A Week of Milestones

It's been over two weeks since the last update. Life has been hectic.

The lease on our cute little apartment in the Bastille was set to run out four days ago, so we were scrambling to find a new place.

On top of all that, there was the whole issue of being marooned in the States for a freakin' month, meaning other than what little I could get done overseas, I had a shit-ton of catching up to do at the office. Which I'm still doing. My work hours are hitting the double-digits every day, I'll most likely be working through the weekend, and - oh yeah - we're still trying to find a place to live.

That said, things are coming along. Alannah and I are starting to get more of a hang of the whole apartment hunting process. The other weekend, we made the crucial step of obtaining a French bank account.

This should be easy because, after all, who doesn't want to hang on to your money as a means for them to make more money? I mean, between all the fees the banks charge, you'd think they'd be letting you open as many accounts as you wish. As a matter of fact, you can open all the accounts you want - if you have an address, and a utility bill to prove it. Neither of which you really have when you're living out of suitcases, not having your own apartment and all. Which, of course, in order to get, you need a bank account.

This vicious circle has been well documented on many a web site, book, and any other source for people wanting to make the leap to Paris. But we found a bank willing to break the cycle, and now I've got an account and a debit card, and for an annual fee deemed ridiculous by American standards, a gold card with a line of credit. Because despite being a jetsetting professional with global responsibilities at an established tech company -- I have no credit.

So getting this bank account, this little tiny shred of everyday life, was like a huge victory. And victories call for celebration. And it just happened to be Alannah's birthday.

"What do you want for your birthday, honey?"

"I want to go to that place we went with the guys that one time and have fruits de mer," she said.

My gal's got expensive tastes. We'd gone to a seafood restaurant on rue Montorgeuil with some friends one night and dug into a big, icy plate of raw seafood, and we'd been dreaming about it ever since.

"Ok, that place was really good... but maybe we could go up to Deauville and get it right out of the ocean," I suggested.

Before I could twist her arm, we were on a train out of Gare St. Lazare up to the northern coast of Normandy.

Deauville is one of those "playground for the rich" type of places. Despite sharing weather patterns with the English, it's considered the Riviera of the north, what with its chi-chi boutiques, beach clubs, and star-studded annual film festival. It's beautiful, peaceful, and tons of conspicuously wealthy people have drinks and overpriced meals on the boardwalk overlooking the beach.

Trouville, just next door and sharing a train station, is like the slightly less attractive sister... who puts out. A bit shabbier (but still charming by all means), it's less expensive, less pretentious, and it's easier to get a table without a reservation.

And so we chose that path, sharing a three-tiered plateau de fruits de mer at a restaurant not just overlooking the beach, but on the beach. We chowed down on ginormous crab, langoustines, prawns, boulots, clams, and a nicely sized whole lobster, washed down with a bottle of rosé. Had I not smelled like a fishing boat and had my fingers not been pruned up from handling all that seafood, I swear, I could've been mistaken for Thurston Howell, feasting on the seashore in my black blazer and sockless loafers. Luckily for me, the wife looks more like Ginger than Mrs. Howell, so despite it being her birthday, I felt like I was the most blessed guy on Earth. For all the stress and misery and not knowing what the immediate future holds, it was so nice just to be on vacation for a day.


The area is famous for its artisan ice creams, so we went and shared a cone of caramel de beurre salée flavor as we walked around town. Now I've had my share of ice cream over the years, and like to think of myself as a bit of a connoisseur, so it amazed even me when I kept thinking, "This is the best... ice cream... ever!" I reluctantly let Alannah finish the cone, but only because it was her day. Or so she thought.

By nightfall, we had to head back to the reality of Paris (how awful that is, I know) as we shared a train cabin with a group who'd just bought bagloads of the region's other specialty: Soft, ripe, stinky cheese. I love the stuff, but it goes without saying that we did not close the cabin door at all on the way home.

We were back to our (new) regular lives, and back to the stress of finding an apartment. One morning last week it got kind of ugly. Stressing that we had only a few days left in our place, I spent the better part of a day looking at rentals and mapping them on Google and trying to figure out how the commute would be. Of course, apartment hunting during weekdays digs into work, even more so when you're behind and trying to hit deadlines. The management, not pleased with this, decided to take matters into their own hands, booking us into a new temporary apartment... of their choice.

