The Paris Blog: Paris, France Expat Tips & Resources » Expat Life

The Slang Time Warp of Expats

La Mom — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 21:04:23 +0000

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of my expat friends seem to be in a slang word time warp. Do slang words learned before moving abroad stay through the years in one’s expat life? Does slang stand still over time?

Je pense que oui. It seems to be the case in La Mom’s entourage. Here’s what I’ve overheard:

At the expat get-together:
Kansas Mom: Dude, Montana Mom has a groovy poncho.
La Mom: I love it. It looks like it’s Missoni.
Kansas Mom: Oh là, I dig it even more knowing it’s a Missoni.
Kansas Mom is clearly stuck in a 1970s slang time warp.

Texas Mom: Mmm, Quebec Mom made paté for us. I can’t wait to eat some.
California Mom: Gag me with a spoon. I hate paté.
Texas Mom: Do you like foie gras?
California Mom: No way, José. Barf me back to the stone age.
Texas Mom to La Mom: Did she really just say, “Barf me back to the Stone Age?”
La Mom: Are you from Southern California? How long have you been in France?
California Mom: How’d you know? Too long.
California Mom = stuck in a 1980s slang word time warp.

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Snagging an Artist’s Visa to Stay in France

Jennyphoria — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 20:50:53 +0000

My visa expired towards the end of November. For months, I’d been dreaming up schemes that would help me to stay. The option that held the most appeal, but would be by far the hardest to get, was to try again for the Competences et Talents visa. There are a few different ways to get this visa. I decided to try as an artist.
In order to prove I am a talented and competent artist, I have to come up with a project, prove that I have the skills, ability, resources and reputation to get the project done, and prove that it has significant appeal for both France and my home country.

I barely slept for weeks, trying to get everything ready for my visit with the Prefecture in November. My final dossier was 61 pages in French. This does not include the numerous personal documents I needed to bring with me, as well.

A French friend of mine came with me to my Prefecture visit, just in case I needed help translating. We got there early and headed inside. For reference, we were at the Prefecture on Ile de la Cite in the center of Paris.

There are two sections for visa applications, as far as I could see. On the left, Europeans, Americans and some Asian countries. On the right, everybody else. I headed to the left.

We sat for a while. I was incredibly nervous, excited, expectant, and ready to be horribly disappointed.

After about two hours, I was called up. When we sat down, I told the woman that I would like to apply for the Competences et Talents visa.

She: You have to apply for this visa two months before your visa expires and yours expires in two weeks.
Me: Yes, I know, but I made this appointment over four months ago and this was the earliest available appointment.
She: *French shrug.*

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Our Annual Tradition: Art Buchwald’s “Le Grande Thanksgiving”

Laurie — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 02:48:25 +0000

One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant .

Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims ( Pelerins ) who fled froml’Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World ( le Nouveau Monde ) where they could shoot Indians ( les Peaux-Rouges ) and eat turkey ( dinde ) to their hearts’ content.

They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Americaine ) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai ) in 1620. But while the Pelerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pelerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn ( mais ). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pelerins.

>continue reading

Help in Adapting to Paris Life

Posted in Paris — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 22:24:59 +0000

Each year since 1970 the Women of the American Church host Bloom Where You’re Planted, a program designed to help anglophones settle into life in Paris. This year’s event will be held on Saturday, October 1st. The program begins at 9:00AM with a continental breakfast and chance to meet other participants as you take a stroll through the exhibitor hall. After breakfast, there are four group sessions to discuss everything from how not to look like a tourist to Parisian history with one of the city’s most informative tour guides and well known authors, Peter Caine. The morning sessions are followed by a buffet lunch and breakout sessions later in the afternoon. Topics for the afternoon seminars include starting a business in France, the French education system, the best of Paris, and much more. If you are new to the City of Light, BLOOM is an excellent opportunity to learn the ins and outs of your new home and connect with other English speakers. To register and see the complete program, visit the BLOOM website .

Here’s a Thought

Laurie — Fri, 09 Sep 2011 13:27:08 +0000

Created by expat graphic designer Lesley Feldman after a run-in with her concierge.

Rental Needed Sept 17-Oct. 4

Laurie — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 16:33:41 +0000

A fashion professional from NYC is coming to town for Paris Fashion Week and is seeking an apartment rental September 17 through October 4, preferably under $100 a night. Please email me if you have a furnished flat available (pics, fee, and name of metro stop or street name and arrondissement). I have rented to her in the past and she is a clean, responsible tenant.

French Aristo at a BBQ

La Mom — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 15:14:00 +0000

Americans abroad tend to take BHHs (Back-Home Holidays) pretty seriously.

That’s why I found myself at a gorgeous 19th-century mansion in the suburbs for a Fourth of July bash with all the trimmings.

But in between the baked beans and burgers, a little Old World vs. New World tension was playing out:

La Mom (whispering): Isn’t that Jennifer de Quatrebarbe’s husband? He never comes to these things.

