In my last post, I spoke too soon, now didn’t I ?!

On Sunday, May 29th at 9:00am my folks landed in Paris. I had firmly declared that I would work this week until they arrived in Hamburg on Thursday. But I’m so weak. I totally caved. By 5:45pm Monday we were jetting to Paris to meet them for dinner. At least I read some tax material on the plane; that counts, right?

Our friend and chic-Parisian-resident Dani joined us all for dinner at La Perla - the Mexican restaurant in the Marais where Soenke & I got our “start” (you know the story… supposedly I touched his knee….blah blah blah). Once we were all settled and introduced, I looked at the waitress to order, opened my mouth, and out came German. I closed my mouth and tried to reload the lingual hard drive. Second try: 50% French, 50% German, and a few words of Spanish. She looked at me a bit puzzled; I blinked a few times and shook my head, then Mom finished off my order for me in perfect French. So this is one of the hazards of European living: total lingual confusion.

After three hours of simultaneous chatter, laughter, stories, and marginally-authentic Mexican fare, we jumped into taxis and sped our separate ways: Dani back to her place in the 17th arrondissement, Mom & Dad back to their chic hotel overlooking the Tuileries… Soenke and I to our daring *2-star* digs up by Gare St-Lazare. Yes I know…”2-star!?!” you gasp in horror…how low have I sunk?… but it got rare rave reviews (for cheapo digs) on Tripadvisor and at a paltry 69 euros the price was sooooo right. I was fully vindicated when we got upgraded to a 4-bed room with 2 bathrooms. Paris loves me.

Monday proved to be island day. Mom consulted her trip notes and led the charge over to the Ile de la Cité to try and squeeze something new out of it. A few wish-spins on Paris’ center-point medallion (from where all distances in France are measured), some appreciative glances up at the Notre Dame, a bit of mingling with the hoards of tourists, then off to the quieter Ile St-Louis to the east. En route, we of course paused in my favorite little Parisian park resting quietly behind the Notre Dame… and at this time, edged by rose bushes in full bloom. Mom strode up, climbed right over the small fence, and smelled each rose (later she also plunged boldly across a nearby expanse of grass… right past the “stay off of grass” sign, of course… how silly that the French don’t enjoy their own lawns!) We later slipped down to the amazing War Memorial – often missed by visitors as it is below ground level, down some unassuming stairs on the eastern tip of the island.

Across the bridge to Ile St-Louis; the preferred neighborhood of the rich, famous, and discreet. It’s tranquil, charming…. a little boring. Enough said.

After a typically-Parisian 32-euro breakfast for four consisting only of croissants, coffee, and OJ… then a 21-euro tea break (who knew hot water and herbs could be so pricey?!), we were soon feeling hungry and a bit low on cash. Dad had a hankering for a truly authentic Frenchie lunch at the venerable Le Vieux Bistro (where I dined previously with Paris party people ‘back in the day’)… so we lapped back to the Notre Dame and indulged in a mere 120 euros of culinary BLISS. (uh, thanks Mom & Dad for picking up the tab on that one…) My vegetarian tendencies vaporized as soon as the menus were opened. Sizzling rack of lamb and savory beef bourgignon soon filled our table, along with crusty bread and potato gratin that sent our taste buds into delirium. Soenke’s and my shared crème brulee was no match for Mom & Dad’s fiery tart tartin – the waiter surprised us by setting this unassuming little apple pastry on fire (after apparently having drenched it in liqueur). Delish!

Total food coma ensued, and we trundled off to Monoprix to pick up some soap (don’t ask me why; it’s just tradition). Our sparkly-new Mercedes taxi had a computer screen GPS system that showed us on a city map exactly where we were driving. This is sheer German ingenuity at work, and if I had several thousand euros to spare, I’d have one promptly installed in every car we currently own, might own, will own, and would like to own.

But back to reality… to the Roissy bus…. the airport….Terminal 1… Satellite 6…the plane to Hamburg… and so concluded un beau jour à Paris!

