‘This too shall pass’ – Keeping French expat life in perspective

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There are many fabulous things about Paris, but sometimes you just need a reminder of good ol' American stuff. Here's the first Chipotle location to open in France -- and it's on Boulevard Montmartre, right in the city center.
There are many fabulous things about Paris, but sometimes you just need a reminder of good ol' American stuff. Here's the first Chipotle location to open in France -- and it's on Boulevard Montmartre, right in the city center.
I know I’ve waxed poetic here about the “honeymoon phase” of my move to France and appreciating the “small stuff” about my new life in the charming village of Samois-sur-Seine and within France itself. But you UrbanTravelGirls knew THAT wasn’t going to last. Reality eventually intrudes, and all those cute-and-charming quirks about French life—you know, the midday break most businesses take, the fact that nobody but you seems to be in a hurried rush—start to get on your ever-lovin’ nerves. And I’ve encountered quite a few of those quirks over the past week, frustrating me and making me wonder WHAT in the world I was thinking to trade in a relatively easy and uneventful life back in downtown Chicago for the unpredictability of one as freelance consultant and writer overseas.

To keep my annoyance from getting out of hand, I’ve had to quote myself, referring back to UrbanTravelGirl posts I’ve written in seemingly simpler and less stressful times: “But although there’s much that’s fabulous about living in France, it’s not like every day is a holiday or that I’m constantly planning a last-minute vacation to some fabulous place (my Travel writing work notwithstanding). It’s real life, with all the pressures, challenges, errands and occasional hassles that go along with it—visits to the dry cleaners, La Poste, immigration office and other havens of bureaucracy.” For this Type A workaholic, it’s not always that easy.

Take yesterday, for example. Early in the morning, I tried to buy a train ticket online from Paris to Villefranche-sur-Mer for a friend’s wedding in the south of France, and for some weekend travel from France to northern Italy. Seems simple enough, right? Well, since I needed to pick up the tickets at the Paris train station, the website wouldn’t accept U.S. credit cards, only French “Carte Bleue” ones embedded with a special chip—and my French bank account hadn’t yet credited the funds I’d transferred over from my U.S. bank last week. So I called my bank in the nearby town of Fontainebleau, asking in broken French if I could just deposit euros in my account and have immediately available funds as I would at my bank in the States. NO SUCH LUCK. It would take at least one day.

So I went to Paris’ Gare de Lyon, a large station where trains depart for places in the south such as Marseille and Provence, and Italy. An employee assured me that I COULD use my foreign credit card in a self-service machine, thus skipping the line—so I got out of the long queue. (You know where this is going.) Of course I couldn’t—so those two tries wasted 30 minutes, making me run late for my next appointment.

The taxi driver told me the ride to historic Place Vêndome would take 14 minutes, but it ended up taking 40 and costing a small fortune—AND I ended up jumping out the cab and walking the rest of the way. Every time I’d ask, “Honestly, Sir—how much longer?” he’d say, “Four minutes.” WHY can’t folks just tell the truth, even if they can’t give the answer you’d like? And then the endless queues at the supermarket last night … ARRRGGGHHH!! Last night, I was supposed to check out the VERY cool Festival Django Reinhardt, the Samois summer music fête named for the famed gypsy jazz guitarist, but after this hassle-filled day I was spent.

If I had a euro for every time a friend or acquaintance said, “Wow—you’ve got such a glamorous life,” I’d be a wealthy girl (which I’m obviously not). Sure, thanks to my work, I get to experience incredible places—such as the five-star hotels and restaurants I visited last month in St. Tropez, Nice, and Monaco—but these only pay off if I’m able to translate those into Travel and Food articles that some publication wants to buy. But folks don’t see me sitting in my PJs in the middle of the night and early morning, noisily typing on my laptop and crashing on some deadline. Or the constant back-and-forth e-mails with potential editors and clients about possible projects and story ideas. Or poring over some French-language website or brochure, French-English dictionary in hand, desperately trying to decipher some important rule and keep myself on the right side of the law.

Sure, life would be way simpler and more carefree for us expats if we were independently wealthy or living luxuriously in villas in Jamaica. But as Kelly Clarkson shouts in “What Doesn’t Kill You (Stronger),” there’s something to be said for challenges:

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, stronger
Just me, myself, and I
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger
Stand a little taller ….

