Author: Grace Birdsong

Musée de L’Orangerie

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 6 Comments

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There is a treasured secret in Paris. It’s much smaller than the Louvre or even the Musée D’Orsay, but infinitely more fairytale and serene. The Musée De L’Orangerie is a charming, little jewel box of an art museum set just at the edge of the Tuileries Garden amid the chaos of Place de la Concorde. A calm oasis in the heart of the city, this sacred space holds Monet’s crowning achievements, the Water Lilies and Willows of his home in Giverny. They refer to all of these masterpieces as the Nymphéas here in Paris. (Nymphéas means water lilies in French.) And they are evidence of Monet’s lifelong obsession with the eternity of beauty.

Each of the canvases displayed here is six and a half feet tall, and if lined up side by side, they would be almost 300 feet long. To be surrounded by that size and scale of art makes you feel as if you are actually inside the paintings. The best way for me to describe it to you, is to ask you to think of the film “What Dreams May Come,” and the way it portrayed heaven as a world made entirely of paint. That is the feeling you get when you sit at the center of these masterpieces for an afternoon.  Heaven…made entirely of paint.

I will confess here and now that I am not much of a fan of Impressionism in general. I don’t feel any visceral impact from many of the paintings of that genre. Quite often, it feels as though there is no emotion or passion in it, nothing to hold my interest. But, these breathtaking panels of Monet’s are completely different.

They are huge, emotional works, designed to capture the changing qualities of light in his garden, passing through the hours of sunrise to sunset. And with no horizon to orient yourself as you study them, the elements of sky, earth, water and air seem to melt together, with only the water lilies and the willows to create a rhythm. The works are almost abstract, particularly the images of dusk. And they assault your every sense with their grace and power.

Monet willed these masterworks to the city of Paris with one condition. He wanted to design the architecture of the space so that the visitor would feel that they had taken a vacation from the city without ever having to leave it. Here is the journey he designed.

First, you walk across a glass-sided catwalk and into a stark white, circular vestibule. Monet demanded this space be devoid of any color. In fact, all three rooms in his design are completely white: floors, ceilings, walls, everything but the paintings. This vestibule is simply the first step in that journey. A blank circle, designed to empty your mind and help you decompress from the chaos of the city. Here, you take a couple of deep breaths and pay homage to the bronze bust of Monet that stands guard to the beauty you haven’t yet seen.

At the back of the vestibule, there are two 45-degree angle entrances that lead you into the first of two long, white, oval rooms. The first of these rooms is devoted to Monet’s Water Lilies. The four gently curving walls are a beautiful backdrop for the Water Lilies, which are the only source of color in the entire space. They surround you everywhere you look. It’s like climbing inside a painted waterscape.

Once you have experienced this first room, you move on to the second. You travel through two more 45-degree angled archways to arrive at another pure white, oval room, identical to the first. This space is where the Willows live. Equally powerful, equally beautiful, but darker, more brooding somehow.

These two rooms are each lit from above, through a white scrim which diffuses the light and makes the space feel otherworldly somehow. The only thing to see in these two large oval spaces is the magic of the water lilies and willow trees themselves, the interplay between color and light. And in the center of each room, rest two long benches on which the visitors sit while they meditate on the beauty that surrounds them.

In 1927, one year after Monet’s death, these eight masterpieces were actually laid into the gently curving walls of these two rooms at the Musée de L’Orangerie. The canvases cannot be removed. In fact, they remained embedded in the walls thoughout a huge renovation of this museum which began in 2000. Since it was impossible to detach the paintings from their home, demolition and construction had to take place around them. To protect the paintings from water, heat, dust and vibrations, they were sealed inside reinforced boxes, each attached to an alarm system.

The result of this six-year renovation is the addition of two lower floors, which now house a gift shop, a café and an entire floor devoted to other masterpieces by Renoir, Cézanne, Picasso, Matisse, Modigliani, Soutine, and Derain to name a few. There’s even a space downstairs dedicated to temporary exhibitions as well.  Now that the renovation is complete, the museum is worthy of the beauty that abides within it; but the star, of course, is Monet.

Monet summed up his passion for the Nymphéas with this. “These landscapes of water and reflection have become an obsession for me…It is beyond my strength as an old man, and yet I want to render what I feel.”  Well, render it he did. You don’t just see these paintings. You feel them. The violets and blues, greens and russet browns, they haunt you, long after you leave the museum. But it’s friendly haunting…and a beautiful one.

In his lifetime, Monet painted around 250 oils of his beloved Japanese-style lagoon at Giverny. And in my opinion, by far the most powerful are the Nymphéas displayed here. These eight panels, filled with light and reflection, are the crowning achievements of Monet’s garden. They are his life’s work. They are his legacy, and he bequeathed them to Paris, the City of Light.     How fitting.

Learning French Is Hard, Y’all!

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 4 Comments

I have a bachelor’s degree in journalism and I’m the proud owner of two master’s degrees with 4.0 averages: one in education and one in theater -all from highly respected, private universities. I’ve even been awarded the Phi Delta Kappa key (huge scholastic honor for educators). I have had the pleasure of teaching Fine Arts in private universities for over 25 years. And, in fact, am considered very intelligent and highly capable by both peers and students alike. In short…I am not a stupid person. But, I will tell you that at the age of 51, I realized with glaring certainty that I am not NEARLY as smart as I thought I was.

It’s been almost a full year since my husband and I moved to Paris. During that time, I have taken French language courses for weeks and weeks. I have practiced my grammar with our “oh-so-patient” Parisian friends. Even our wonderful neighbors from the fifth floor have helped with this process. We have dinner with them about once a month or so, and for entire evenings we speak roughly 80% French and 20% English. And I am still hopelessly confused by the French language.

Why is French so difficult, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell you. French has nine different verb tenses, each one with six different conjugations depending on the subject (I, you-familiar, he/she/it, we, you-formal or plural, and they). Each conjugation changes depending on the gender of the subject being referred to -as well as whether it is singular or plural. Even items have genders in French. They don’t simply say “the book” or “the purse.” Every single item has a gender. And there is no sense whatsoever to which items are masculine and which are feminine, so you just have to memorize every single noun in the entire French language to know whether it is male or female. For instance…high heeled shoes? MASCULINE. So the conjugation must include the ending for a masculine verb. As I said, there is absolutely no rhyme or reason to it. No wonder the French need to drink wine at every meal.

There are many rules in the French language, and for every rule there are many exceptions. This only adds to the horror. I now despise the film “Eat, Pray, Love” because after having seen the lead characters becoming fluent in Italian within three months, I was convinced I could do the same with French. Hey…I had even learned Dutch -one of the least-spoken, funniest-sounding, weirdest languages on the planet. French had to be easier, right? Not on your life.

Learning French is the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. I’m constantly humbled and sometimes even humiliated by how wretched my French actually is. My accent is excellent, they tell me, which oddly enough, adds to the problem. Whenever I start a conversation with someone here, they assume I’m fluent because of my accent. So, they begin their rapid-fire French in response. I call this “Firehose French” because it shoots out at 1,000 miles an hour with no pauses or punctuation of any kind. I start to feel strangely “out of body” and see images of Charlie Brown listening to his school teacher “Wah wah wah wah wah wah wah.”

Of course, I ask the person I’m speaking with to slow down. I apologize. I tell them that I’m an American and speak French like a Spanish cow. Fortunately, this makes them laugh, and we stumble and bumble our way through the conversation until I’ve gotten my point across. There are times when I actually understand French, but only when the conversation is slow and uses tiny words. Little French kids can out-language me in seconds. It’s a humbling thing to be this bad at something for this long…and every day to wake up knowing that you have to face it again.

I start French language classes again next Monday. I am praying that they will help me to be better, faster, and even funnier in French. And God willing, it won’t take the rest of my natural life. But I’m not holding my breath.

As we ease into 2016, and you start making goals for the new year, please use this embarrassing confessional tale of mine to remind you, “No matter how slow you go, you’re still lapping everybody on the couch.”

And say a prayer for me.  Remember, I start school again on Monday.

The Christmas Markets of Paris

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 3 Comments

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I love the Parisian Christmas Markets. When they start showing up, you know Christmas is just around the corner. And you can spot one a mile away. Whenever you see dozens of white tents clumped together like Santa’s mobile workshop, you know you’re in luck. Those white tents remain the same from one market to the next, but each of the markets has its own feel, and as a result, its own special charm.

The Champs Élysées Market feels like a quaint, small town carnival. It comes complete with a giant slide, a spook house, a huge ferris wheel and even its own ice skating rink. Most of the tents in this market are filled with “State Fair” kinds of foods done gourmet style: freshly made waffles, crepes, sausages, paella, shawarma; you can get almost anything here. Gift ideas though, are almost an afterthought at this one. The Champs Élysées market is all about the rides and the food. It feels like something from another era….perfect for a romantic date night in the city.

It stretches from the Champs Élysées all the way to Place de la Concorde. And when you’re standing in the middle of the market, the view is amazing in either direction. Look one way and you’ll see the length of the Champs Élysées stretching all the way to the Arc de Triomphe. Lining either side of the famous boulevard are all those beautiful, square trees, twinkling with blue and white fairy lights. It’s beyond gorgeous.

A look in the other direction, and the white tents lead you straight to the giant Ferris Wheel called “The Roue” -outlined in brilliant white light. During the Christmas season, it sits smack in the middle of Place de la Concorde marking the end of this Christmas bazaar. The Champs Élysées market, with its small town feel and its beautiful views, makes for a perfect, and very different date night out in Paris.

Saint Germain has its own Christmas market as well. Window shopping is one of the main draws of Saint Germain in the first place, and this market lives up to its neighborhood. Its theme is more boutique wines and cognacs with all the fun things to go with them: cheeses, candies, roasted nuts. It’s lovely.

But, my favorite of the Christmas markets is the one at La Defense. It’s HUGE for one thing. And it feels more Christmas-y, somehow. I think it’s the bright red carpets. They run everywhere you go, connecting about 100 white tents at the foot of the Grand Arch. And when you get to “walk the red carpet” from tent to tent, it really puts you in the holiday spirit.

There are the food tents, of course, filled with all sorts of items for stuffing stockings and entertaining for the holidays. They have fois gras, pâté, and every flavor of nougat and Turkish Delight that a child could dream up. For those cold winter nights, there are booths filled with cognacs, armagnacs and wines. And of course, they have French cheeses, but not just the ones that typically come to mind. Yes, they have camembert and brie, but they also have artisanal cheeses flavored with everything from lavender to wasabi, basil to sun-dried tomato…even coconut. I’ve tried (and bought) all of them. And they are absolutely divine.

If you want to have lunch while you shop, you can grab a raclette sandwich or even sit down for a plate of smoked meats & sausages. For your sweet tooth, there are crepes and waffles, sugared fruits and homemade hot chocolate. Or you can just warm up with a cup of mulled wine while you shop.

La Defense also has dozens of tents with ideas for Christmas presents: beautiful umbrellas, vintage toys, artisan lamps, scarves from India, perfumes and lotions. It’s like the mother of all flea markets, but everything is brand new and filled with promise. There are strings of twinkling lights woven into silk flowers, perfect for decorating the rooms of lucky little girls. There are booths devoted to Russian nesting dolls. I’m guessing those are for the little girl who’s all grown up. There’s even a wonderful little booth that deals exclusively with the jazz greats. Here you can find double CDs of everything from Miles Davis to Nina Simone. And they pipe the music into the market so you can groove while you browse.

As you stroll the red carpet exploring the booths, you are constantly being offered samples of the most wonderful treats -things like crystalized pineapple, nougat, chewy dried figs, chocolate truffles and fresh nuts coated in cinnamon and sugar. Trust me. This is a great way to enjoy a Saturday.

I’ve been to the La Defense market three times this year…It’s that good. My favorite purchase so far has been a gorgeous, red toile umbrella made by a company who has been in business since 1785. Now, when we walk the dogs in the rain, none of us will get the least bit wet.

Merry Christmas…and Joyeux Noel!

The Art of Politeness

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 8 Comments

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(Footnote: The people of Paris are looking forward to Christmas. They’re making plans, shopping for gifts and spending time with family and friends. They’re leaving the terrorist attacks of November 13th in the past -where they belong.  So I’m going to make a right-hand turn here as well, and talk about something altogether different from my last two posts.)

Politeness is a lost art.  Americans in general tend to think of it as a silly formality or a waste of time, something quaint from a bygone era. But Parisians have a concept they actually call “l’art de la politesse” and they live by it every minute of every day. Let me tell you, it makes a HUGE impact on your life here.

Being polite, if you do it correctly, absolutely forces you to be present in the moment with the person in front of you. It is a magical concept really, if everyone embraces it as a way of life. And here in Paris, everyone does. The best way I know how to illustrate this beautiful principle is with a comparison. So I’m going to give you two illustrations of a trip to the bakery. The first will be done the American way. The second, will be the Parisian way.

As an American, you tend to be busy, running through your “To Do” list each day. So, as you pull into the parking space for the bakery, you grab your purse and run into the store. And quite often, you are talking on your cell phone as you enter. When you get to the front of the line, you might say hello to the person behind the counter, but even if you do, you are usually looking directly at the bakery case, deciding on the things that you’d like to buy. (You may still be on your cell phone at this point.) As the clerk rings up your total, you start pulling out your wallet, already beginning to think about the next errand on your list. You pay, and you usually throw out a “goodbye” or “thank you” over your shoulder, as you are running out the door to get to the next errand. It’s efficient. It’s hurried. And your mind was hardly present for any of it.

As a Parisian, you walk into the boulangerie, wait your turn, and as you arrive at the front of the line, a social encounter takes place. There is a ritual to these interactions. This is how it’s always done, so everyone knows how to do it. You make eye contact with the person behind the counter…and you smile at each other as you say hello back and forth. You both mean it. Before anything else happens, two people make a personal connection with each other.

Only after that’s done, you point out what you would like. She looks at you and asks if there is anything else you need. Then she boxes up your things, and goes to the cash register to ring up your total. This entire time, neither of you is doing anything else but this. You pay your bill. And before you leave, there’s a goodbye ritual as well. You and the woman behind the counter make eye contact again. She smiles and says “Merci.” You reply with “Merci.” She says “Bonne journée” (which means “Have a good day today.”) You say something along the lines of “á vous aussi.” (which means “to you as well.”) And then you both say goodbye to each other. Only then, does she move on to the next person and you leave.

I’ll point out that this version has taken almost no more time than the distracted, disjointed American way. But instead of just scratching something off of your “To Do” list, you have had a real moment with another person. You can recall almost every detail because you were actually present in your own life for that period of time. And since “l’art de la politesse” is so important to the French, this happens all day, every day, wherever you go.

Dining is made infinitely more fun by this commitment to politeness as well. In Paris, when people share a meal together, they are sharing their lives for that moment in time. There is no wolfing down the meal, no checking your cell phone at the table, no video games for the kids. You are just there to BE with the people you are with. You tell each other stories about your day. You relish every sip of wine and every bite of food that goes into your mouth. You laugh. You take time to really SEE each other, to share yourself with your friends. It’s beautiful.

You find that after a very short while, you start to do this automatically, everywhere you go. Even the homeless men on the street engage this way. They don’t shake a cup in your face as you walk down the street. Whenever I walk by, they look at me, nod their heads, genuinely smile and say “Bonjour, Madam.” And I make eye contact with them and smile as I reply “Bonjour Monsieur.” They get called “Sir” throughout the day. I can’t help but think that feels good. It makes the world seem very sweet.

And this politeness, this kindness made it very hard for me to understand why American tourists constantly complain about the rudeness of the French. So, I started paying attention and I noticed something.

The French don’t react well to our self-centeredness. Many tourists never even bother to learn a word of french before they get here…not hello, not thank you…nothing. And, when someone walks into a shop here and immediately starts dictating what they want, without ever making eye contact, smiling or saying hello, it throws the French for a loop. They feel as if they aren’t being treated as a person. It shocks them, and they feel almost assaulted. So, they don’t respond well to it. They frown and shake their heads and just try to get through with the encounter as quickly as possible.

It’s a shame. We’re the ones being rude -and yet we get offended.

I think we as Americans should try to slow down and see each other as people. If we could learn to do just one thing at a time, we would have so much more LIFE in our lives. Europeans have known this for centuries. When will we ever learn?

What Happens After…

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 10 Comments

imageI’ve realized something over the last week. People here think of Paris as a woman -a beautiful woman. And it feels more like someone attacked a friend of ours than a city. They harmed her, and we grieve for her. It’s personal for us. But we’re working our way through it.

You know, when something terrible happens (a death in the family, any tragedy, really) initially, there’s a huge wave of sympathy, of love and attention. There are phone calls, emails, notes and messages of support. And then after a while, all of that stops, and you realize that you are alone in this thing that you are facing. You must work your way through the gauntlet of loss and anger, fear and depression, before you can come out the other side.

I think it’s good that you have to process this stuff by yourself. It’s a hero’s journey. And because it’s so difficult, it makes you realize that you are stronger than you think. It makes you aware that you are smarter, braver, more powerful than you thought you were. You come to the realization that this tragedy doesn’t define who you are. You realize that you’re bigger than that. You find your new normal, and adjust to it.

We’re still gun-shy here. Sirens make us cringe even now. And I think it’s safe to say that all of us are still jumpy and a little depressed. But, we’re walking our way through all of these feelings, and we know we’ll make it to the other side.

Paris is still Paris. She is still beautiful…and charming and special. The Christmas bazaars all are open again. Lights are twinkling all over the city. People are coming out more – stepping back into the world. The streets aren’t nearly as deserted as they once were. Now, when you go out in the evening, it feels like a lovely, quiet night, instead of a ghost town. And I’ve noticed that people here seem softer and more gentle with each other. When our eyes connect, there’s an extra moment of recognition for what we’ve been through. We appreciate each other more.

There’s this cashier-lady at Monoprix who always says hello to me. She wasn’t at work after the attacks, not Saturday or Sunday or Monday. In fact, I didn’t see her until Wednesday of last week. By then, I was very afraid that something had happened to her or someone she loved. When I walked in to the store on Wednesday, she came around the counter to hug me and give me two kisses as only the French can. I told her that I was so grateful that she was alright, and she said the same of me.

The attack on Paris made people here feel more connected to each other. When we pass on the street, there’s a common experience that binds us together. We are united in our grief and sadness for those we lost and for what Paris lost. We love her and we grieve for her, our beautiful city of light. For us, it’s personal.

13, November, 2015

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 8 Comments

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I’ve been trying to think of what to say about what happened in Paris last Friday night. I know whatever I put down here will never be adequate.

Terrorists attacked the city.  I hate calling them terrorists. It feels like it gives them some sort of status…like I’m buying into their propaganda. I prefer to call them what they are…murderers.  Whatever we choose to call them, these people laid siege to the city for just over two hours and forty minutes and left 129 people dead and over 350 injured.

At first, we were all just in shock. Numb. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing on the news. We felt helpless, trapped, afraid. Next came an almost palpable sadness…a citywide despair that is just now transitioning into resolution, determination and strength.

Surprisingly absent was any feeling of rage. How do you feel rage at these pathetic, brainwashed kids? They’re nothing more than attack dogs. They were twisted and manipulated by a few power-hungry zealots, who gleefully sacrifice the lives of children in order to further their own ambitions. My anger is reserved for them and them alone.

There is one thing that has become so clear to me – one thing I feel right to my bones. And it has brought me a huge amount of comfort. It’s deceptively simple, so much so that it sounds naive or annoyingly optimistic, but it’s not. Here it is.  LOVE ALWAYS WINS.

My husband and I had so many people trying to find us, to see if we were safe, sending us their prayers, their love, worrying about us. I was humbled by the river of love that flooded our way. I thought to myself, most people never know how much they mean to the rest of us. For some reason, we tend to save that for funerals. Why? I wonder.

I read a 22-year-old girl’s account of her being held hostage in that concert hall on Friday night. She said that the terrorists were executing people as fast as they could. She lay among the dead and dying for over an hour, pretending to be dead herself, hoping that they wouldn’t see her breathing, hoping that she wouldn’t be next.

The thing that struck me most about her story wasn’t her descriptions of the violence, although those were horrifying. The part I will always remember – was what she said about the last moments of the people around her. She heard a young couple whispering “I love you” to each other as they both bled out on the floor. She spoke of a man, who risked his life to crawl over and cover her face while she lay whimpering, so the terrorists wouldn’t see that she was still alive.

And absolutely sure that she was going to die herself, she said that it was almost like there was a video playing in her head non-stop – of the people she loved. She kept seeing them in her mind’s eye, one at a time, and whispering to each of them, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” I pray that each of the victims were comforted by those same thoughts in their final moments – those same images running through their heads. I hope with all my heart that the people they loved were there with them – at the end.

After I read her story, I remembered the phone messages from the people in the World Trade Center on 9/11. They were the same. Hundreds of people, knowing that they weren’t going to make it out alive, calling their wives, husbands, children, parents…to say “I love you” one last time. Their last thoughts were of love…not terrorists.

I don’t think saying “Love Always Wins” makes me naive or weak. That declaration makes me feel strong. It makes me feel powerful and courageous. Love, is how I fiercely defend myself against hatred. And love requires much more strength, especially at times like these.

