An American (and another American) in Paris

The boy and I spent a whirlwind weekend in Paris at the end of March. Better really, reeaaalllllyy late than never to blog about it, right? :)

When I was younger, Paris fascinated me. I read about its beauty in books, I watched beret-donning Bugs Bunny being chased around the Eiffel Tower in cartoons, I heard tales about the Parisian lifestyle from my AP French teacher, who was convinced that everything was better in Paris and constantly bemoaned the fact that she was in the US. 

But over the years as I began to see more of the world, Paris gradually fell off my list of I-must-go-to-there destinations. The reviews from friends and colleagues who'd visited were less than flattering. Paris was expensive. The streets were dirty. The waitstaff was rude and the queues too long.

So it was with trepidation that the boy and I boarded our EasyJet flight to Charles de Gaulle airport. Were we heading for a wallet-destroying weekend of tourist traps? Or was Paris going to fulfil our childhood dreams of a magical land abundant in quaint cafes, world-famous art, and most important of all, delicious delicious macarons?

After landing, we went straight to our Airbnb in Levallois-Perret, a neighborhood northwest of the city center's array of arrondissements. We greeted our host and then set about wandering the streets with the aim of finding some tasty French fare. The neighborhood was beautiful with its cobblestoned winding streets. It became apparent very quickly that we were not in a touristy area; nothing was in English and the very French-looking locals just seemed like they were going about with their everyday routine.

Everywhere we looked, we were amazed by the boulangeries (bakeries), delicatessens (delis), fromageries (cheese shops), flower shops (flower shops), and other small nooks and crannies dedicated to selling their craft. Notions of dining in a restaurant were quickly abandoned in favor of a picnic-style medley of whatever struck our fancy. And some bubbly, of course.

I did conjure up some French from my high school/early college years when speaking to the locals. Nobody fell to the ground rolling in a fit of laughter at how bad it was. And I didn't say saying "si" instead of "oui" by accident anytime (unlike a certain someone else). So I was quite pleased with myself.

The spread

Action shot of the paella

The next morning we awoke bright and early and set out with our list of touristy things to do. We commuted via subway into the city center, which took fifteen minutes and was surprisingly easy to navigate. Then we commenced doing ALL the touristy things.

This was our first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I may or may not have been ridiculously excited.

The boy and me, Notre Dame, and a poorly-concealed backpack

Some women were feeding birds nearby. I got really excited and took a lot of photos of them.

Then I told the boy to go over and stick his hand out (even though we had no food) and pose. Yep.

At this point it started to rain. Lightly at first, then an all-out angry outpour of fat raindrops all over our suddenly sad faces. Merde! We ducked into the cathedral for some cover.

#photosruinedbytourists

His robes match the stained glass, how thoughtful.

We emerged right as the sun was peeking out again. By this time the cathedral was swarming with other tourists so it was with relief that I stepped out away from the lines and off to explore somewhere else.

Already enamoured with Paris

Next up, the nearby Lovelock bridge. 

Generally speaking, I don't consider myself a romantic. I don't do things for symbolic reasons and  I certainly had no plans of writing our names on a perfectly good lock and wasting it on a bridge I'd probably never go back to. But as we approached I started to get a little doe-eyed. Maybe something was in this French water.

"You think we should write our names on that lock you have in your backpack?" I asked the boy wistfully.

"No. I need it for the gym."

And that was that. City of love, indeed.

Lunch was a funny affair. We ended up in this touristy restaurant because there were half a dozen types of meat spinning on spits outside and we were hypnotized into a meat trance. The food overall wasn't all that great, but the escargot was certainly a standout.

A Game of Thrones-esque display

Forceps: useful for extracting both babies and snails!

Buttery slurpy goodness.

Tummies full, we strolled out and headed towards our next destination: a dive bar called 'Le Old Navy.' The boy had read about it on the in-flight magazine and was curious what a Parisian dive bar was like. Well, long story short, it was really nice and not dive-y at all. Case in point: other patrons at the table behind us were being served fresh salads with cranberries and walnuts and other fancy shit on top. Silly French people and their misuse of the term dive bar...

Next stop: les Jardins de Luxembourg, which were featured prominently in Les Miserables. Conveniently, the sun had come out full force. My vitamin D-deprived, used-to-UK-weather skin was having a field day.

Then something kind of weird happened. The boy and I sat down in some chairs to take a break. When I set my jacket down, I noticed that my chair had a purple shopping bag hanging off it. You can see it in the picture below.