But it’ll take more than these hassles to send me packing. (And to be fair, there have been GOOD moments this week, such as going to the French immigration office toute seule (all alone, no translating friend in tow) for a required medical exam and walking away with my “Certificat de Controle Medical,” officially stating that I meet the health conditions to legally live in France. YAY for that!!) What’s key is remembering that this is all a learning process—I shouldn’t expect to know all the answers yet. Folks who’ve been here for decades are still figuring out French bureaucracy and how the country works, so why should I be surprised when I get caught off-guard?

As I always say, it’s just more fodder for “the book!”

BlackGirlTravel.com transforms faces – and lives – through Paris tour

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Fleacé Weaver (center) and her made-up “FlyGirls” after their fabulous afternoon – one created especially for THEM – at black|Up Cosmetics.
Fleacé Weaver (center) and her made-up “FlyGirls” after their fabulous afternoon – one created especially for THEM – at black|Up Cosmetics in Paris.

Among the many things I love about France—and living about an hour south of Paris—is that so many folks from the United States come through the city. I’ve already had a chance to spend quality time in the City of Light with some true-blue American friends who’ve visited here (Salut, Carol, Katherine, Kelly, Mary, Paula, Betty and Mike!).

What I ALSO love about living here is having the chance to meet so many others who are traveling through town on their own adventures. That’s why I was SO psyched when the fabulous Fleacé Weaver, founder of Los Angeles-based BlackGirlTravel.com, invited me to spend an afternoon with her and a dozen women as part of the group’s “April in Paris” tour. These African-American sisters spent two weeks living la belle vie in the heart of Paris, with Fleacé—who personally organizes and leads tours for sisters around the globe—as their fearless leader. I’d first met her virtually two years ago when interviewing her over the phone for a JET Magazine and JETmag.com Travel feature on “African-Americans Going Global.”

Among the specially created Parisian activities Fleacé’s group enjoyed was a makeover session at black|Up Cosmetics, which bills itself as the “#1 ethnic makeup brand” in France. A central Paris showroom filled with all the skin care, cosmetics and assorted extras a fashionista of color could want, black|Up hooked BlackGirlTravel UP on this May afternoon. Fleacé asked me to chronicle not just the makeovers, but how international travel—and specifically, this trip to Paris—was transforming these professional women’s lives. Check out the piece I penned for BlackGirlTravel.com, photos from their glamour-girl afternoon — and the other amazing group trips planned for Italy, Greece, Brazil, South Africa, Egypt, Dubai (and of course, Paris!) later this year and in 2013.

Talk about a small world. One of the women traveling in Paris with Fleacé told me how she first discovered BlackGirlTravel—and it was through that article I’d written for JET! Gotta love the power of the written word! What an awesome platform—and responsibility—we Travel writers have when sharing our work with the world.

So get out there, sistagirls, and keep on traveling!

In an expat life in France, even the small stuff is worth shouting about

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These Bateaux Mouches boat rides down the Seine River may feel clichéd, but what a view of Paris! Here I am during a Chicago friend's recent visit to the City of Light.
These Bateaux Mouches boat rides down the Seine River may feel clichéd, but what a view of Paris! Here I am during a Chicago friend’s recent visit to the City of Light.

So it’s been 4½ months since I first arrived in France, and in many ways, the time has crept by like “dog years.” That’s not a bad thing—rather, it’s pretty much what I expected by exchanging my comfortable, big-American-city life for a slower and much different one in a French village. On days when I’m at home writing an article or blog post, I could be anywhere; on days when I or take the 40-minute train into fabulous Paris, I’m in my favorite city in the world. I sometimes have to pinch myself when I round a corner and the Eiffel Tower pops into view, when I’m breaking off a fresh piece of a crispy crusted baguette after a stop at a boulangerie, or when I look out my front window in Samois-sur-Seine and remember that the river flowing outside is the same one that snakes through Paris. WOW.

A view of the incomparable Notre Dame cathedral from that Bateaux Mouches boat ride down the Seine. Sometimes I STILL can't believe that I'm able to savor joys like this without first getting on a plane -- just a suburban Paris train!
A view of the incomparable Notre Dame cathedral from that Bateaux Mouches boat ride down the Seine. Sometimes I STILL can’t believe that I’m able to savor joys like this without first getting on a plane — just a suburban Paris train!

This is what I call the “Under the Tuscan Sun” or “Before Sunset” part of my French experience, when my days contain happenings—or involve real-life French people—that seem right out of a Hollywood script.

Ahhh... the film that started it all for me back in 2003 and helped inspire my first move to Europe. Sometimes, my daily life feels like a scene from this incredible film about reinventing yourself abroad.
Ahhh… the film that started it all for me back in 2003 and helped inspire my first move to Europe. Sometimes, my daily life feels like a scene from this incredible film, one all about reinventing yourself abroad.

But although there’s much that’s fabulous about living in France, it’s not like every day is a holiday or that I’m constantly planning a vacation to some fabulous place like Club Med (my Travel writing work notwithstanding). It’s real life, with all the pressures, challenges, errands and occasional hassles that go along with it—visits to the dry cleaners, La Poste, immigration office and other havens of bureaucracy.

What I’ve found—and what I’m remembering from my living-in-Italy-as-an-expat experience—is that the small daily victories are worth shouting about. I’m thinking about my first trips to the Institut de Beauté (beauty salon) in the nearby village of Vulaines-sur-Seine and being able to leave with a lovely manicure, pedicure and all-important au naturel bikini wax. (Think this is no big deal? Try making sure that LAST service turns out right in a language you can barely speak!)

Here I am this winter on rue du Bas Samois, an incredibly scenic street on which I travel to get to the center of town, where the boulangerie, post office and small library are housed.
Here I am this winter on rue du Bas Samois, an incredibly scenic street on which I travel to get to the center of town, where the boulangerie, post office and small library are housed.

Then there’s my first dared return of an item to a French store. I’d bought a teapot but needed to take it back to the large Carrefour supermarket, a big deal since that whole the-customer-is-always-right philosophy never made its way to France. Fortunately, I didn’t have to pull out my limited, preschool-sounding French repertoire of protests and explanations. And I was TOO proud of myself for being able to open my first bank account in the nearby “big town” of Fontainebleau all en français, as the helpful representative handling my file spoke about two words of English. And it went like clockwork!

Then there’s the HUGE acquisition of my titre de sejour, the pink laminated card that attests to my official residency in France. After starting the arduous and time-consuming process back in Chicago in November—and making several trips to nearby préfectures, or the police administrative offices, thanks to the invaluable assistance of an kind older French friend—I’m now legally able to stay in the République Française for at least three years—and an additional three if I choose to renew it. This means I can now buy into the world-renowned French health care system (sadly, I can’t do the same in my home country—but that’s another post/rant for another day) and can come and go from France as I please. Talk about EXHALING—I was floating on air after walking out of the Fontainebleau préfecturewith this little treasure.

By nature, I’m a bit of an obsessive worrywart, someone who gets herself tied up thinking about “what if?” scenarios. But while I’m in France, I’m really trying hard to focus on life’s joys and small pleasures. You UrbanTravelGirls will love this one.

One day, I decided to stop in at this cool-looking independent wine shop called La Cave Avonnaise in the next town. Because the shop is a bit off the beaten path, I figured they’d know their stuff and would be able to advise me on some local purchases. So on my drive back to my flat, I stopped in and a cute and charming young Frenchman was working in the store. Sadly, my French is still terrible, but I’m in all-out “try” mode these days. So he helped me find a reasonably priced bottle of Champagne and an interesting rosé from an appelation not too far away from Samois itself. And after he rang up my purchase, he unexpectedly gave me un cadeau—a box of chocolate truffles as a gift. I thought he was encouraging me to BUY them, but he said, “Un cadeau—pour vous. Because you are so beautiful.” Then he introduced himself and said he’d see me soon. You SO know I’ll be back in there time and time again, stopping in often to pick up more wine. Now tell me WHEN something like that would happen in the States!!!

Can I just say that I love this country?

How living abroad in Italy years ago prepared me for life in France NOW

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Even in 2012, many restaurants in France still close for the midday break or -- like long-standing Chez Fernand in Samois-sur-Seine -- are only open Wednesday through Sunday.
Even in 2012, many restaurants in France still close for the midday break or -- like long-standing Chez Fernand in Samois-sur-Seine -- are only open Wednesday through Sunday.

When you move abroad from the United States—and even when you move to an equally developed country—the adjustments you need to make in daily life are huge. That’s not to say that they’re BAD; they’re not. They’re just different. You might not find the same cough drop brands at the local pharmacist; out in the villages, you’re not likely to find a walk-ins-are-welcome manicure salon. But obviously, you’ve decided small changes like these are worth making in order to live the life you have now.

As I go about my daily routine, I’m finding that many of the experiences I have here in the lovely village of Samois-sur-Seine, in the surrounding towns, and 40 minutes away in Paris are nearly identical to ones I faced in Florence, Italy, when I lived there back in 2004 and 2005. Thank goodness this time around, I feel much more prepared to tackle the inevitable challenges that crop up on a daily basis. As anyone living abroad can attest, it’s during your first experience that you learn to juggle the truly unfamiliar until it becomes comfortable.

Both France and Italy are enormously popular with visitors around the world, in no small part thanks to the often slower, more tranquil—and dare I say “human”—quality of life you’ll find in both countries. Living in both countries has helped me realize that it’s neither necessary—nor at all healthy—to live a frantic, running-in-circles existence. That it really is possible to savor a meal without simultaneously reading, paying bills and taking notes for the next interview. And that it’s as important to accept a neighbor’s impromptu invitation to drop by for dinner or drinks as it is to crank out the next deadline assignment.

But tranquility comes at a price—especially for those of us used to 24-hour supermarkets, the-customer-is-always-right service, and same-day everything. When you’re an urban girl living in downtown Chicago, somewhere in Manhattan or perhaps in über-modern Montreal condos, the world is on-call, waiting to meet your every need. In cities and towns throughout France and Italy, not so much—but that’s OK. Here are several ways that my first expatriate stint readied me for the second time around in France: 

