Autumn in July

We went to Assurance Maladie this afternoon to take care of my securite sociale... after which, H declared me free to be sick again. Well, fortunately for us, I am hardly sick... Although I should I warn him that after we leave France he has no right to be a hypochondriac anymore. Anyway, I'm supposed to get my very own carte vitale in a few months, so that's one worry out of the way.

After that we picked up his new passport at the police station. I stayed on the bench outside to read "Le Petit Prince," and that was when I noticed some leaves had begun to turn brown. The cold spell must have convinced the trees that it's time to shed their leaves once again. After getting a bit of sun just in time for the last laps of the Tour de France, days of uninterrupted rain doused us back into the realization that autumn has come early. Too bad for Paris Plages.

When H came out he sheepishly showed me his passport which, try as I might, I couldn't help but snicker at. Backstory: The scanner at the passport office was broken on the day of his appointment so they didn't want to take H's 2x2 picture, they wanted to take a picture of him and use that instead. The problem was, he was supposed to go to the gym after so he didn't take a shower, he didn't even bother checking what his hair looked like; plus he hadn't shaved for days and he stayed up til 4 am finishing a new video game the night before. In other words, mukha siyang pusakal... Which is going to go great with the border agents in China.

I came home to the smell of pancit canton, and at first I wondered where it was coming from - it's been almost a week since I made noodles. As it turns out, it was the limp stalk of celery desolately dangling from a jar in the kitchen. How predictably pavlovian am I? And why am I always hungry?

To stop myself from cooking noodles, noodles that I might end up eating, I drew them instead. Enjoyment factor was not the same, though.

By the way, maybe I haven't told you about pancit canton... allow me to rectify that mistake.

Pancit canton is a traditional noodle dish we Filipinos equate with special occasions.

When I was younger and Sampaguita and LVN movies were an afternoon staple on channel 9, the poor lead characters would often celebrate a good day of selling flowers/pickpocketing by bringing home pancit to their starving siblings and sickly mothers or ungrateful drunkard dads. You eat it on your birthday for long life. You eat it with a glass of dalandan juice. You eat it sandwiched between slices of "tasty bread." Sometimes having pancit alone is an occasion in itself.

So here's how you make pancit canton:

• you need shredded morcels of pork, shrimp, chicken or sausage - one or in combination; "the more the many-er," like we love to say on the islands
• fry this with garlic and onion and the rest of the "sahog" listed, some people add cabbage leaves but I don't like the smell of cabbage
• set all this aside and then boil chicken broth with a few teaspoons of soy sauce, oyster sauce, and some salt and pepper; some people add cornstarch to make the sauce thicker... I'm not opposed to that if your sauce turns out watery
• set the sauce aside then boil blanched egg noodles for a few minutes until slightly soft
• take the water out and replace with the sauce
• then put back all of the "sahog"
• add sesame seed oil and/or sesame seeds and serve

Stressy Ng Tahanan

Long list of things to do, but we have to clean the flat first because prospective buyers are coming by in an hour and a half.

My computer is making strange sounds and I can't finish my layout because it's starting to slow down.

I want to go to the shops because it's the last day of soldes!

Have to apply for securite social before we leave this weekend.

We absolutely have to go to Smartbox to have ours changed so we can enjoy it before we go.

Have to fix myself up in time for a friend's band performance tonight.

My cousin turned out to be in Boracay, taking the vacation he said he wasn't taking; no wonder he wasn't replying when I said we were going to see him in Milan next week. 

I'm having a Chunky Monkey to destress.

Gonna worry later about my chunky ass.

Simply De Vine

Image from topsir.com

I don't want to jinx it, but I'm shouting it out so the universe can hear. I've been strongly hinting at H to go grape picking before we leave since we'll still be here until September. He nods his head sideways like he's willing to be convinced. There's not a lot of money in it but, I don't mind being paid in food and wine.

Postscript!

Today's the last day of the Tour de France, culminating in a 40km (or so) spell going back and forth from Rivoli to Champs Elysees. The helicopters following the cyclists were hovering near the apartment so we decided to run out and see the tour as it passes by our neighborhood. I was busy washing my unmentionables but I dropped everything and rushed outside. It's not every day you get to see this!

