Apartment Hunting in Paris

There comes a time when "home" starts feeling a little tight around the seams. That dream apartment whose endless rooms of empty space you walked through a few years has somehow grown enough sticks of furniture, coffee table books, and electrical appliances to fill a house. And when you start bruising yourself on dresser corners on your way to open a window and bend down to get something out of a kitchen cabinet only to find yourself sitting on the hot oven door your husband just opened, a little voice inside tells you that it's that time again.
So you scour seloger.com and pap.fr in search of your next appartement de rêve.
What will it take this time? An extra chambre, so your desk and dining room table don't have to share a room anymore? Or a separate salle de bains and salle d'eau, so taking a shower no longer means taking a number? A balcony would be nice, too--no more repotting flowers in the bathtub. . . and maybe a view of something other than the apartment building across the courtyard, though people-watching can be pretty fun. . .

Chris Noth and Sarah Jessica Parker as Mr. Big and Carrie Bradshaw. [Online image] 2008.

Snowflakes and Slush

Growing up in Southern California, I thought that snowflakes were only in storybooks. (Like indoor school cafeterias were only on TV.) Nothing in real life could be that perfect and white. Rain was enough cause for excitement. We got to take umbrellas to school and have PE in the auditorium. Playing dodgeball to the beat of the rain outside: that was magical. A schoolyard blanketed in soft whiteness would have been too much.
And to Parisians, it seems like too much as well. The city holds it breath when the first flakes fall. All is quiet. Then when the snow sticks to the ground, everyone exhales at once. Policemen appear on street corners in sturdy boots. Children are bundled up like sausages, and women hurry around in fur hats. Soon the crisp whiteness turns to muddy slush. And then the rain returns.

Julie Christie and Omar Sharif as Lara and Dr. Yuri Zhivago. [Online image] 1965.

No Champagne for Me, Please. Or Smoked Salmon. Or Cheese. . .

Being pregnant around the holidays in France really makes you appreciate how vegans must feel during the rest of the year. Not only do certain sights and smells (fresh fish and pungent wheels of cheese at the morning market) make you go green around the gills, but whatever tempts your palate turns out to be hiding a blacklisted ingredient (a French dessert without eggs or butter is about as likely as rum-free punch at a Christmas party). So you get used to passing on pink platters of smoked salmon on tiny toasts and doilied trays of canopés slathered with foie gras mousse. Of course, while vegans can quell their growling stomachs with raw veggies (déconseillés for femmes enceintes due to toxoplasmosis risk) and sparkling trays of teetering champagne flutes, pregnant women's safest bet at Christmastime seems to be baguette and filtered water.
No wonder why Mary's a saint.

Production drawing of Sebastian. [Online image] 1989.