  • Making the most of that midday break. It’s often tough for Americans to get used to the concept of stores, restaurants, and businesses shutting down in the middle of the day—or not being open at ALL on Sundays, which often is the only day many of us have to run errands. But you know, I kinda like this close-mid-afternoon-and-on-Sunday thing. For one, it helps you remember that the people working at the dry cleaners, serving your food at a brasserie or bistro, and baking your bread at the nearby boulangerie are real people with real lives. They like to eat lunch, just like you do. And on Sundays, they’d rather be spending time with their families than dealing with you and your fellow customers. That’s civilizing—and fair.
Don't DARE be in a hurry when going to La Poste or other businesses in France (or Italy). Life happens when it does ... and you learn to get used to it!
Don't DARE be in a hurry when going to La Poste or other businesses in France (or Italy). Life happens when it does ... and you learn to get used to it!
  • Patience, please. As long as you remember that EVERYTHING takes longer to do than you think, you save yourself much frustration and stress. That quick trip to the post office? Not likely. Either the person ahead of you is handling some complicated transaction—or more likely in MY case—I’m lost halfway through mine because my French comprehension isn’t quite there. (This is why before I leave home, I consult my trusty French dictionary and/or grammar books for key terms that I’ll need to use at La Poste, at the mobile phone store, or at the shoe repair shop. Unfortunately, these aren’t the words you generally learn in once-a-week French classes back in the States.) You’re better off doubling the amount of time you expect an errand will take—and while you wait, pull out that French grammar book and take advantage of the free time.
  • Better plan ahead. Let’s face it, folks—the United States is a procrastinator’s dream. So you forgot to take that dress for tonight’s cocktail party to the dry cleaners’ last week? No worries—drop it off before 9 a.m.; get it back by 4. Need new heels put on those fierce stilettos? Sure thing—you’ll get them back in 10 minutes AND while you wait. Going to a networking event but forgot to take enough business cards? Just e-mail the file to a print shop and they’ll have them printed up the same day. Life does NOT work like that here. If you get lucky, you might get your goods back by the end of the week IF you show up Monday morning. But it’s hardly the end of the world. If nothing else, it just forces you to get organized and take care of business Monday through Saturday if you really need something done.
  • Be engaged—and be seductive. That doesn’t mean you go around throwing yourself at the postman or the guy at the butcher shop. But even in 2012 in both Italy and France, customers still actively engage with the people serving them. I’ve always found that a genuine smile goes a long way—especially when you don’t yet speak the language well. In Florence, if I walked past the corner café, phone shop or the cleaners, I’d wave and briefly chat or exchange pleasantries (in broken Italian, mind you), because it’s simply uncivilized not to do it. And once I’m out and about more in France and get to know business owners, I’ll do the same. What a nice habit to develop, especially when you live and work alone as I do. It’s all about making a human connection. No one’s explained this better than Elaine Sciolino, the Paris correspondent and long-time Paris bureau chief of The New York Times, in her provocative book La Seduction: How the French Play the Game of Life, believing that seduction is “the ever-present subtext for how the French relate to one another.” As she writes in a chapter called “Make Friends with Your Butcher,” “… there should be pleasure in the process of getting something done, whether it is being served a steak frites or buying a cell phone.” Indeed.
Ahhh ... the pleasant Vicolo del Canneto, a narrow street where I lived when in Florence. It's here that this Type A Capricorn finally learned to appreciate slowing down (well, at least in theory!).
Ahhh ... the pleasant Vicolo del Canneto, a narrow street where I lived when in Florence. It's here that this Type A Capricorn finally learned to appreciate slowing down (well, at least in theory!).
  • Learning the language. In my younger days, I was a much quicker study when it came to figuring out foreign languages like Spanish, which I studied in elementary and high school and at university. I took several language courses before moving to Italy, but none of it seemed very helpful once I landed on the ground in Florence (a city where you can easily speak English much of the time because of ever-present tourists). Still, I struggled through it. Found kind-hearted Italians who’d let me practice with them. And s-l-o-w-l-y, eventually, the impasse broke and it all started to make sense. It still does—so much so that I’d feel comfortable traveling solo through Italian regions where I’d be unlikely to run into English speakers. With much more study and actual TALKING, I know I’ll someday get a grasp of le français and will no longer have to plan out conversations minutes before speaking. Still, you should have seen my glee when discovering yesterday that the shoe repair man at a nearby cordonnerie was actually Italian! We instantly switched from French to italiano, allowing me to comfortably chat and build instant camaraderie with this friendly signore.  

If these Italian-French experiences can remind me to slow down, savor life and not just speed through on auto-pilot—regardless of where I decide to call home—they’re lessons worth learning.

Thanks, Whitney, for bringing ‘the world to church’

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The program from the singing legend's Saturday funeral.
The program from the singing legend's Saturday funeral.

For the past couple days, I’ve been listening nonstop to one of the soundtracks of my childhood: straight-up, good old-fashioned African-American gospel music. And for that, I can thank Sister Whitney Houston, whose Newark, N.J., funeral at the New Hope Baptist Church was broadcast live around the world on Saturday, giving fans like me who never knew her a chance to say farewell in the way that we black folks do. In a “homegoing service,” one that focuses on the heavenly destination of the person being celebrated.

So sitting here on the other side of the world, in a quiet French village far, far away from the urban center that is Newark, I watched Whitney’s funeral on CNN.com and “had church” right here, all by myself. Such is the power of modern Internet technology—and the far more enduring power of gospel music and the Christian source from which it flows.

Forgoing a huge public spectacle, Grammy Award winner Cissy Houston instead took her internationally famous daughter back home to New Hope, where young “Nippy” got her start singing in the junior choir. (How many of us went to churches with such choirs back in the day? But almost none of us had a future Whitney up there singing solo!) Cissy herself still directs the church’s Youth Inspirational Choir, has been an active leader in New Hope’s music ministry for decades … and in her wisdom allowed a single video camera to record and share the hours-long homegoing service through live video. What a tribute to Whitney, whose soulful gospel singing was downright angelic.

Pastor Marvin Winans (center), surrounded by several musical members of the Winans family, shared their hit "Tomorrow" with the worldwide funeral audience.
Pastor Marvin Winans (center), surrounded by several musical members of the Winans family, shared their hit "Tomorrow" with the worldwide funeral audience.