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Doing some serious metro loitering:

The gang at La Perla:

The ever-photogenic Notre Dame:

My favorite roses - lavender - living large behind the Notre Dame:

Happy parkgoers staying off the grass:

Well, not all of us:

The Pont des Tournelles (I think):

Not a bad view of the back of the Hotel de VIlle:

A 1600s doorway and balcony on the Ile St-Louis:

If you look closely, you can see the flames…

Me: “Babe, come over here. Look at this.” (pointing to my overnight bag)
Soenke: “Yes, what? Look at your overnight bag??”
Me: “Yes. Do you see a problem?”
Soenke (with a puzzled expression after close scrutiny): “No. What.”
Me: “IT’S DUSTY !!!!!!!!”

And therein sums up the current situation.

May 2006 may just go down in history as the first entire month of global-airspace-without-Jennifer.

There are reasons for this. Whenever I come home wholeheartedly sick from a trip (as I did from our stellar Road Trip), I suddenly lose enthusiasm for flying germinators. This phenomenon has lasted up to a year – back in 2003. (Never fear, it’s already wearing off this time.)

In the meantime, I succumbed to a new malady, if you could call it that. A hardcore bout of DECORATING FEVER. Soenke would rephrase that to say I have been spending money…. lots of it. In heart-stoppingly costly spurts that cause the ever-spendthrift German to reach for the nearest valium. Why, you ask? Because I realized that I spent much of my time trying to escape from our white-walled, boxy, sanitarium-feeling apartment, rather than savoring homey downtime surrounded by beauty. I had never really gotten around to comprehensively making our place a home.

So it started with paint. Lots of paint, lots of walls. Warm terra cotta to counteract the German winter. Soothing green for an inspiring kitchen. Aqua blue in the bedroom to remind us of the color of the water on Mauritius. Then came art. Real art, from Barcelona, that had been sitting in a cupboard crying out to be framed. A new sofa – a huge, inviting, curl-up-with-5-people-and-watch-a-movie sofa. Then curtains - so that our longsuffering neighbors would no longer have to watch us frolic in our pajamas every morning. And dishes – our cupboards were full of family hand-me-downs, which, while great for a bachelor, did not suit super-chic Global Girl. But in Germany, all this takes TIME. 8 weeks. 10 weeks. Longer. I think I’ll see this fabulous new sofa right about the time I retire, and the curtains not much sooner.

Soenke bravely partnered in this process, with only small agonized protests as I whisked away his childhood nightstand and Bubba Gump souvenir cup for good.

The realization eventually dawned on me that I unwittingly had moved to a new country without really bringing any of my own possessions – other than some clothes, proper tampons (don’t ask), and eventually ALL my travel books. I spent a fair amount of time trying to figure out how to recreate my comfortable OC existence… being frustrated that Germany doesn’t seem to have all the tools to recreate that existence….then giving up and going Deutsch. It’s like reinventing myself as a new person - reflected in all the new things around me. I grew up with a 3-hole punch, now I’m using a 4-hole punch. I used to write checks, now I do bank transfers. I always liked ice in my drinks, but no one does ice here. A therapeutic trip to Pottery Barn is but a distant memory. My Starbucks habit is broken. Even my pillow is a different shape (they’re square here).

There have been decided improvements: fresh flowers – as cheap as they are - are a weekly must in Germany, not just a luxury. Downtime on Sunday is addictive; you CAN’T shop (all the stores are closed), so you have to relax. Sitting in a restaurant for hours without being hustled off the table has long ceased to feel like a guilty indulgence. Receiving a cheese education and a smorgasbord of samples at the käse counter feels sooo European. And I am now a firm believer that the only way to buy bread is straight from the bakery.

I don’t know why every step of the way has felt like such a struggle – why can’t I just go with the flow and embrace the changes? (Soenke says ‘JA, HALLOOOOOOO! PLEASE!! YOU’VE BEEN DRIVING ME CRAZY!’) I’m getting better at it – really – I am. As my mom sagely advised me when I was griping over the more-than-100% increase in my health insurance premiums when I switched to German health insurance: “Honey, just accept the inevitable and get on with it.”

In the meantime, I’m boosting the German economy and “getting on with it….”!

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Picking up my new wall candy:

These dishes are like a party on your table!:

After hard shopping, it was time for a glass of bubbly at the Veuve Clicquot Champagne Bar in the Alsterhaus: