She’s Having a Baby (In France)!
It’s been toooo long since my last post, and mainly that’s because so much has happened that beginning to address the changes in my life is a daunting task. But, I’m finally biting the bullet, ready to update with the big news:
18 weeks
WE’RE HAVING A BÉBÉ!!!
At the beginning of May Mister Papa, Mister Cooper and I set out for an adventure in Portugal. Aside from being one of the best vacation settings ever, Portugal is also the magical land where we found out we were going to be parents!
Sun-soaked Lisbon!
Once we returned to France and quotidian responsibilities, though, our initial elation lost its brilliant sheen. And we suffered a few days of “What the F&@! - we can’t have a baby in France!!!!” The prospect of figuring out all of the administrative and practical aspects of having a baby is scary enough, but doing all this in another language (one in which we’re not fluent at all!) and in a country where we’re still trying to figure out how to do simple things like deposit checks at the bank - well, we were beyond terrified. But, after examining all possibilities we realized we didn’t have much of a choice! This baby is coming and here we are - in France. What follows is my mini-guide to being “enceinte” as they say, in France so far (if you’re interested. If not, feel free to skip to the picture at the end).
Task #1: Verifying the pregnancy with a real doctor.
As if 5 pregnancy tests weren’t proof enough, I needed some kind of official declaration from a doctor for me to believe that this was actually, in fact, happening. I mean, I was of course happy (and stressed and freaked), but there was a feeling of disbelief that I just couldn’t shake. This feeling was understandable as I had just been told in April that we’d have a hard time conceiving! (If anyone other than a gynecologist, after several hormonal analyses, tells you you’ll have trouble due to ovarian cysts- don’t believe them, ladies! I know this is TMI, but I know several women in my same situation.)
So, I set out trying to make an appointment with an English-speaking obstetrician in Paris. I started by simply googling “English-speaking Drs in Paris.” And then I went down the list, starting with doctors in close proximity to my flat and moving outward as I received response after response like this: “How do you know of Dr. so-and-so. From what kind of list?! Well then, we don’t have any appointments until July.” Finally, I accepted a July appointment (I would be 13 weeks by then!) and called my regular doctor.
I found my GP the same way back in November, but somehow had then managed to hijack a list issued by the PTA of the International School of Paris, with personal reviews of each Dr. I seriously just chose my GP because he was the first person to give me an appointment last fall. And so my adventure in French health care began. At any rate, I got really lucky in choosing him because he’s a fantastic doctor, always gets me in to see him the next day, if not the same day, and is super nice. So, I made a same-day appointment with him and HE called his obstetrician friend, asked if he’d be willing to take me on as a patient, warned him that my French isn’t great and I prefer to speak English, and made the appointment for me! Amazing! My Dr told me that without a referral it can take a very long time to get in to see an obstetrician in Paris. So, the next day I canceled that silly July appointment and off I went to meet my obstetrician.
Task #2: Meeting the obstetrician
He shook my hand and took me to his little office - typically parisian with an old fireplace, beautiful molding and ancient parquet floors - complete with examination table and ultrasound machine. After introductions, up I hopped onto the table and he showed me the pregnancy at 6 weeks - just a little button in a big uterine pond. He gave me the estimated due date, sent me to get a slew of blood tests, and told me to come back in a few weeks. And that was that!
Oh, and by the way, all of these accoutrements that give us a false sense of privacy in American hospitals (ie them leaving the room while you undress, then throwing paper blankets over your lap at the obgyn’s office and radiologists) DO NOT exist in France. So it’s just like, take your pants off (my dr at least has a paper screen, i’ve been to a radiologist that just asked me to undress in the middle of the room while he was on the phone), and get up there! At first it was uncomfortable for me, since it’s just so different. But, now I don’t give a hoot. Always I’m just excited to see the little ultrasonic Tadpole swimming around in his temporary home!
