discussions we would have in French about art, religion, politics, love, life... And if I slipped up the French language, he is right there, gently correcting yet succinctly explaining the hows and whys of his mother tongue.

Sigh, oh how naive I was.
It simply does not work that way.

My questions about French are met with either silence, dead eyes or the "you can't touch me in my special place" look, or a mumbled answer too fast for me to catch one word of. Or, more often than not, a mumbled answer too fast for me to catch one word of that also has 25 parts, 46 subsections and a 34 minute explanation spiraling into another 65 unrelated topics, rendering everything he just said completely useless.
Why is asking what the plural is of a word so often painstakingly complicated?
I don't want 87 answers.
I want one.
Spoken clearly and preferably in slow motion with your lips moving like a cartoon.
I want black and white.
Right and wrong.
And some straight lines while you're at it.
I adore him dearly, but a French teacher he is not.

OK. After only four months, I KNOW I am low on the patience. I am frustrated and cranky that my comprehension lies below that of a two year old. When I am at a party like I was last night, where everyone is speaking French, I cannot make out one word above the white noise. Even though everyone I met spoke perfect English and I had a lovely time, I still INSISTED on making each person I met suffer through at least 5 minutes of my 2 year old talk. It's as though I am more embarrassed that I only speak one language. Who cares if all I can say is the equivalent of GOO GOO GA GA? At least it's in FRENCH.

How many languages would a Kung Fu master speak? More than one.
An international jetsetter? DEF more than one.
A dark haired woman of mystery who might possibly be involved in international espionage? AT LEAST FOUR. DUH.

So I will continue to ask as many questions as I have. I will continue to try and decipher the whispered/I'm speaking in code/Merlin riddle answers and I will continue to say "GOOGOO GAGA ME LIKEY YOUR CHEESE" to strangers at parties.

Why? Because one of these days, the airplane I am traveling on from New York to Moscow will emergency land in a small village in France. The passengers will all panic and the pilot will announce "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DOES ANYONE SPEAK FRENCH?!@#"
I will quietly rise from seat 1A in first class, gently set my my champagne cocktail down, brush off my black Chanel suit, flip back the hair from in front of my giant dark sunglasses and huskily proclaim while turning 3/4 to catch the optimal light...
OUI.
JE PARLE FRANCAIS.

BON BONS - DAY 113

Yesterday on my taxi ride to St. Pancras train station in London, the driver asked me where I was going. When I told him I was returning to Paris, he asked, "Do ya work in Paris then or ah you a lady of leisure?" I laughed when he said that as I suddenly got a picture of myself leisuring...giant pink house coat, feathery stilettos, stuffing my face with chocolate and drinking champagne straight from the bottle while watching French soap operas. "No", I answered, "I am not a lady of leisure. I'm a musician. I just finished my album here in London and am returning to Paris to launch it there."

SUBCONSCIOUS: "GET A REAL JOB DANA"
ME: "SHUT UP, SUBCONSCIOUS. THIS IS A REAL JOB, DICK."

Last night FB brought me champagne and the best steak I ever ate, cooked to perfection. We sat on the couch and listened to the final master of the album and smiling ear to ear. It turned out EXACTLY like I wanted it to. Now onto the CD artwork so I can release this sucker asap before I become a Laaaady of Leeeeeisure (which is now the title of my next electro record).

ONE OF US...ONE OF US....

This is my personal nightmare on a plate. I once started hyperventilating and crying at a restaurant when the "seafood tower" my friends ordered arrived and I was visually assaulted by giant cockroach like bug creatures staring at me at eye level only inches from my face.
Apparently this is what I ordered for dinner last night.

I found myself at a large dinner with 15 French people in the Brittany area of France. I got my first glimpse of the French side of the Atlantic Ocean and was very excited to eat at the seafood restaurant we went to. I've gotten used to the surprise element when ordering food in a foreign language. I never get what I think it will be. It's actually best that I DON'T understand because I doubt I would end up ordering half the things I do if I really knew what they were. Half the time I just take the easy route and order whatever FB has. "Oui moi aussi" (me too) has become a popular phrase of mine.
Dinner went something like this....

FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH waitress asks for drink orders FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH FB says "one" FRENCH FRENCH guy next to FB says "two" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH I naturally say "three" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH three giant gallon tumblers of beer arrived FRENCH FRENCH i don't even like beer that much FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH oh well FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH waitress asks for dinner orders FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH i say "uh, yea i'd like le panaché" FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH pretend I understand FRENCH FRENCH FRENCH

Bugs on a plate arrive.

ME: (whispered to JB) I don't know what to do here, I'm about to flip out.
FB: (picks up crab and moves it in my direction) eek eek eek eek, look, he likes you.
ME: (crazed whisper) Get that the hell away from me! Do NOT, I repeat, do NOT make it pretend move. I DON'T find it funny and I am going to seriously scream and you will be mortified by my loud American meltdown in front of EVERYONE. DO NOT MAKE THE FOOD PRETEND MOVE. THIS IS NOT A JOKE!
FB: ok, ok. (pause) But you know the oysters are alive.
ME: THEY ARE NOT ALIVE.
FB: Yes, they are. You don't eat dead oysters. (he goes to move one)
ME: DON'T TOUCH IT!
FB: but watch, if you pour this vinegar on them and..
ME: DO NOT MAKE IT MOVE. I SWEAR.....TO......GOD.....DO...NOT....MOVE...IT.
FB: ok, fine!

I quickly summed up the situation and realized that I was in the middle of the table and there was simply no escaping this one. I took a deep breath and decided for once, the sea bugs were NOT going to send me running. I decided to cross my eyes a little bit so everything went blurry. Better to look slightly retarded than to lose it crying on the floor in front of strangers. My best plan of attack would be to remove all the heads and the eyes as quickly as possible. Shrieking inside, one by one I tore off the heads while trying to think of happpy thoughts like rainbows and gummy bears. After strangling all the shrimp, I arranged them in a circle like the Pathmark generic shrimp cocktail circles. Uncrossed eyes a little. There. Much better. Crossing my eyes again, I moved on to the pretend alive oysters and just slurped them all down without looking to see if they were actually moving. DIE OYSTER, DIE!

After my eye crossing headache began to take it's toll, I focused my eyes for a moment to really take in the plate of destroyed bugs I had effectively disemboweled and sucked the guts out of.
Whoa.
I did it.
One step closer to actually eating frog legs....(cue the gag reflex)...baby steps, baby steps....

TREASON! OFF WITH HER HEAD!

Without really giving it much forethought, I did the unspeakable. The unthinkable. The UNCONSCIONABLE. In one sentence, I managed to summon up the ghosts of ten centuries of conflict...writhing demons from yesteryear, howling and shooting fire straight from the Battle Of Hastings directly into my living room.

Upon returning to Paris from London, I turned to my French husband and casually declared "you know, I think the food in London is way better than Paris."

Silence.
In the distance I hear a rumbling...
A sloooow sinking feeling that I have just stepped straight into a historical beehive.
Hmmmm, I think....don't think THIS is gonna go ooover so well.
The rumbling in the distance quickly approaches, black smoldering smoke as the fiery cannonball releases and aims directly for my American skull.

"ARE YOU FUCKING SEEEEERIOOUS?!!!!!", King Philip II Of France roars (now in the form of my enraged husband).

"Um...wull...yeah?"

"How can you POSSSSSSEEEEEEEEBLY THEENK the ENGLISH have better food than FRANCE??? THEES EES RIDICULOUS!!"

"Wull...um...I had a lot of sushi there and some uh...really good Indian food and...."