There will always be bullies in this world…thugs…punks. And when they attack you, hate isn’t what gives you the courage to fight back. Love is. You have to love yourself enough to stand up and defend what matters. That’s what Paris will do. That’s what the world has always done.

The morning after this attack in Paris, I reminded my friends that terrorism has a 100% failure rate. It always strengthens what it tries to destroy. Always.

Sunday, the churches in Paris were standing room only. We prayed for those who were murdered, for those who were injured, and for the doctors who treated them. We prayed with gratitude – that love existed in the midst of the horror. We prayed to be better people.

I pray we will all be better people. I pray that we will use this atrocity as a lesson – to tell the people we love how much they mean to us every chance we get. I pray we will learn to love better. I pray we will remember that LOVE ALWAYS WINS.

We could allow ourselves to be afraid, to cower from these pathetic, little people who try to make their God as small and petty as they are. They believe God is a vindictive war-monger who enjoys murder as sport. But, they’re wrong.  And I’m not going to cower. Paris…isn’t going to cower. Paris is going to live, and laugh, and love, and be grateful for every moment we have.

“Life is not waiting for the storm to stop, life is learning how to dance in the rain.”

We choose to dance.

Autumn In Paris

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 2 Comments

Autumn in ParisEveryone knows about April in Paris. They’ve even written a song about it. But, autumn in Paris has a glory all its own.

There’s a bit of crispness in the air. The weather gets cooler and you can almost see the briskness start to wake everybody up. The trees turn gorgeous shades of red and golden yellow. Small children jump & kick their way through piles of leaves everywhere you look.

The parks all around the city are still filled with people, but the demographic seems to change as summer shuffles into fall. Instead of hundreds of 20-somethings, lying on the grass, soaking up as much of the sun as they can, you start seeing parents taking their kids on pony rides, young couples strolling hand in hand, while their dogs try to wriggle over and kiss everyone they meet. You see old folks dressed up in suits, sitting on benches and chatting with each other about life. And as always, the littlest ones are riding the antique carousels, pretending to be hot air balloon pilots or princesses riding swans.  It’s nothing short of heaven.

There’s a shift in the energy around town as well. A relaxed country gets even more relaxed if that’s possible. As the end of the year draws closer, the French philosophy of “Slow down and take a moment” transitions into “Go ahead…Take all day.”  Personally, I love this change. I love the “sitting, reading, watching the pony rides” thing.

But the best part about autumn is that the city starts to dress up for Christmas. Around the second week in November, lights and decorations go up all over Paris, and that turns a gorgeous city into a magical one.

Thousands of white tents come out, marking the beginning of the Christmas bazaars that spring up along the Champs Élysées, La Defense and Saint-Germain. Tent after tent of nougats, wines, cognacs, crepes, antiques, jewelry, scarves, gifts…it’s a carnival of delights.

As for decorations, Notre Dame Cathedral gets an enormous Christmas tree every year. The tree is covered in thousands of blue and white lights and stands almost half the height of the famous 200-foot tall bell towers. Not to be outdone, the Champs Élysées transforms itself as well.  All of those gorgeous, square trees that line either side of the avenue get sprinkled with millions of fairy lights. It’s simply beautiful here.

Galeries Lafayette and Printemps get all of their big picture windows decked out with animated Christmas displays. No matter how grown up you are, standing in front of those windows makes you feel like a kid again. Each one is magical…and so different from the next. The stores even place cool, little viewing platforms right up front for the kids, so they don’t have trouble seeing everything when a scrum of tourists crowds up next to the window to get a good look.

My husband and I have a new ritual now. Every Saturday morning, we sleep late. Then we take a nice, slow walk down to our favorite coffee place, and we sit together at one of the tables outside, just petting the dogs and enjoying each other’s company. There’s nothing like it: sitting outside in the crisp autumn air, sipping on a gigantic cappuccino and munching an almond croissant while you watch the world go by for an hour or so. Every time we do this, I think to myself “Life just doesn’t get any better than this.”

It Takes A Village, People…

~ Grace Birdsong ~ 2 Comments

I know it has taken me a long time to get this blog on its feet, but I’m not very tech savvy. (My husband is probably laughing hysterically by now.) Writing is always intimidating to me. Facing a blank page and creating something out of nothing is a Herculean task – especially if I know that other people will eventually read it. But I finally got to the point where I thought, I want a journal of my time here, and I don’t want to bore my friends on Facebook with story after story. Thus, the blog idea.