Task #3: The official declaration
One of the first things I did after verifying that yes, I was indeed mommy to a tiny Tadpole, was to go out and buy a French pregnancy book. Mister Cooper and I figured that this way we’d learn how things worked in the French medical system, we’d have dos and don’ts specific to France and we’d learn French childbirth vocabulary. The one I chose, J’attends un enfant, has a great month-by-month chart telling you all the things you need to accomplish at each stage. I learned from this that one has to report the pregnancy to several government agencies - yikes!
So at my next appointment, Dr. Baby filled out a nice form and told me it’s my job to send it all in by such-and-such date. Well, for me this was kind of an insane process because I didn’t yet have my French health card- the sacred Carte Vitale. It’s like the holy grail of expat living. I had applied for it back in November and, not a moment too soon, I finally received a response THAT WEEK (early June). With Carte Vitale in hand I filled out the requisite forms, sending one to the hautes-de-seine CPAM office (social security) and one to our town’s “allocation familiale” office (i think it’s like a child support office, but providing small subsidies even to middle-class families). Well, one of the forms I received back (don’t remember which) with the instructions to provide tax info, copies of ID’s, bank info, my left ear, a cheek swab and a lock of my hair. Okay, the last three weren’t really required, but the point is, don’t ever throw a piece of paper away when you live in France. You have to be able to send every paper documenting your existence at a moment’s notice.
I guess it all worked out in the end, because this week I got a piece of paper saying we might actually be entitled to some money and they’ll let me know in the 7th month! Plus, the last time I went to get blood tests I wasn’t charged a damn thing!
In France, when you’re pregnant, your health care charges should be minimal. There are different levels of doctors and you can find what level your doctor is and how much the dr. usually charges at http://ameli-direct.ameli.fr/. My doctors are both private practitioners and so are free to charge what they want (my GP is 30 euros per visit and my obgyn is 80-100 euros, including ultrasound) and they don’t process your Carte Vitale discount directly. Instead, they fill out a Feuille de Soins stating what they did and what they charged, and you have to send it in to social security office yourself. Social security will then reimburse you.
If you’re like me, and you’re on a visitor visa grâce à your mister (ie you can’t work in France) your personal ssn isn’t active. So when you fill out your Feuille de Soins all you put is your name and your birth date. Under Assuré (Insured party) you put your husband’s name, his numéro d’immatriculation (ssn - the # on his carte vitale), and his address (which is probably yours, too). He’s the one that has to sign it at the bottom, not you. I learned this the hard way - I’ve suffered many a rejected Feuille de Soins and now have to annoy my dr by asking for duplicates.
Okay - that’s enough for now! Hope this is helpful to some hapless expat googlers trying to figure all this out, too! Task #4: choosing your maternité to come soon.
11 weeks
Miss. Tic!
One of the most inspiring things about Paris is its support for and pride in its street artists. Among the best known are space invaders, L’Atlas, and my favorite: Miss. Tic.
Miss. Tic’s works are funny and poetic - retaining an 80s sensibility (she first developed her style in 1985) that is nonetheless still relevant and chic. Each of her stenciled works examine female sexuality, subjectivity, and sometimes simply what it means to be in the world.
better than nothing isn’t enough
I LOVE that I can be walking through the city (in the case of the above photo on my way to buy Paris honey at the bee store in Butte-aux-Cailles) and come across such an awesome, direct, thought-provoking artwork - and it won’t be painted over as if simply offensive garbage (as is often the case in US cities, even though all these French artists are inspired by American street art culture). Aside from the fact that Miss. Tic’s style simply embodies cool, her words and images are sexy and empowering - the kind of phrases that (when I can understand the wordplay) seem to speak directly to me.
(critiquing [Ingres'] historical female nudes - literally says that passive and loose women are easy to blame [instead of the real culprit], but also taking the guerilla girls’ line, implying that traditions like that seen in Ingres’ paintings are historically and visually disenfranchising to women. street art that’s complicated and smart.)