The new place is in the 17th arondissement, which is much more residential, somewhat more dull, definitely more expensive, and much more touristed than our old neighborhood in the 11th. Things are more expensive, there are too damn many Americans living around here, and it's really... umm... white. (Except for all the ethnic nannies taking their little caucasian charges out to shop or play.) But in the prime interest of my handlers, it's a total of five minutes on the train from the office. You know, so I can spend more time there.

I dunno - it's not ideal, but I suppose I could get used to this:

Back to Life, Back to Reality

It had been a whirlwind of a week, what with deadlines, my old crew from the US coming and taking over my office, and nights out with drinks and meals a little beyond what I'd normally like to spend.

But as of noon on Thursday and continuing on through the weekend, everything has been right in the galaxy: Alannah is here.

With my beloved wife now in Paris, it feels as though the move is complete. That I we can start living my our life in France. An adventure that started in February can now officially begin in mid-April.

We've still got some stuff to sort out. You know, little things like getting Alannah a transit pass, hooking her up with French classes, and, oh, that whole pesky visa situation. But there is now a sudden sense of normalcy to life, the universe, and everything.

For me, at least. Alannah still needs to find her bearings, figure out how to get around, and adjust to living in an alien country. Not that I'm fully there myself, but the prospect of doing this together has me excited.

At this moment it's as though nothing's changed. I'm sitting in my cold-ass office (the heating is busted), writing up a storm of documents, and waiting for that whistle to blow so I can slide down that brontosaurus tail and call it a day. Only this time, when I scream "Yabba dabba doo!" I'll mean it.

I Repeat, This Is NOT a Vacation

Sure, this trip has all the hallmarks of a vacation.

An all-expense paid trip to Paris, the luxury of WiFi, the feeling of pride when I successfully communicate in a foreign language...

But once again, it was nearly an 11-hour day in the office.

Sure, I got to take another leisurely lunch, this time finally going in for the kill on a plate of steak frites, washed down with a bottle of Badoit and some warm chocolate cake bathing in creme anglaise. And don't forget the obligatory coffee.

That may sound extravagant, but such fuel is a necessary evil. Meetings. Punctuated by a protracted product launch. More meetings.... get the picture? This is work, people! If you told me before this trip, "Have fun in Paris," and caught me rolling my eyes, surely now you can kind of sympathize.

I actually did make it out before 8:00 pm, in time to get to the pharmacy to pick up one of those wondrous only-in-Europe ointments for my mom. You know, the kind the FDA won't approve because it'd rip the bottom out of the market for the major players.

And that was about the highlight of my night. I got back to my hotel in time to put some mild fires out on the homefront, exchanging instant messages, shooting off emails, and updating servers like a madman. A product launch is a horrible time to be away from the desk. But things eventually calmed down, and my boss urged me via IM to try out the restaurant he'd recommended.

A Bonne Table. About 10-15 minutes' walk away, this place has anachronistic maritime decor - part old schooner, part ultralight yacht. I politely asked the lovely hostess/waitress/busser if it's ok to dine alone. My last trip having been to Japan, that's the norm. She looked at me like I was crazy for asking such a thing, but politely replied with, "Mais bien sur!" Or - "Of course we're willing to take your money, you poor bastard from a country whose economy is in recession, thus making any meal short of a kebab about equal to half a week's salary."

I sat down and made my selections, and the hostess recommended a delightfully smokey Saint-Véran. I sipped on it delicately as I ate my amuse-bouche of fried salted-cod potatoes, feeling extra self-conscious because I was dining solo. When you dine alone, it feels like everyone's eyes are on you. In fact, one of the other diners in the restaurant kept looking over at my table, wondering if my dining companion would ever show up. But who cares when you're eating little morsels of deep-fried fish-n-potato when they're being washed down with such an incredible wine? My appetizer sealed the deal, though - foie gras imbued with langoustine tails. It was a combo I'd never even imagined, and each forkful was made extra special with the variety of garnishes, each bringing out a different dimension of the fattened duck liver and mini-lobster tails before me.