The Search for a Blog Title: My friend Wendy came up with the official title: “Graceful Paris.” Genius, since my name is Grace. And I wanted to add the second part, “The Accidental Parisian” because moving to Paris has felt like a phenomenal, wonderful, happy accident…total kismet. I still wake up and think to myself “How on EARTH did I get here?!?”

So here’s how it went…

My husband, Leon, and I left Texas last year to spend the Christmas holiday in Paris and the Netherlands. We found out the day after we left for vacation that some big deal got signed with his company, and they wanted Leon (and therefore, me) living in Paris the day AFTER we got back home from vacation.  God has a fantastic sense of humor.

After hearing the news, we celebrated at the George V with two cups of hot chocolate (30 Euros each…I’m not kidding.) It was there that we struck up our plan for the move. The day after we landed in Dallas, Leon would fly back to Paris, start work and look for an apartment. Meanwhile, I would handle all of the details of our move from Texas.

I began to freak out over how much I would actually have to deal with on my own during that six weeks. Not only would I have to interview and find movers and a storage facility. I would have to pack up everything in our 4-bedroom house, find renters and a property manager, get the dogs approved for international travel and see all of my MANY doctors, and a bunch of other stuff that would take far too long to list. Anyway, before I could completely lose it,  one of my friends talked me off the ledge. Her name is Leesy. She is a sweetheart and a true best friend. I don’t know if you have a friend like her, but I pray that you do. Anyway, Leesy said that while we were still on vacation over Christmas and New Year’s, she would start packing up our house so I wouldn’t have to face it all alone when I got back.

Can you even wrap your brain around that? Offering to pack someone’s home for them…by yourself…over Christmas and New Year’s? Let me also say, that if it were anyone other than Leesy, I couldn’t have handled the stress. You see, I am a control freak at heart. (I know that will come to a huge shock to all of my former students.) But, Leesy just knows how to do things the way I would. She can actually DO that…think the way I think. Weird, but great. So, she and I talked on the phone every morning and every night, going through what Leon and I might need in Paris and what she could safely  pack away for storage. And thus, my nervous breakdown was avoided. She packed our entire kitchen, two guest rooms and all of our books and keepsakes. Way to go, Leesy!

Once we got back from vacation, we hit the ground running. All of our friends offered to help. I don’t know what I would have done without them. Mary Ann & Mark stored our car in their airplane hangar. Other friends volunteered to keep the other things we couldn’t just store in a warehouse: the wine fridge, the 500-pound ceramic grill, the giant safe filled with important papers, outdoor furniture, jewelry, art, even Leon’s pride and joy…his beloved bar. All of it is safely tucked away in homes all around Dallas, awaiting our return.  Just writing this makes me all weepy again. We love our friends, and we are grateful for them. Like I said at the top, it takes a village.

While I was busy at home, Leon was working all week in Paris, and then on the weekends, he would go with a realtor there to look at apartments, skyping me in on the really good ones so we could pick a place together. He found an apartment that was gorgeous…I mean, it looked like Coco Chanel had lived there…seriously.  We signed the contracts and learned the first lesson of real estate in Paris. Even after you’ve agreed on everything and signed the papers, the owner can bail if she thinks she can get more money working with another real estate agent and dumping you. This happened on the Monday before Leon was flying home on Wednesday to pick me up and move us in to our new apartment. So, he booked one last-minute appointment with a realtor, and skyped me for the walk through. The whole thing was over in three minutes.  I basically just asked “Does it have a quiet bedroom?” “Yes,” he said, “It has TWO.” “Does it have closets and a washing machine?” I asked. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s take it,” I said. “OK,” And that was that.

Wow…talk about a happy accident. This is the PERFECT apartment for us. It’s HUGE by Parisian standards, about 1,000 square feet. It has two bedrooms and a completely ridiculous amount of closet space…even for an organizing freak like me. It is a 4-minute walk to the Champs Élysées and a 8-minute walk to my favorite park in the city, Parc Monceau. I ADORE this apartment. Leon adores this apartment. And the dogs love it too.

We knew this move to Paris was a God thing because of this one last detail. Leon proposed to me on the Champs Élysées on Valentines Day, ten years ago. And ten years later TO THE DAY, he moved me here as his wife. We now live about a 10-minute walk from the very spot where he proposed. Now that I think of it, that first trip to Paris is a story all on its own. And it deserves its own telling.  But that’s for another time.