Mission: Impossible 5 at Le Grand Rex

Photo from lacritiquerie.com

While it might have come out on 30 July over in the New World, Tom Cruise's newest beat-the-baddies installment "Mission : Impossible 5 - Rogue Nation" doesn't open 'til Wednesday here in France. (I'm not sure why the delay, but then again I'm sitting in Starboock listening to Shaggy's "Angel," so perhaps the French aren't so bothered about sitting at the front of the mainstream pop culture bandwagon.)

The Irishman is unabashedly a fan of Tom Cruise and the franchise -- he claims it's the stunts and the jokes, I think he also identifies with the character/actor's unfailing good-guy persona ;) -- so a quick search for screenings on AlloCine.fr led us to an avant première at Le Grand Rex, one of the oldest and swankest cinemas in Paris, which also does cine-concerts, live shows, film panels, and premiers.

Booking in advance is advisable. The tickets for the pre-screening were cheaper than for a normal Saturday night showing at 10 euros each - and we also added two drinks to our reservation to save time at the candy counter.

The movie was playing in La Grande Salle which, spoiler, looks like this:

Photo courtesy of tout-paris.org, because my iPhone 4 camera sucks

Parcours Gourmand at the Galeries Lafayette

   Psst... Here's a secret that's sure to get out:

4th à la française

For the past three years, the Irishman has taken me to Le Georges restaurant on the roof of the Centre Pompidou to celebrate America's birthday with a view on the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame.

The food is summery, the waitresses slinky-chic, and the view unmatched. Don't miss the angle on Sacré Coeur on the way back down the outside escalator. Ask for a table outside for the best ambiance. Reservations encouraged.

Dress, Kookai; ballerines, André.

Ballooning in Bazouges

Sorry blogosphere, the last six weeks have been a whirlwind. I started work and spent a lot of free time (fruitlessly) house-hunting.  But let's focus on the fabulous!

Through my old university, I met one amazing woman in September! NT is a pilot, race car driver/navigator, helps the blind, and not least of all owns a hot air balloon! At the end of what seemed to be a rough week for everyone in Paris, she casually mentioned that she and some friends were heading down to the chateau where she keeps her montgolfière and invited the Irishman and I along.

The next day we found ourselves racing through the Gare de Montparnasse as fast as my chubby and high-heeled little legs could carry me.  Safely aboard the train to Le Mans (with a full 2 minutes to spare!), we settled into our separate seats and I got to do the NYTimes crossword puzzle on the Irishman's iPad for a while until he found me and took it away to read BBC Sport.

Arriving in Le Mans, we were met by NT's dashing French husband and her American-naturalized-French friend who happens to look EXACTLY like Joan Cusack circa 1993. She must get a lot of people staring at her trying to figure out where they've seen that face before because she's got a great, aren't-you-cute-now-stop-staring wink. I've got to get on developing one.

The chateau was indeed a little French castle of a design comparable to Bagatelle, and when we arrived it's lovely owners, an American former supermodel and her aristocratic hubby, were serving up the red and a delicious lentil soup while a splendid fire roared away under a bust of one of the rois Henri.

Le Retour

Here it goes!

The city's still a dream in sandy stone and wrought iron.  This time there's a charming Irishman around to make everything more fun. In the evenings we cook and walk around the 16eme; on the weekends we vow we'll stay in and rest and then don't. Work doesn't start until October 1st so I have loads of time to roam around and search for an apartment of my own as well as play the femme au foyer in the teeny kitchen of the Irishman's flatshare.

One of the best parts of returning to the sprawl of sandcastles on the Seine has been revisiting a few old favorites. Now-Former Host Mom greeted me with a big hug and tizane in the same chic apartment, having just returned from my old nemesis, la piscine. Another highlight was finally bringing the Irishman and a friend to Le Temps des Cerises (31, rue de la Cerisaie, 4e) my favorite little bistro tucked away in the Marais. They've raised their prices (about 19 euros for a main, 8 for appetizers or dessert) and added a vegetarian option to the menu (yay!), with the same cozy ambiance and friendly staff.