I could hear my main course sizzling on the grill as - BZZZT BZZZT - my phone vibrated. It was the office. No matter. I'm in the middle of dinner. They can wait. BZZZT BZZZT. One new message. Whatever. BZZZT BZZZT. Incoming call - the office. I glanced up at the waitress and politely excused myself to the front vestibule.

"Hello. What's up?"

It was one of my coworkers.

"I think something's wrong with the installers."

"Umm, what? I'm in the middle of dinner here, but I'll be done soon. I can be back at the hotel pretty quickly."

*sound of the phone being handed off*

"Omid - we've got some customers screaming. Please get back to the hotel now!"

So much for my boss telling me to go to his favorite restaurant in this neck of the woods...

The waitress was kind enough to box up my dinner (amazing in a country where doggy bags are a sin punishable by flogging), and even put a plastic stopper in the remainder of my bottle of wine.

I felt so tacky. So gauche. So... American. I apologized for my sudden need to leave.

She apologized for my need to work.

So I've been back at my hotel, scrambling to see what's wrong, and things are calming down. In the meantime, I've eaten my dinner out of a box and drank my wine out of a tiny plastic cup. And the scary thing is - it's still really, really, amazingly good. The scallops are seared to perfection. The mashed artichoke hearts and fried artichoke leaves are like something from another planet. Planet Ecstasy. And I needed this wine now more than ever.

Somehow, despite consuming it out of plastic and skipping out on a proper dessert and coffee, I had a fantastic meal. One worthy of tonight's megadose of stress.

I need to get to bed now. I have to wake up at 6:00, catch a cab by 6:45, and be at the airport by 8:00. Luckily, there are no scheduled strikes. But traffic on the Périphérique can be a bitch, so I have to start at an ungodly hour.

Unfortunately, I may not be able to sleep. I just caught the story about Mike Huckabee wanting to put more God in the US Constitution. Hell no!!!! I'm gonna pray he can't do it. And yes, I realize the irony of that statement.

Thank you, good night, and God Bless... fancy French food.

A Hard Day's Night

I should be sleeping like a log...

Actually, I will be soon. I didn't sleep all that well last night, largely due to the fact that I cranked the heater too much - this room's great at retaining heat. But it was too damn cold outside to open the windows and air it out. All groggy, I snoozed through my THREE freakin' alarms and ended up getting up an hour later than planned.

But I was motivated.

'Cuz dammit, there was more of that yogurt to be had down in the salle de petit dejeuner. Despite being on the verge of being late for my day at the Mothership, I sat and savored it. And the office is so close, I made it in at exactly 9:00 anyway. Note to self: set the alarm a bit later tonight.

I'm glad I had a good feed in the morning, because I was at the office until 8:00. As in P.M.

Whatever you've heard about the 35-hour work week in France, my company obviously hasn't heard of it. Either that or they only work three days a week. It struck me when I was told that I had one of my meetings scheduled at 6:00 that this is definitely a business trip.

But I have to say, the French know how to do business. When you're in meetings for an ungodly amount of time, languishing over a long lunch is fully justified. We hopped down to the local bistro (known as the official restaurant of my company's executive management - a handful of others showed up there) where I shared a charcuterie platter with our new marketing honcho. Next thing I knew, my mouth was full of tongue.

Umm, that'd be braised beef tongue. Opting yet again out of my usual steak frites, I went instead with the other special of the day: a French kiss from a bovine. Served up in an awesomely meaty gravy and a side of pureed potatoes, it was the perfect, hearty fuel for a cold day full of meetings.

Our Paris office is remarkably different than back in the Bay Area. Most notably in how quiet it is. While we spend a lot of time joking around and cranking silly songs, people have got their noses buried in their work here. Of course, here they take two hour lunches and 364 days of vacation and/or strike time. In the end, we all get our work done.