Suddenly, everyone's a journalist.

After weeks of awful weather (it SNOWED last week, and it's supposed to be summer!), the clouds were finally in the mood to cooperate and gave us some sun. A crowd had already formed around the barricade and some people were standing over construction blocks for a better view, but we came just in time. After ten minutes, it was over.

When we got back home the helicopter was beaming lovely aerial shots of Paris. Gawd, this town is beautiful.

Post-postscript!

We had dinner at the house of some friends with a nice view of the street. While parking the scooter, we noticed an old couple leaving stuff on the sidewalk. We decided to investigate and realized they were old video games. We swept up some of them - the Star Wars X-Wing/Tie Fighter game, Tomb Raider and a couple of others. Then our friend O went downstairs to rescue some of the other games.

Minutes later, a woman left some Friends and Ally McBeal VHS tapes, an English tutorial kit in cassette, and some comic books. I lay claim to an English copy of Heavy Metal from 1998. We also learned that these were her ex's old junk. An hour later she threw out (among other things) a big leather overnight bag. A teenage boy beat us to it, and whatever was inside the bag. Another hour passed and an old man took all the VHS tapes. We don't usually trash dive (in fact I feel like we missed out one time because I saw some nice antique chairs in the street; too bad we're moving out soon) but you never know what these things would be worth on E-bay one day.

Still, it would have been extra nice if we got to Hotel de Ville in time for the FNAC concert, because Selah Sue was playing :-\ Dommage!

Entitled

Two weeks short of the anniversary of my arrival in France last year, I finally have my "titre de sejour". Celebrate good times, c'mown!

It took such a long time because we went against the grain. Usually, Fil-French couples marry in the Philippines to get a French long stay visa (1 year) fuss-free. Because of some strange double standard, the Filipina fiancee cannot get a marriage visa (for a wedding in France) for more than 3 months while visa applicants from other countries get a full year even though they present the same required documents expressing their desire to marry. And apparently, not even all of the case workers at the prefecture know this because they were shocked the French embassy in Manila does not provide it. So as you can guess, not a lot of mixed marriages going on in here, they usually happen at the foreigner's home country because of the restrictions. What Manila prescribes for couples who want to marry in France is to get married, go back to the Philippines, then apply again for a long stay visa from the Philippines... because, I dunno, maybe they think airfare is cheap. Otherwise, get married in the Philippines, wait for the livret de famille (a brown book that takes months to arrive), then apply for a long stay visa, come to France then get married again here should you want to.

But we're the road less traveled kind of couple.

So after all the fuss, the papers we gathered, the scores of meetings we took, the French lessons, not to mention the little scare we got when the law was revised last winter and we had two months to secure some revised requirements (grrr), after the long lines in the cold (ok, we did that just twice, and once I was almost run over by a street-sweeping truck), excuses to buy stuff from Amazon and FNAC by delivery to prove my address (hee hee), after some nervous hand wringing, here we are.

Finally, I could get a real job, not the content farm thing I was doing, I mean a real one. I could bus tables like I dreamed of doing in this, "my bohemian year in Paris." Then I could take up smoking and be an alcoholic, sing torch songs in the street and get psychiatric help then write a novel about it. I could be a vendor in a souvenir shop and chat up the clientele. I could open a bank account. I could ride a plane again. Such possibilities!

I picked it up at the OFII, where my fellow immigrants and I sat in a room and watched a short movie about the values of the republic, then one by one we were called for an interview. While waiting, I got to talking with an Algerian man, completely in French, and then the Japanese boy and the African refugee chimed in ("yeah, vous avez raison madame, yeah"), and then suddenly I was called in for my interview. I charmed the case worker into believing I am a competent French speaker and she gave me the language certificate without question so I won't have to go to 200 hours of classes; H helped me to move the two requisite "Vie en France" meetings back from October to August and September so that we could finally, FINALLY, go on our big trip in September. Then it was time for my medical and I got out of it without needing to get my blood drawn! I saw the Algerian coming out of X-ray with his finger bandaged up from the blood test. Whew! I got a doctor who volunteered to talk in English and didn't mind that I didn't have a vaccination card and that all I had was the word of my mother that, yeah, I got all my shots. Whew encore! Then I found out from the scales that I am now 5 kilos less than I was 2 months ago. Blimey!