"EXACTEMENT!!! SUSHI and INDIAN food. NOT BRITISH FOOD! BRITISH FOOD EES DEEESGUSTING!" (as his face twists into utter disdain, he draws his sword and I see my reflection in the flames of his eyes, must think quickly)

"Wull...all I'm trying to say is that um, I ate a lot healthier food there and like, they have take out and delivery food, not like here. And like, I REALLY like the steak frites and paté and duck and headcheese and all that stuff here but I just haven't found the good Asian or maybe Indian restaurants here maybe and..."

"You want INDIAN FOOD? I'LL show you INDIAN FOOD! Passage Brady is a ten minute walk from here. That's IT. WE'RE GOING. NOW!" (he rears on his horse and reaches down to grab me violently and whisk me off to a row of Indian restaurants)

"No wait, it's cool, it's cool!! Yeah TOTALLY, I know what you're saying and that's like, TOTALLY what I'm saying TOO. I just need to LOOK HARDER here, you're absolutely right."

(He dismounts from his horse and stands, armor drawn so the full Hundred Years War effect will burn itself into my memory)
"You weel take thees back what you say and you weel say to me ze FRENCH food ees superior and you weel NEVER say eet again ze BRITISH food ees better. Eet ees NOT BETTER."

"Yeah dude, totally. French food is really tasty. In fact, I could go for a steak frites RIGHT NOW."

(I sense the retreat of the fire as he lowers his sword) "OKAY. NOW we are talking. You want steak frites? I breeng you right now to ze best Cote de Boeuf een ALL OF PARIS."

Whoa. I narrowly escaped the guillotine with that one and I know now to choose my words more carefully when comparing historical rivals. But as I chowed down my steak frites later that evening and listened to the list of restaurants and other food items we are going to try, I somehow think this worked to my advantage as I envision our impending food tour. I may have just insulted his nationality but he wants to prove me wrong and I am happy to eat my way across Paris proving him right.

Sometimes you just need to light a little fire. YUMMMMMMMYYYY.....

BARE BONES

Shot from the local taxidermy shop.

I had a dream last night in which I was trying to hide a grand piano from the police. I rolled it down the street at night in slow motion. All I could hear was the rumble of the wheels on the pavement, the swish of wind in the bushes and the quiet exhales of my own breath. Rumble, roll, swish, breath, rumble, roll, swish, breath...the dream seemed to float on forever. I finally rolled the piano into an open theatre but there was no place to hide it so I pushed it into the back of the darkened stage and stood in front of it, making myself as big as I could in an effort to hide it.
Curtain.
The End.

Not too hard to figure that one out. Tomorrow is our last day of mixing. The end is near and I am about to bare my most personal songs out there like a skeleton thrown to an audience of taxidermied dogs.

At least I know I'll have a rapt audience who are glued to their seats.

FREAKTIME IN LONDON

What the hell, London? SERIOUSLY. I've been cold since OCTOBER and I'm DONE.
Take your freakshow snowstorm and SHOVE IT.

You can't just dangle some candy, START springtime and then do a FULL ON TAKE BACK. But on a lighter note, Scotch Beef guy both disturbs and amuses me on so many different levels.

SPRINGTIME IN LONDON

And just like that....SPRINGTIME HAS SPRRRRRRRUNG. The flowers apparently bloomed overnight in London and this morning's walk to the studio was a Snow White-esque jaunt through tweeting birds, butterflies and smiling faces. I feel a country-wide collective mood lift as everything and everyone looks better drenched in sunshine. I had the urge to burst into "Who Will Buy?" and wished I had packed a skirt and an old timey milkmaid hat. My fake accent threatens to rear it's head if this weather keeps up. I had a flare up of Madonna-itis when I answered the grocery store clerk yesterday with an affected "sorry" (came out more like sohrey). I wanted to punch myself in the face after I said it but I resorted to verbally berating myself internally during the walk back to the studio until I realized I was doing the berating in the fake accent.
Screw it. When in London....