Switching Sides

"Not the other breast," my French husband whispered to me during a wedding ceremony last week, as he saw our baby finishing up on one "side." Breastfeeding has come a long way in France, but a few societal barriers remain. And nursing in a church seems to be one of them. I've breastfed in just about every public place possible here: on the bus, in restaurants, parks, and cafés. Even in front of my French in-laws. But as I left the ceremony mid-feed to continue on the chilly stone steps outside, I couldn't help feeling like I'd come up against a wall. Like when I mentioned La Leche League to a French mother I saw breastfeeding her one-month old. (LLL has the same bum rap here that yoga did six or seven years ago. People just assume it's a cult. That said, you should probably avoid attending "free" yoga classes in Paris.)  Once I was sitting down, though, enraptured by my baby's eager mouth, "always thirsty for the pure spiritual milk," I decided to think positively. After all, my husband actually understood now how breastfeeding works: switching sides and all. And my in-laws now knew first-hand what nursing on demand meant. So in some small way, I was showing the unsuspecting what breastfeeding was all about. Maybe one day it would even make it to Wii Fit. A Balance Board has got to be warmer than church steps.

John Krasinski and Jenna Fischer as Jim and Pam Halpert. [Online image] 2010.

Let 'em Cry, Let 'em Cry, Let 'em Cry!

As a new mother in Necker's maternity ward, I just assumed that my roommates (I was there long enough to have two) both happened to have severe emotional disorders--or hearing problems. What kind of person would just sit there chewing on tepid pintade while her newborn screamed? But my roommates were not the odd balls out in French motherhood. Apparently the French still believe that you can spoil a baby. Give into her caprices now (i.e.: pick her up), and you'll spend the next eighteen years with an obnoxious, whiny, manipulative monstre.
My Parisian gynecologist summed it up when she saw me flinching on the examination table as my two-month-old hollered in his stroller, just out of my reach. "Does that really bother you?" she asked as she continued the post-natal exam. I realized she was talking about my son's cries.
Yes, I'm afraid it does. Sucks to be human.  

Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable as Scarlett and Rhett Butler. [Online image] 1939.

"Le Troisième Sexe"

My mother had told me that one of the best parts about being pregnant is how nice everyone suddenly becomes. I still wasn't prepared. For any of it. Parisian bus drivers who overnight began waiting for me with open doors, telling me not to run. Salesmen offering to carry my purchases for me. Fellow shoppers letting me go ahead of them at check-out. My mother-in-law asking me how I am.
The transition would probably have been a lot easier in the States, where people's natural kindness would simply have been super-sized. Here in Paris, it's like being in Invasion of the Bodysnatchers--only the alien duplicates are the ones with feelings. The strange thing is that pregnant women aren't even a rare commodity here. And I think I'm beginning to understand why. What's a little morning sickness and labor compared to nine blissful months of solicitude in a city where the customer notoriously counts for rien? And did I mention my mother-in-law?!

Dianna Agron as Quinn Fabray. [Online image] 2010.

"La Crèche"

In her controversial Le Conflit : la femme et la mère, French philosopher Elisabeth Badinter sings the praises of the French crèche system, which enables mothers to go on with non-mommy business as usual after giving birth. (Of course, they're supposed to wait until baby's two or three months old, or they risk getting as much slack as Rachida Dati did when she showed up for work five days after her C-section.) Badinter explains in Le Conflit how crèches are simply today's version of sending your infant into the country with a wet-nurse--a choice that even middle-class Frenchwomen made in order to focus more time and energy on their social and wifely duties. Of course, instead of spending their days primping and prepping for salons, today's respectable French mothers are supposed to hold down a 9-5 job. So as soon as they've entered their sixth month of pregnancy (or third month in child-laden Versailles), Parisian women sign up their unborn babies for day-care. And as soon as their babies are three months old, they drop them off daily (with formula and bottles--even the French have given up wet-nurses) at the local crèche. The up-side is clear to Badinter. French mothers get to "have it all": a professional life; a feminine (nursing bra-free) identity; and motherhood. But at what price?

Catalina Sandino Moreno as Ana. [Online image] 2006.

Bon Appétit !

The French love saying bon appétit. Just not when everyone's sitting around the table. In fact, it's considered pretty gauche to say anything at all--once the maîtress de maison begins, everyone's just supposed to dig in.
So when do the French say bon appétit? At 10:00 o'clock in the morning when they spy you eating a banana at your desk. "Bon appétit!" they'll chime as they walk past your office, smug at having caught you in the act. Or in the afternoon as you munch hungrily on a baguette sandwich in the park. Elderly couples won't resist acknowledging your newfangled conception of a meal with an amused "Bon appétit!" as they pass by your bench.
If you dare eat in public in France, then you're asking for feedback.