The first thing I did after was go to Saint Severin. Then, failing to find The Abbey Bookshop where I thought it was (I wondered if it poofed away like some buildings in the Harry Potter world), I went to Shakespeare and Co to look at books (because I'm working on one with some friends) and ended up getting this -

which was pretty nifty (part fairy tale and part encyclopedia and written a la Susanna Clarke).  I held myself back because all I had was my credit card, which charges enormous add-ons when I spend in euros. And then I went to BHV and got this -

which was something I decided to do after a friend persuaded me into picking up this old hobby again.

And it felt just like the old days, having the brush in my hand.

My father gave me money to buy my first set of watercolors a couple of decades ago; he wanted me to be the artist in the family, like he always wanted to be had he not fallen out of orbit and landed on mechanical engineering... No pressure on me, of course. He wanted me to follow my heart because he was such a cool guy. But I didn't have the talent that he had, so I tricked myself into thinking I had my mother's talent, which was writing. Wells, I gots neither. But I try. I'm the Jack of All Trades, Master of None kind of person.

Around this time in 2009, my father was in a coma. I made an Elvis mix on my mp3 player and left the earphones on him so he could bop to the King of Rock n' Roll in his stupor. He left us a few days after that; maybe he wanted to hear the real Elvis in the big casino in the sky, or maybe he was just plain tired. But it's in really happy times like this that I want to speak to him, to make him know that I'm following my heart, and I'm doing okay.

Bastille Day

I'd really done it this time. I've really pushed my husband to finally do the vile things he would never do had he never known me or loved me. (Not that he needed much prodding.)

Today I got him to wake up early (an ungodly 7 a.m.); weave through the unreasonable traffic barricades around the perimeter of the Champs Elysees; walk from La Madeleine through a long, tedious maze concocted by the Gendarme like sheep being herded to the sidewalk; go through a body search; stand behind a fence for two hours and a half; and carry me on his shoulders occasionally. Madness. Utter madness.

But he's in love with an eternal tourist, so he escorted me to the Bastille Day parade.

The yearly show of strength in the country's capital.

But sad news greeted us as we walked towards the Champs Elysees. Five of their boys had died the night before in Afghanistan, the speakers blared, asking for a minute of silence.

Suddenly the day regained its significance. It was a reminder that wars were still being fought.
 

In old ways.

And new.

The parade used to be a way to sow holy terror into the hearts of would-be enemies.

But I guess it goes both ways these days. I am no fan of war, I think it turns people into puppets of other people's vested interests, but I don't think our species would ever outgrow it. It is the law of nature, and we only live in her planet.

And so we stand along the fringes and watch the pomp and glory of the Republique pass us by.

And we watch the machines of war thunder along in the old way...

Or in new.

In a city where the past is ever present.

Impossibly cute (and adult mimic) petite Nina came before it got dark, while the sunset made the city around us glow as pink as her cheeks. Like me, this was her first Fête Nationale. She came by to sniff the cold night air and the gunpowder from the rooftop.

Where fire exploded in the colors of the rainbow and fell in minuscule slivers of dying light.

(You can watch part of the fireworks here.) 

When it was over, my champagne was missing.

Footloose

H spent the day playing video games with a friend and I had the whole day to myself! So I did what I love best: walking around the old quarter.

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

I had a little work-related errand to run at the Centre Georges Pompidou bibliotheque (I should say "library," but here it's actually the book shop)  so I got out of Chatelet and walked from Rivoli to the Museum. Unfortunately, I got sidetracked by big, red "Soldes" and "Nouvelle Demarques" signs from a whole other direction. On any other day, this would have been fine, but I've been having foot pains since Normandy. I get a dull, stabbing pain when I'm standing still; and a sharp, stabbing pain when I'm walking. But guess what? Estrogen. Estrogen and adrenalin.

After two hours, I found my way back to my original direction and I found my way back to Sebastopol and, eventually, the Pompidou.

Street musicians at Beaubourg.

A guitarist helping a fellow artist.

