It's been just over two weeks. I should've been on a plane back to Paris by now, but I'm back in my old cubicle in California, where there's plenty of sunshine, triple-digit heat, and plenty of air conditioning. The French consulate doesn't have all my paperwork yet (they blame all the May holidays in France), so my stay here has been extended for what looks to be an extra couple of weeks while the bureaucracy gets things in order.
The only trouble is... Alannah and I really miss Paris.
It started early on - pretty much at Charles de Gaulle Airport, where we were constantly reminded of who and what we were going home to. The feelings and thoughts stirred by the stereotypical "Ugly Americans" in Terminal 2 would probably be too foulmouthed and shocking, even for this blog.
It was no better when we landed in San Francisco. While the passport control agent was remarkably friendly and light-hearted, US customs officials were their typical rude, boneheaded, uneducated selves. And then there was driving on the 101 to go home. And then going shopping here. And then.. then.. there are too many headaches to list.
Certainly, it's fantastic that we've got extra time to spend with our family, friends, and old co-workers. I'm enjoying every moment I get with friends who will soon be half a world away. And I can't complain too much about the current California heatwave. And the shopping is C-H-E-A-P!
But I'm getting fed up with having to drive everywhere. With sales clerks who don't even bother to say hello. With Hillary Clinton's screeching, patronizing voice on the TV. With overly made-up news anchors. With jacked up pick-up trucks. With the idiots who drive them. WIth the insanely huge portions of mediocre food. With the fact that I'm packing on five pounds for every week I'm back in the States.
I wanna be back... home?
I don't know. I don't quite have a home right now. But I do know where I don't want to be.
Maybe a trip to LA this weekend will seal the deal for good.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Mother, Are You Waiting? Father, Are You Pacing? I'm Coming Home
It's been a fabulous two months (9 weeks, to be exact), but it's time to go home.
It's my last day at the office. Alannah's packing our stuff. At about this time tomorrow, the Air France 747-400 will be slowly backing out of the gate at Terminal 2E at Charles De Gaulle, headed for sweet home California.
So we can go to the French consulate.
It's official: My work authorization came through, we're getting long-term visas, and are on our way to becoming actual residents of France.
We hear that when we come back here, we'll be greeted with government-issue stripey shirts, berets, and a carton of unfiltered Gauloises. I'll be required to grow a goatee, we'll both be required to undergo a regimen that will make us look feeble and malnourished, and summarily implanted with a chip that makes us hate work and government, and love vacationing for a month at a time.
All joking aside, this is where the reality of it all sets in. We're going "home" not to really go "home" but to get the necessary documents to live in our new "home." And then I'll have to change the name of this blog to "Omid at home."
See you on the other side...
It's my last day at the office. Alannah's packing our stuff. At about this time tomorrow, the Air France 747-400 will be slowly backing out of the gate at Terminal 2E at Charles De Gaulle, headed for sweet home California.
So we can go to the French consulate.
It's official: My work authorization came through, we're getting long-term visas, and are on our way to becoming actual residents of France.
We hear that when we come back here, we'll be greeted with government-issue stripey shirts, berets, and a carton of unfiltered Gauloises. I'll be required to grow a goatee, we'll both be required to undergo a regimen that will make us look feeble and malnourished, and summarily implanted with a chip that makes us hate work and government, and love vacationing for a month at a time.
All joking aside, this is where the reality of it all sets in. We're going "home" not to really go "home" but to get the necessary documents to live in our new "home." And then I'll have to change the name of this blog to "Omid at home."
See you on the other side...
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Bacon Wrapped Goodness
I love France.
More specifically, I love eating in France.
Last night, the lovely lady and I went to what is known as one of the best crêperies in Paris - conveniently in our neighborhood - and proceeded to chow down on some fantastic crêpes and brilliant Brittany cider, all relatively dirt cheap. We were in gustatory heaven. In fact, for the second time in a few months, I vowed my undying eternal love. This time to the poached pear enveloped in dark chocolate sitting atop my crêpe.
But as great as the food is here, I still miss some things from America that you just can't get here. Like Crunch Cheetos. Or Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. In fact, I was so lamenting the absence of quasi-legal bacon dog carts the other night, that I wrote a glowing review on Yelp, honoring the proud men (and one woman) who walk the streets of San Francisco and Los Angeles late at night, alleviating the hunger pangs of drunks in the wee hours, one bacon-wrapped piece of sweet relief at a time.
Sure, the drunk food here is great. Like in much of Europe (and other places where drunkenness is a pastime, like Australia) you can easily pick up a dodgy but satisfying kebab after the bars and clubs let out. Paris has the added bonus of late night crêpe stands, and if you're in the right part of town, French onion soup available in those late, desperate hours. Alas, nowhere in this cornucopia of inebriated sustenance is there a trace of bacon.
Like many other times, though, my prayers have been answered by the company cafeteria. They've not only served me barbecued ribs, wedge potatoes, and coleslaw when I was at my homesick worst, but now they've served up - you guessed it - a bacon-wrapped hot dog.
I shit you not.
Ok, so it's not the 2 a.m. Undocumented Immigrant Special covered in grilled onions I so craved. But it's a big, fat hot dog (or Alsace sausage as they all it here) and melted cheese, all wrapped in - wait for it - American-style smoked bacon.
Don't believe me? The French have even given this dish a fancy name: Cervelas d'Alsace, though I think "bacon-wrapped hot dog" more properly reflects this dish's proletarian roots.
More specifically, I love eating in France.
Last night, the lovely lady and I went to what is known as one of the best crêperies in Paris - conveniently in our neighborhood - and proceeded to chow down on some fantastic crêpes and brilliant Brittany cider, all relatively dirt cheap. We were in gustatory heaven. In fact, for the second time in a few months, I vowed my undying eternal love. This time to the poached pear enveloped in dark chocolate sitting atop my crêpe.
But as great as the food is here, I still miss some things from America that you just can't get here. Like Crunch Cheetos. Or Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. In fact, I was so lamenting the absence of quasi-legal bacon dog carts the other night, that I wrote a glowing review on Yelp, honoring the proud men (and one woman) who walk the streets of San Francisco and Los Angeles late at night, alleviating the hunger pangs of drunks in the wee hours, one bacon-wrapped piece of sweet relief at a time.
Sure, the drunk food here is great. Like in much of Europe (and other places where drunkenness is a pastime, like Australia) you can easily pick up a dodgy but satisfying kebab after the bars and clubs let out. Paris has the added bonus of late night crêpe stands, and if you're in the right part of town, French onion soup available in those late, desperate hours. Alas, nowhere in this cornucopia of inebriated sustenance is there a trace of bacon.
Like many other times, though, my prayers have been answered by the company cafeteria. They've not only served me barbecued ribs, wedge potatoes, and coleslaw when I was at my homesick worst, but now they've served up - you guessed it - a bacon-wrapped hot dog.
I shit you not.
Ok, so it's not the 2 a.m. Undocumented Immigrant Special covered in grilled onions I so craved. But it's a big, fat hot dog (or Alsace sausage as they all it here) and melted cheese, all wrapped in - wait for it - American-style smoked bacon.
Don't believe me? The French have even given this dish a fancy name: Cervelas d'Alsace, though I think "bacon-wrapped hot dog" more properly reflects this dish's proletarian roots.
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