Meryl Streep as Julia Child. [Online image] 2009.

"Les Gardiennes"

Just like the residents that live within the walls they watch over, concierges come in all shapes and sizes. Some are relatively young and coquettes; others less so.
In Paris, many gardiennes are Portuguese. During the housing crisis of the 1960s, Portuguese immigrants were drawn to the concierge trade, so that they could give their kids a decent Paris-level education without having to pay Paris-level rent.
Despite such dexterity, to the many stuffy members of the French upper classes, gardiennes epitomize one thing: le mauvais goût. "You can't buy that throw for your sofa. My concierge has one just like it!" Or, "Tulle on your wedding car? Do you think you're marrying the concierge's son or something?"
But concierges can have an attitude of their own. Upon your arrival in their apartment building, you can expect to be looked up and down with a wary eye. They'll want to brief you on the residence "rules" and make sure you know who is boss. And if you want to receive your mail on time and have your palier swept and cleaned, you'd be wise to acquiesce.

Josiane Balasko as Madame Michel. [Online image] 2009.

"Pelouses Inaccessibles"

In France, even the grass gets vacation time. A long winter's nap, with only the pigeons' tickling feet to stir it in its sleep.
Even as Spring approaches, and scarves and boots are flung into heaps, a sign keeps watch: PELOUSE AU REPOS.
The Paris mairie has a web page dedicated to the city's grass and its much needed repos, explaining why "winter is a difficult time for lawns."
And, for once, Parisians obey. They keep off the grass every year until April 15th--and then Paris' parks and squares are transformed. The long deserted grass is suddenly blanketed with rejoicing sunbathers and picnickers, as children play ball once again, and toddlers' chubby hands grasp their new green toy.
After entertaining all of Paris for six months, it's little wonder why the grass needs a break.

Elizabeth Hartman and Sidney Poitier as Selina D'Arcey and Gordon Ralfe. [Online image] 1965.

Papers, Please

When you move to France, you learn pretty quickly what a justicatif de domicile is. You need copies of those pesky quittances de loyer and EDF bills to do everything from getting a library card to getting married. The French seem to love asking for an unseemly pile of photocopies--what they call a "dossier." With a RIB par ici and a bulletin de salaire par là, they're simply in paperwork heaven and will let you do just about anything. Just don't try pulling anything creative (like changing jobs), or you'll find yourself blacklisted from the whole system. And if there's anything the French like better than asking for a five-year paper trail, it's a chance to say, "Non."

Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains as Rick and Captain Renault. [Online image] 1942.

February At Last

Once February approaches, Paris becomes a little lighter. You can feel the woolly layers of winter lifting as afternoons stretch their arms a little wider to let you in.
Who needs a groundhog when the sun is there to tell you that spring is just around the corner?

Andie MacDowell and Bill Murray as Rita and Phil. [Online image] 1993.

Winter, Winter, Go Away. . .

It's been another cold winter here in France. But despite some compulsory mumble-grumbles, the natives haven't let a little snow and ice get to them. While the rest of us cower behind bulky turtlenecks and scarves and hide our wind-beaten hair and hands under woolen hats and gloves, Parisian women seem to say, "Pooh-pooh!" in their fur-lined doudounes and sleek leather boots. The fact that it's still dark out at 8am doesn't seem to faze their morning beauty routines either. As tempting as it may be for us weaker souls to mimic winter’s lazy sun and stay hidden under the eiderdown, les Parisiennes manage to look perky (well, everything’s relative) and rosy-faced throughout the dreary winter months. As for me, I think I’d rather wait till spring creeps over the windowsill.

Audrey Hepburn as Eliza Doolittle. [Online image] 1964.

Salad "à la Française"

The French have quite a vague notion of salad. It can be something as summery and well-balanced as a salade niçoise or as satisfying and gourmande as a salade au chèvre chaud.
Yet, when served as a side dish--just salade in its naked form, no adjectives or fuss--you realize that to the French, salad actually means one thing: lettuce. We're not even talking mâche (lamb's ear lettuce) or baby spinach. A few limp leaves of iceberg, and that's it. If you're very lucky, you might get a couple slices of tomato, too. But don't count on it. It's not like you ordered the salade de tomates.
But what about everyday meals in the comfort of their homes? The French must be doing something with all their cucumbers and carrots and cherry tomatoes. Well, that's what apéro's for. They put all their raw veggies in little bowls on the coffee table and nibble away as they nurse a glass of wine. No wonder there's nothing left but lettuce to put in the salad. But somehow there always seems to be plenty of wine to go around.

Jack Nicholson as Bobby Eroica Dupea. [Online image] 1970.