She currently has an exhibition up at Galerie Fanny Guillon-Laffaille in the 8th (though the gallery’s website doesn’t seem to be working) showing 30 of her new paintings on canvas. Otherwise you can see her works throughout the 13th. My favorite neighborhood to run into Miss. Tic-marked walls is the charming Butte-aux-Cailles. Go for a stroll, buy some honey, and discover some renegade art.
says something like: Just you wait and see (you’ll get yours)!
latter two images courtesy of www.missticinparis.com
A video from a 2009 exhibition:
Miss Tic Go Homme
envoyé par MrBenlou. - Regardez plus de courts métrages.
It’s Something Like the Gates to Hades: the theater of waiting patiently
Have I ever shown you where I go to renew my carte de sejour?
not even the plants want to be here. that tree’s branches are eternally bare (i visit this godforsaken fortress every couple of months and it never changes). For whatever reason mister cooper and I began referring to it as “the tree of life.” Only, it’s dead, so it’s like the place sucks all the life out of things - get it? (okay, maybe not so clever, but it amuses us.)
I live in Boulogne-Billancourt, a town just outside Paris in a large department on the west side of the city . . . and the prefecture here is reportedly more chaotic and unwelcoming than those inside Paris proper. What do we do here, you might wonder? we wait. We wait in line for about 45 minutes before the damn place opens, and then we take a ticket with a number on it (they run out of tickets quickly, so that’s why you need to get in line early). Then, you wait for your number to be called. This normally takes three or more hours, during which time we read, we watch all the other poor souls waiting for their respective turn (and everybody has sorrowful, haunted looks on their faces), we try to spot the American students (the only ones that are excited to be there), we get coffee from a vending machine, and we sit outside by the “tree of life” for a change of scenery.
While outside we can appreciate a few of the many innovative public artworks on the grounds:
This one juts up from the ground like a spinal remnant of some jurassic beast that long ago died while waiting too patiently for his turn at the guichet.
When our turn does come around we lug our massive package containing every paper documenting our life here over the last year (seriously, every last scrap of paper having anything to do with the business of living in france) up to the counter window and beg the lady behind it to be kind. Thankfully, she usually is. In fact, last time the woman behind the counter was so pleased with us, she told mister cooper he could apply for his 10-year card! although, she made sure to specify this privilege would not extend to me. well, at least one of us won out.
The bureaucratic process of living in another country is not pleasant or easy. Almost 6 months into the year and i’m still waiting on my new carte de sejour (and we can’t sort all the health insurance stuff out until it does come). But after almost two years dealing with this bureaucratic hoo-ha, I begin to find it simply annoying and the tiniest bit amusing. After all, with the prefecture such a dramatic setting, how can I ignore its theatricality?
Paris Fancy (Schmancy)
Paris is fancy. The home of haute couture and haute cuisine - it is the very definition of chic. For this farm girl (any California summer day you would find me in the garden with dirty hands, denim cut-offs, a warmish beer, and a sweaty brow) the chic can be a bit intimidating, even oppressive, and at the very least a bit puzzling - like some kind of hieroglyphic highbrow code I have yet to decipher. But there are days that I revel in the fancy, sink into it and savor its luscious offerings. And today was one of those days.
After guiding a little family through the Louvre this morning, I decided to take a detour on my way out through the Sephora - not expecting to find anything of particular note, but maybe pick up a teal polish for my toe nails, whatever. Instead, I became acquainted with Serge Lutens!
Amazing! A wall of incredible perfumes like nothing I’ve ever smelled before, designed by French artist, photographer, and cinéaste Serge Lutens (they’re made for shiseido, but bear his name). Of the 32 fragrances, I chose to wear one called “Fille en Aiguilles” which smelled something like a combination of frankincense and black pepper. Another favorite is the one pictured above called “Féminité du Bois” and was like charred cedar and rose petals. Some cost as much as 100 euro, but I think this cheapskate just may be willing to shell out for these remarkable smells.
It looks like the products will start being sold in the US this month, and the brand is offering free samples through the mail (click here).