Of course, 8:00 didn't mark the end of the work day. Back at my hotel, I decided to check in with the office back home - as it's still early in the day there - and had more work to do. So once again, my chances at a decent dinner went up in smoke. Or up in a cup of convenience-store chocolate pudding I'd kept chilling on the windowsill. I tried once again to forage up some dinner at a late hour, but this is the suburbs, where fluorescent lighting and cheap formica tables rule. And at our horrendous exchange rate, I'm not about to pony up $30 for an Applebee's-level experience.

Yeah, this trip isn't as glamorous as it could be. I've yet to see the Seine or even be within clear viewing distance of the Eiffel Tower. I've snapped only a handful of photos, and I've become intimately familiar with the Canal+ cable programming lineup.

But I knew going in that this wasn't going to be a free vacation. No corporate junket here. And in the spirit of discovery, I'm getting a good, close look at everyday work life in another country - something you won't find in any guidebook. So take that, Lonely Planet.

Ohayo Gozaimasu!

In many ways, this is a typical morning.

I woke up all groggy and tired. Flipped open the ol' PowerBook and started replying to work emails. Uploaded files to the company servers. Chatted with my boss. Fired off some more emails. In fact, there's nothing really reminding me that I'm 6,000 miles from home.

Which is the complete opposite of everything last night.

Other than being surrounded by Japanese speakers and hearing announcements in Japanese, I felt pretty insulated until about 7:30 last night. That's when our flight landed in Osaka, and in the plane's nosecone-mounted camera, we could see the ground crew guy waving our plane in with glowsticks. Once the plane came to a stop, he put his sticks down to his side... and deferentially bowed to the pilots. It was at that point when I got the, "Holy crap, we ain't in Kansas anymore" feeling one seeks on an overseas trip.

An aunt, an uncle, a cousin, and a family friend greeted us upon arrival at the airport, loaded up our bags, and took us for a ride into Osaka proper. I think my mom was more excited than I was.

"Isn't this freaking you out?" she asked.

"No mom. I've been on the left hand side of the road in a right-hand drive car before. Hello, we lived in England?"

"What about the narrow lanes?" she challenged.

"Nahhh," I yawned. "They were even narrower in Spain."

"So none of this looks weird to you?"

"I dunno, it looks like a city. With a bunch of neon in Katakana. And there are walls along the highway, so you can't see anything anyw-- WOAH! WHAT WAS THAT!?" I exclaimed as there was a gap in the highway wall.

My uncle answered, "Osaka castle."

There's a freakin' old-ass Japanese castle right there amongst all the tall, shiny buildings. And it looks awesome. Better than any picture in a guidebook. And with its modern surroundings, it's all the more surreal. It was right out of my 2nd grade daydreams of wielding a katana and going all apeshit samurai on someone's ass.

"Can we go there? Can we go there? Can we go there???" I asked my mom.

"Didn't you want to do nothing but eat and drink? I thought you didn't want to see tourist stuff."

"Surely I can eat somewhere near the castle..." I giddily schemed.

Of course, I didn't want to get ahead of myself. There was some eating to be done tonight.

We pulled up in front of my Aunt Fusako's restaurant - a modest little place, with bar seating, a few 2-tops, and a family-size table toward the back. I sat down and dishes started to march out. First up, some braised fish whose species I couldn't recognize as anything but delicious. Accompanying that was big homestyle bowl of oden, a hearty stewed mixture of various root vegetables I'd grown up with. A big basket of crabs came out, each bearing a belly full of eggs - not my favorite, but I had to give it a try. Fusako's specialties - okonomiyaki (often called Japanese pancakes) and yakisoba (fried noodles) - were also on offer, and absolutely delicious.

Then there was the highlight of this little family meal. My cousin Makoto walked out with a plate of sashimi - white beltfish and horse mackerel, to be exact. Makoto, being a chef in Italy, does not mess around. Even when he's on vacation. This was by far the freshest, sweetest, most amazing sashimi I've ever had. The crazy part is, Osaka's not even renowned for their fish. It's all about the fried foods here, apparently. But damn, all I want is more sashimi.

Of course, it's not even 8:00 in the morning, so I think I might have to wait a while. In the meantime, I'll get back to my emails. I hope the coffee here is decent...