Pastor Marvin Winans—who officiated the service and delivered the eulogy—thanked Cissy for holding the service at New Hope. As he said, “That took a lot of courage. And because of that, you brought the world to church today.” What a blessing for folks like me—and millions of fans in every corner of the globe that got a front-row seat to an authentic, real-as-it-gets African-American worship service and gospel music celebration. (How many of you noticed the church nurses in their crisp white uniforms, doing what they do at black churches Sunday in and Sunday out? And did you see the one handing tissues to a teary Alicia Keys at the piano? It felt almost surreal.)

For me—the granddaughter of a black Baptist pastor and the daughter of an amazingly talented gospel organist and pianist—Saturday’s service took me straight back to my childhood church roots. In Chicago, I grew up with a dad who as a “P.K.,” or “preacher’s kid,” started playing piano at church while a pre-teen. For some reason, it seems that if you show any musical inclinations and talent and your father is a black pastor, becoming a musician at the same church is like a rite of passage. My dad Farnell played for the Sunday School at the Greater Salem Baptist Church when he was 12, then moved up to playing for morning worship by the time he was 14. Growing up on Chicago’s South Side, my sister and I constantly were treated to my dad’s gospel writing and playing, as he was the Minister of Music at the Oakdale Covenant Church for nearly 30 years. During that time, he recorded two albums with Oakdale’s choirs and one with a couple of like-minded gospel musician friends.

When my sister and I were kids, we’d sometimes accompany Farnell to choir rehearsals, where he would good-naturedly bark at the sopranos, altos, tenors and basses, imploring them to E-NUN-CI-ATE when they sang, knowing the power of gospel isn’t in its toe-tapping, sway-inducing sounds, but in the words.

Transported back home and back in time while watching the funeral on my laptop, I dabbed at my teary eyes. Donnie McClurkin’s incredibly powerful rendition of “Stand” did it, a song that has always touched me every time I’ve heard it sung at a church. And just as black church ministers will do, letting the “Spirit have its way” during the service, Pastor Winans called his musical family members to the pulpit to deliver an impromptu but right-on-time version of their hit “Tomorrow,” complete with an encouraging “Sing y’all,” from some listener.

The award-winning Rev. Donnie McClurkin delivered a powerful version of "Stand" during Saturday's funeral ... and what a message to Whitney's family and friends.
The award-winning Rev. Donnie McClurkin delivered a powerful version of "Stand" during Saturday's funeral ... and what a message to Whitney's family and friends.

But thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I wasn’t watching the funeral alone. Although many of you know I’m not always a big fan of either, I was all over both of them during the service, sharing comments, posting “Amen” to others.

All weekend and even today, I’ve been on YouTube, searching for my gospel favorites like it’s Old Home Week. Songs like Tramaine Hawkins’ “The Potter’s House.” Walter Hawkins and the Love Alive Choir’s “Come by Here,” “Be Grateful,” and “Thank You (Lord for All You’ve Done for Me).” And who remembers the Hawkins Family’s “What Is This?” I felt like I was a kid, again listening to my dad’s former Senior Choir back at Oakdale.

Yolanda Adams "had church" at Saturday night's 43rd NAACP Image Awards while singing "I Love the Lord," a song Whitney Houston performed during "The Preacher's Wife."
Yolanda Adams "had church" at Saturday night's 43rd NAACP Image Awards while singing "I Love the Lord," a song Whitney Houston performed during "The Preacher's Wife."

If Saturday’s funeral wasn’t enough, Yolanda Adams tore it up at that evening’s 43rd NAACP Image Awards with a choir-backed tribute to Whitney. Adams SANG “I Love the Lord,” a classic Houston made her own (along with the Georgia Mass Choir) for the soundtrack of “The Preacher’s Wife.” And did Yolanda preach that song?? Famous folks in the audience were teary-eyed and nearly testifying when the camera panned the crowd.

That’s what I love about gospel music: whether you’re filthy rich or lacking that proverbial pot, it’s a great equalizer. Those who allow the music and the Spirit’s message to touch their hearts find themselves responding, regardless of age, social class or race. And you don’t have to be a Christian to feel it, either.

We didn’t want to see Whitney go. But perhaps in death, sharing the soul-stirring gospel music she loved with the world was her greatest gift of all.