Well, after my amazing introduction to the olfactory artistry of Monsieur Lutens, I decided to delight my sense of taste, as well, and headed over to Ladurée. Ladurée is a tea room and pâtisserie that is the fanciest of fancy. So, naturally, I avoided it for the first year I lived here (give this hippie a tempeh BLT or some vegan brownies any day). Once I crossed its gilded border, however, I was a convert. Offering a rainbow of flower-flavored treats (I’m a sucker for anything that tastes like fairy food) and rich pastries in a setting Marie Antoinette wouldn’t disapprove of, Ladurée is a favorite indulgence (even if a bit busy with tourists).
I chose a violet-flavored religieuse (a cream-filled pastry) and an espresso (i’ve become an avid consumer of espresso since relocating to Europe), but Ladurée is also known for its amazing macarons (my favorite flavors are by far the fleur d’oranger and vanilla).
See? Fancy.
So, to counter all this fancy, I’m now at home, listening to the Grateful Dead (American Beauty is one of the best, sunny day albums of all time. If you don’t believe me watch the last episode of Freaks and Geeks. Actually, just watch the whole series.) and dreaming about the very unfancy spring days of my youth spent with bullfrogs, lizards, and gold miners. It’s true, despite the beauty of Paris and the constant discovering of new things, I get homesick this time of year.
My Life in Months
My life for the past several months has been a crazy push and pull between California (where I think my soul somehow always dwells) and Paris (new home of my heart). I spent nearly two months this winter in California, by the end of which I was soooo ready to return to Paris (missing my cozy abode, my mister, my art, good bread, good coffee) . . . but when I did I felt completely displaced all over again, readjusting to the climate, the grey, the very non-california-ness of it all - not to mention starting to relearn/restudy the language (it’s amazing how fast you lose it if you don’t use it). Just as I started to get back into the rhythm of it all I flew AGAIN to California at the beginning of March for a lovely friend’s wedding. I only stayed for ten days, but even so returning to Paris was an adjustment once more. I so enjoyed the love of old friends, meeting new ones, the sun, the relaxed atmosphere of my tiny hometown, the nature that surrounds it . . . that teeny ghost town always somehow sings to my soul. 28-year-old Marya reverts to her 15-year-old hippie self on arrival. But that Marya is not the Marya that lives in Paris, and so traveling between these towns feels a bit like traveling between parallel lives or two different dimensions, each appealing to very different sides of me, and so as a result I’m haunted by a sort of existential jet lag for weeks after.
Needless to say, I’m back in Paris and staying put until May when I travel to Portugal with my lovely husband and my dad, Mr. Papa. (You may recall that Mr. Papa is our most frequent visitor - you can see him here)
For now, I spend most days at the Louvre navigating wayward visitors through its halls and stairwells, remarking on the beauty of favorite works, and showing kids things that will, hopefully, spark their imaginations, inspire a love of the visual, and help them to think about their world in a new way. I also write some things for GOGOParis, working with a fantastic woman that inspires me to DO. Life is good to me.
To top it all off THE SUN IS RETURNING!!!! By late spring in Paris this Californian starts jonesing for the sun like a strung-out junkie. And when the sun does shine I just drop everything, close my eyes, and tilt my face to the sky to soak it all in . . . instant relief.
See pieces of my life since January in the pics above.
The Glamourous Discarded
The other day I passed this bit of detritus on the street.
Champagne and cigarettes. It is Paris, after all.
And Back! (only to leave again soon. . .)
blaaaah - I’ve been such a bad blogger!! After month and months I’m back to begin writing, thinking, rambling on this blog (which i’m sure only my friends and family ever check - it is for them afterall!). Cause for my hiatus? Illness (a lazy vegetarian in Paris = anemia), absence (two lovely - busy - months home in California), and lastly apathy. I’m happily back in Paris now and settling in comfortably - only to leave again in a week! But, the reason for what will be a quick quick (10-day) trip to Cali is the wedding of one of my oldest and dearest friends (also co-conspirator in all my greatest adolescent hi-jinks!), so the brevity and exhaustion will be well worth it.