Minnesota Mom (whispering): That’s him. It might be better if he didn’t come. He’s so old-school French that he serves stinky cheese plates and foie gras at American barbecues. How lame.

California Mom (whispering): Old school is right. His family name goes back to the Crusades when some famous ancestor cut off the beards of four infidels to save France. But Oscar’s most famous for being a grouch.

New Jersey Mom: Aw, come on. He can’t be that bad.

(To Oscar) Hey, aren’t you Oscar day Catterbarbs? I’m Jenna, Kate’s mom.

Oscar the Grouch: Eet eez “de Quatrebarbes”. And eet eez important that you know that.

New Jersey Mom: Hell, my name ain’t “Geena Smeeth”, but I roll with it. So should you.

Well, it wouldn’t be the Fourth without some fireworks.

Where There’s Smoke…

Posted in Paris — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 19:44:48 +0000

Despite several highly publicized fires in the City of Light, it was only recently that French legislators passed a lawmandating smoke detector installation. By January 2016 all living facilities in France are required to have smoke detectors (détecteur de fumée). Paris’s beauty makes it easy to forget that Haussmann didn’t have safety codes in mind when renovating the city. Nor did medieval architects consider how difficult it would be for a firetruck to race down a narrow, cobblestone street. Several hundred years later, despite the services of the city’s brave firefighters (les sapeurs-pompiers), many of Paris’s buildings remain not only fire hazards, but fire traps.

Whether you are moving to Paris permanently or relocating for the long term, it is important to check if where you’re staying is equipped with at least one smoke detector. When you’re planning a move and packing your suitcases, smoke detectors aren’t the first thing you think of, but they might be the most important thing you pack or buy on arrival.

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French Office Life

Je Ne Sais Quoi — Mon, 27 Jun 2011 14:49:36 +0000

So, you’ve done it! You’ve moved to France and by some miracle, landed a job that will give your life meaning and line your pockets cash! Yay, good for you! That, already, is some feat. Before you get too excited, be prepared for some cultural differences, good and bad, that will make this experience unlike any job you’ve had in the States.

1. Professional Distance

You. Are. The. Job. Professional distance is a biggie. Just as you can expect French friends to take longer to warm up to you, your colleagues may not give you the welcome you expect from day one. In France, people probably won’t ask you how your kids are, wait, in fact, most don’t give a rat’s ass if you have a family and probably prefer you not mention it.

They’re there to work, not to make friends. The good side of this is that you don’t get the opportunity to play favorites with someone based on their personal life. Theoretically, you’re judged on your work. Theoretically.

The downside to that distance is that it makes it really hard to connect with colleagues. Everyone seems, to me, to be in their own little bubbles and not really concerned with the emotional investments and motivations people harbor for their pet projects.

2. Perceptions of Hierarchy

Nobody likes a cocky noob. Though this goes without saying in any company, I think it goes double for French companies. Status is very important in this culture. By this I mean both hierarchy and seniority. You should be aware of your ‘place’, it’s key to not pissing everybody off.
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The Cave Squatter

Laurie — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 13:46:14 +0000

Many, if not most, apartments in France come with a basement space for storage. They are called caves. I discovered last week that someone was squatting in my cave. Not in person, but with their junk. How did someone get into the nook, which was locked with an industrial-strength serrure? She simply ripped the hardware off. After making my shocking discovery, I saw a box marked “Lettres” and opened it. Inside was an envelope with the name and address of the person who turned out to be my suspect. I found her in the phone book, called her, and left a message. To my surprise she called back. NOT to my surprise, she claimed innocence, saying that an old woman with Alzheimer’s in our building has said she owned it and the culprit could use it. I asked the suspect if she would care to move her shit off of my property, and she sputtered, in French that kept increasing octaves, that she was about to leave for vacation and it was inconvenient for her. Rolling my eyes, I expressed sympathy for this intrusion into her life of leisure.

The only thing worse than a vandalizing, squatting French person is a syndic. That is the name for the company that “manages” a building. I have other names for the syndic, but they are not printable on a family blog such as this. Heading to the syndic in person–its employees don’t answer the phone–I asked what I could do in my predicament. “We have no idea,” the clerk told me. I stepped backwards and looked around me. “Hold on–am I at the syndic?” I asked. “The company I pay to manage the building’s affairs?” “Yes,” the woman said, setting down her 11th espresso for the day, “But this is a personal affair.” Ah. A personal affair. The syndic woman had just one piece of advice for me: “If you touch her belongings, she can sue you.” I decided that lying would be the only solution to the problem. I called the squatteuse back and informed her that the syndic rules called for a 48-hour grace period during which she had to move out. “After that, I have the right to put your stuff in the garbage,” I lied. Well, it worked. Her crap is gone. And now I have to buy and install a new lock, and pray no one else eyeballs my 5 square meters of land.