The settling in process is a bit of a drag as I search for cheap, furnished accommodation. One problem I keep running into is the necessity of a French bank account to do just about anything.  HSBC already rejected my request saying my salary as a teaching assistant will be trop juste to make me worth their while. Quels snobs! Trying again with Société Générale on Thursday. Any bank recommendations out there?

Apart from my continued mission to improve my French, I've now added 3 more goals:

• Not deform any of the young minds that will be in my charge for 12 hours each week,
• Get my cardiovascular fitness up to par with the Irishman so I don't have to stand and pant on the sidewalk while he jogs on all Rocky-like up the Champs Elysées.
• Find gainful employment over here-- gainful meaning something that gets me above the French equivalent of the poverty line.  

Bises, y'all

...And We're Back!

Yours truly got the good news last week: it's back to France in the fall, this time as an assistant étranger d'anglais at (a) primary school(s) in the Académie de Créteil!

"What the heck is the Académie de Créteil?" you ask.  Why, it's the totality of schools on the western half of Ile-de-France.  Which could be awesome (life within the bounds of the Paris Métro ligne 8, s'il vous plaît) or awesome in a more rural, La Vie tranquille sort of way.  Of course with the Irishman living somewhere between Palais Royal and the Champs next fall, I think you know which I'd prefer...

 That's Créteil hugging the eastern side of Paris for dear life in this inset. (Depressingly,  this is a graphic showing how many jobs were cut in 2011 by académie.)

Oh, and the best part: they're paying me to come over this time -- roughly 800 euros a month to speak English to French children for 12 hours a week. Mmmhmm.

Visa Extension Part II

As you might remember from the first part of this story, the thing to do if you want to extend your student visa is to START EARLY.  Failing that, gather together as many of the requisite documents as you can, and then...lie.  I can tell you to do that because an honest-to-God, real French fonctionnaire told me to. 

I needed to keep my visa to be eligible to work in France.  (Can we get the US an honorary membership in the EU, please?) Apparently prolonging it isn't even an option, which left me with renouvellement,  renewal.  So I showed up on July 4, the day my visa expired, with as many of the documents from the list as I could scrape together. 

After waking up at 6:00 a.m. in order to be on time for my 8:00 a.m. appointment, I stood in line with some other exchange students and Parisians trying to get their drivers' licenses.  When I finally reached the gate keeper fonctionnaire, he promptly sent me away for not having a photo copy of my host mom's Carte d'identité.  Boo hiss.  Failure.  I left in shame and panic.  Six hours, one afternoon wasted waiting for documents that weren't even in the mail yet, and 48 métro stops later, I'm back.  Nevermind that I don't have the merest whisper of a translated birth certificate or proof of enrollment for the upcoming school year; picture of host mom's picture ID in hand, I got a number and - oh boy! - a seat. 

When my number was called I got my first break of the day: my caseworker was a man! not only a man, but a youngish, non-grouchy man! I felt somewhat relieved, but the stress of the day and my still somewhat slim file must have showed on my face.  He smiled, told me to take a seat, and not to look so scared.  He gave me a form to start filling out.

Where was my birth certificate?
"Well, you know, I'm from la Nouvelle Orléans, and there was this hurricane, which really messed up--"
Doesn't matter.  The embassy could write something up in that case.  Next issue: enrollment for this year?
"Well, I'm still deciding whether I want to stay on as an exchange student or enroll directly..."
Questionable.  Was I done filling out the form yet?
"...I think I spelled my name wrong."

And that is the story of how yours truly got a temporary extension, to be replaced by a renewal after a second meeting, currently set for October 3, by which point I'll "have all the documents together." I'm pretty sure my fonctionnaire saw through the little scheme, but he seemed to find me an appealing character, and I was more than ready to be sympatico with him. 

And that seems to be how Paris works: in a town that knocks you down a thousand times a day, you have to give people a reason to smile at you, either by cutting them a break or being the prettiest girl they've seen all afternoon.  Little bits of solidarity in the big, bad city; little glimmers of vulnerability showing through stony don't-fuck-with-me faces.  One of the most appealing qualities of Paris is how human it is, despite all the masterpieces and elaborate grooming, it's still a place that's okay with nudity, emotional and physical, but show some restraint, doucement, doucement.