Well, it’s late Sunday evening, and I’m only taking a short break from hanging with my honey to share with you my most recent inspiration:
Eclectic collections of things - like on old cabinet of curiosities or the cave of the elven scientist in The Neverending Story - full of bugs and glass jars and bird feathers and bones and ashes and wax and planets and maps . . . relics of earth and life and mortality and knowing. I want my flat to be full of them (and books and books). And there’s two stores in the Marais that cater to this particular (non?) aesthetic: one is called mille feuilles (if i remember correctly) and is on rue rambuteau in the 4th. The other - whose window display is in the above picture - is on rue due roi de sicile also in the 4th, though I forget its name. These shops are, sadly, grossly overpriced - so I think one of these days I’ll go up to the flea markets instead, to amass what will surely be a grand collection of bits and bobs.
Note the trench coat reflected in the shop’s mirror - I swear that guy deliberately maneuvered to be in my photo!
It was All Hallow’s Eve . . .
France isn’t big on Halloween (it really is a holiday of american invention) so it was up to Mister Cooper and I to make our own celebration. As my American comrades were partying away back in my homeland, and while there were a few available parisian halloween parties to choose from, Mister Cooper and I settled in for a more private celebration of this beloved American holiday. We opted to cuddle up, eat loads of popcorn and sugar-based snacks and watch movies that i’m usually too much of a wimp to handle. Films that got top billing: A Nightmare on Elm Street, Friday the 13th, It’s a Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown, and Rosemary’s Baby.
Freddy Krugar’s really scary.
But I wasn’t too scared because I had these guys to watch out for me:
note their jaunty mustaches and killer berets. (the one on the left is a bit crooked, i know)
Also note the gummy smurfs in the foreground. you can get gummy smurfs everywhere here. I think they’re my new favorite vice. And I discovered that the flavor builds on itself so that the more you eat consecutively, the yummier they are.
To ensure that we stuffed ourselves as much as Hanzel and Gretel in the Witches cabin, I made popcorn the old fashioned way - on the stove. It was super easy and waaay yummier than that microwave crap.
I made three kinds: regular butter and sea salt (and i threw in m&m’s for good measure), gomasio and furikake, and butter and herbamare. yum! Also note our green “potions” (really just a minty french drink called a “diabolo menthe” - mint syrup and mineral water). Mister Cooper’s back there noshing on some corn and setting up the films (we watch movies on the xbox)
This was my mom’s favorite movie concoction: popcorn and m&m’s. In honor of her loving memory (and to satisfy my own love of the sweet with the salty). Seriously, try it.
It was the perfect halloween for us. cozy inside, me jumping at every sound and dustin giggling at my horror-film induced nervousness.
The Doodles of My Dreams
Today, while I was on a Christmas shopping reconnaissance mission at the Louvre’s kid gift shop, I picked up this amazing coloring book. Initially I thought I’d give it to one of our many nieces and nephews back home in california, but I’ve decided instead to keep it for myself. Selfish, I know, but I can’t bring myself to part with this find.
The book is huge, maybe 11 x 14″, and features the playful artwork of Lili Scratchy, a French designer living in the eastern suburbs of Paris. Her work is hilarious and cute, with a bit of a punk rock, outsider-y edge to it, featuring labyrinthine moustaches and spaghetti full of lost jewels. The illustrations are funny enough to make even mushrooms laugh. See?
Below is my favorite illustration, and the first I’ll color with the included watercolor pencils.
And all the pictures are one-sided and perforated, so when you’re done coloring they’ll make excellent and sophisticated decor of your own making (almost).
If you’re not going to be in Paris any time soon, you can also order these books online from that timeless purveyor of cool, colette.
So, I’ll be spending the rest of my Sunday with singing vegetables and the world’s smallest elephant, thanks to lili scratchy.
Sexy Cheese
Mr. K and I were remarking last night that only in France are the cheese commercials so unavoidably sexy.
In France cheese is sexy. No joke.
Cheese is a revelation
And one from the 80s proving that sexy cheese is a long-standing tradition