A spiral forms around Didgeridoo Girl

Inside the library. Lovely place for reading, though the view can be distractingly beautiful.

An outdoor escalator for paying museum-goers... which excludes me, because I'm in the cheap today.

I wish blogs could also carry the lovely smell of books.

It was after accomplishing my mission that I realized I didn't even have breakfast, and it was five in the afternoon.

A hotdog joint.

I bought a sandwich for lunch and ate it next to the oldest monumental fountain in Paris. The place was kept alive by noisy teens enjoying summer break.

The Fontaine des Innocents.

It was also in this square that I bought a copy of Le Petit Prince. I got the owner to knock off a euro and twenty cents from the price - by speaking in French! Word up!

Le loot! (Plastic cover included)

My feet were aching when I got home, but when it got dark H connived with the building concierge for the keys to the rooftop. It's the 13th of July after all, the eve of Fete Nationale, also known as Bastille day.

There were fireworks all over Paris and we had the 360-degree view. It was 18 degrees and windy, but H held me tight. It felt like the end of Fight Club. Up music, "Where Is My Mind."

Samedi Blanche

H and I were invited to a politician's garden party north of Orleans last weekend where everyone was instructed to wear white. Surrounded by members of the French upper crust, I traded in my colorful striped socks for lacy striped socks.

An hour before leaving for the party I realized I didn't have shoes for the occasion. I'd been leaning towards sandals the night before, but the day turned out to be a bit chilly and I had to wear stockings or die of exposure. So it was a good thing that I didn't throw away this pair of ballet flats that were muddy and falling apart on the inside (I don't remember how they got that way, though I bet there was rum in the equation). I scrubbed them frantically with a sponge, an old toothbrush and a prayer - and by nine pm a socialite with 5-inch heels pointed at my feet and said she envied me. I told her life can be so unfair to our sex.

The party was held in a private chateau in the middle of nowhere and I was surrounded by beautiful, wealthy people with patrician features. I was so out of my element!

Even the kids were fashion forward!

Wala lang, just turn your collar up tapos kaswal lang. I love the flapper look of some attendees. There were some outrageous costumes too, scroll down (way, way down) for Sasquatch.

Imma have a dress made like the one below.

We drove down with this Irish writer/designer. He was fascinated that Parisians could tell he wasn't French just by looking at him. I said, if they can distinguish that in a white male, what chances have I got?

We shared a table with fashion designers and fashion journalists... who were fascinated by the bold color choices of these two bozos.

But I did my best to fit in; and with an open bar, how can you not enjoy yourself?

There were the obviously pretentious bourgeois, starlets and hangers-on, but they weren't all half bad. In fact when I disappeared for the powder room, a guy who looked a little like Prince Harry and had a really nice aura about him struck up a conversation with H. Well, he turned out to be a minister's son and he thought we were so fascinating that he offered to introduce us to his friend in Thailand who has a polo club... I mean, I leave H for five minutes and he's suddenly moving up in the world. Halukadat. So maybe we could fit Thailand in our future itinerary, who knows?

Speaking of H, I'm so proud of him, he lost some weight recently and I haven't been able to catch up.

My pogi little champagne holder!!! I feel guilty because I ate everything they served.

But to my defence, I danced a lot after! And we danced until dusk... that was when we had a Bigfoot sighting.

When it got dark, everyone was called to the patio for a little movie from when the host was given the medal of honor.

But we were equipped to drink through it! Halukadat!

We huddled together and watched, until we were told to move to the lawn for fireworks. It took them a while to set up, so long in fact that H had started to lose interest, turned off the video cam and hugged me by the end of a samba "La Vie En Rose." Wouldn't you know it, that was when the fireworks started.

This was either "Boom, Boom, Pow" or a Shakira song. 

I think this was "If I Were A Boy."

On our way back home there were cars full of people in white on the road, and they were swaying left and right and breaking suddenly! So H sped past them and we had 20 minutes of peace on the highway until A DEER ran in front of us. H, God bless him, stepped on the break just in time so Bambi can be reunited with his mom. No more than 10 minutes later though, A FOX ran in front of the car! We were trying to predict what form the next pedestrian would take. Puro animal ang nasa kalsada! ANIMAL!