Poppin' Fresh

You see it pretty often every day.

People walking down the street, holding a baguette with a little square of paper, fresh from the boulangerie.

Occasionally, you'll see that the baguette has the end torn off, or a bite taken out of it.

"How uncouth!" I always think. "Couldn't they just wait 'til they got home? Or wherever?" The French are typically not eat-on-the-go types, so seeing this always made me wonder what was up.

After work tonight, I went to a nearby photo booth to get some passport pictures taken. One of the infinite number of things I need for my government dossier. I never thought I'd have my own dossier. It sounds so... James Bond. In it will be certified translated versions of my birth certificate, marriage certificate, Bachelor's degree in anthropology, US naturalization certificate, curriculum vitae (that's Latin for the French word resumé) in English and in French. And probably some records of me having downloaded a Moby album on Napster back in the 90's. Soon, the French government will have a dossier folder full of my life's milestones. And several horribly-lit, unflattering digital prints of me with a big zit drying up on the bridge of my nose.

It's all very important, official stuff. Without jumping through all these hoops, I won't be able to get a Carte de Sejour, and without that, I won't be able to have a bank account, a phone line in my name, and - most importantly - a paycheck in Euros.

But with the photos in hand, this was all secondary on my mind. After all, it's close to dinner time, which means I need bread.

I went to the nearest boulangerie, which I've determined of the three less than a minute from my apartment, is the absolute best. The line out the door, I believe, proved me right. Not getting too creative, I simply ordered a baguette, ponied up my 90 cents, and awaited my big stick of daily nourishment.

The lady went through the motions and proceeded to hand me one that was fresh from the oven. Hot, crunchy on the outside, but oh so soft and supple under the most gentle squeeze. I held in my hands the freshest baguette I've had yet.

And as I walked the half block back to my house, felt the immediate compulsion to tear off one end and munch it.

MmmmMmmMmmm....

Lost in Translation

Chugging along, work going great, being very productive - then I checked my email.

The translation agency I'm working with to get my birth certificate French government-ready told me I need to come back so they can get my original birth certificate. The one that they told me they needed. The one I had sent FedEx overnight from California. The one that held up my getting my translation done. The one that, once I went to the office, they told me they didn't need, and that a photocopy would be fine. The one that I now had to leave with them, and HOPE that they still get the translated version back to me by Friday.

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH.

But hey, what can I do? I can only take these things one step at a time. If there's one rule to staying sane while dealing with bureaucracy is to just laugh it off and take the slings and arrows with grace.

Their offices are on the Champs Elysées. If you live in Paris, this is a place you generally avoid more than picking up dog poop, putting ketchup on your fries, and bathing. It's an upmarket tourist hellhole, and I'm guessing that the only reason this translation agency is there is because most of the new expats decide they want to live around here, the nearby 7th Arrondissement (by the Eiffel Tower), or come here to do all their shopping anyway. It gets something like 3/4 of a million visitors EACH DAY. Which is easily reason enough to avoid it. As if the proliferation of McDonald's and other big chains doesn't do it for ya.

But going to the agency here is a trip. And I don't mean the 15 minutes spent on the cruddy Ligne 13, which every time it slowed down, I hoped and prayed it was because it was approaching a station. The agency perfectly illustrates the duality of appearances in Paris. Whereas my apartment is a pretty sweet, nicely decorated pad in an otherwise non-descript, working class neighborhood, the agency's office flies in the face of über-posh Champs Elysées by being one of the most run-down, depressing, claustrophobic offices into which I've ever set foot. It's like something out of a 1940's film noir detective agency, only with iMacs and scanners and photocopiers. Otherwise, it looks like nothing's been updated since the days of the Maltese Falcon et al. I'm imagining all their funds are going to paying the rent.

Taking care of my work here, unfortunately, put me on the business end of the evening rush hour commute on the Ligne 1 - an exercise in madness that I'd so recently experienced. So I surveyed my surroundings. The sun was shining, I had my trailrunners on, and - dammit - I live in THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CITY IN THE WORLD.

Once again, I decided, it was time for one of my urban hikes. 3.6 miles - not too bad - running from the Champs Elysées, through the Place de la Concorde, down the Jardin des Tuilleries, through the Louvre courtyard, down Rue de Rivoli, through the hip & trendy Marais, up through the Bastille, and on to my place.


I had to plow through crowds of tourists. I had to jump over or skip around massive puddles left by the earlier thunderstorm. It rained on me a bit once I got to the Marais, but nothing I couldn't slog through comfortably, and I took refuge toward the finish line with a happy hour beer at my new local.

Now I have to catch up on the work I missed in doing all this, but that's fine. I just spent a sunny late afternoon walking through THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CITY IN THE WORLD. And I had a beer. Score!