There was nobody nearby so my curiosity got the better of me. I peeked inside and found a lot of cosmetics from a brand I didn't recognize. They were all new - still wrapped in plastic and cardboard boxes and everything. I glanced at the receipt, which indicated the buyer had paid about 80 euros.

I didn't know what to do. Eighty euros was no small sum; I imagined the girl (or guy) who'd purchased it was probably retracing their steps, anxiously trying to find it. There didn't seem to be a visitor center nearby and I had no idea where this store was (and no mobile data to look it up either). In the end we decided the best course of action was to leave it alone and hope it found its rightful owner, though I had a sinking feeling that some people wouldn't pass up the opportunity to get some free makeup. Sure enough, a few minutes after we'd walked away from the chairs, I saw two girls approach, sit down, spot the bag, peek and rummage in it, and take it with them. There's no way to tell for sure but judging by their body language, it didn't seem like they were owners reclaiming the lost goods. In retrospect I keep wondering what I should have done differently - maybe guarded the bag and quizzed anyone approaching of its contents, like Batman probably would've done, but I suppose c'est la vie.

Now at this point we had been in France for almost 24 hours and had eaten exactly zero macarons. This was a dire problem. The solution: Pierre Herme, rumored to house the most delicious macarons in Paris and by extension, probably the universe. Such claims had to be investigated - very, very thoroughly...

...well, maybe not that thoroughly. At two euro apiece, each teensy macaron cost a teensy arm and a teensy leg. We took painstaking care in picking out three flavors.

Jaw-dropping prices.

We decided that it would be unfit to just gobble these macarons out in the street (as we are so wont to do normally). So we drummed up some self-restraint and went for a walk to a rather famous museum.

Holding tight onto the goods,  even when the ground is in shambles.

A random cool-looking statue

We reached our destination in no time at all.

Then this happened.

The verdict? I definitely thought it was the best macaron I'd ever had. It's hard to describe, but it the outer halfs were really fluffy and meringue-y. It was like eating a little raspberry cloud. 

The boy, on the other hand, likes his macarons more chewy. I told him I suspected that's just from being used to eating slightly stale ones. We decided to agree to disagree.

Despite it being the world-famous Louvre and everything, the weather outside was just too gorgeous to pass up. So instead of going inside, we embarked on the famous and kind-of-horrendously-touristy walkway past the gardens of the Louvre, up the Champs Elysees and ending at the Arc de Triomphe.

These guys were everywhere, selling Eiffel Towers in all sizes and colors.
Strangely enough, there never were mini models of the Arc de Triomphe or Notre Dame or the Louvre being sold; just the tower.

Mecca

Our afternoon concluded with a close-up with the one and only Eiffel Tower.

Dinner was ramen. Here we were in one of the world's most culinarily respected cities - and we were determined to fulfil a craving for ramen. To get there we ended up passing by the Louvre again.

Note to self: ramen is not photogenic

By the end of the night we were exhausted. After dinner we went back to the Airbnb, opened up Google Maps, retraced our steps and counted up the total distance we'd walked that day: ten miles!

The next day, and our last - was decidedly less ambitious. Things started with a visit to the local market, where we picked up an assembly of yummy things. I may or may not have "accidentally" ordered too much pate.

We grabbed some bikes from the local Velib bikeshare station and set off for the nearby park, where we munched on baguette and watched a happy combination of dogs and joggers run by.

Our next stop took us to another view of the Eiffel Tower, where we couldn't resist a few more photographs:

Hon hon hon

THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.

Next, a hop off the subway to see the opera house:

Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Brahms. Basically all my friends from MCYO/MBHS, whaddup.

...

And finally, we found ourselves at the gorgeous Sacre Coeur, the last big-ticket item on our list.

All too soon, our weekend had come to an end and it was time to say goodbye to Paris. We reluctantly bid our au revoirs to the city as we descended down into Gare North. On the train we chatted with a nice Glaswegian student who happened to be on the same flight as us. We ended up being delayed by a few hours but passed the time hanging out in duty free (which are much more elaborate here than those in the US) - the boy examining whiskeys, me oohing and aahing over the fragrance counters and dousing myself in half a dozen of them by the time we boarded the plane.

All in all, I had an absolutely wonderful time in Paris. The city far exceeded my expectations. I think we got really lucky with mostly beautiful weather, a great Airbnb location that exposed us to outside the immediate city center, and a season that was relatively low in tourists (although there still felt like a bazillion of them). Yes, it was very pricey and I could certainly see how falling for too many a tourist trap could make for an unpleasant experience, but I'm happy I didn't see much of that side of the city at all.

What I do remember was the beautiful architecture and the fairy-tale lifestyle. Baguette in one hand, fresh flowers in the other, not a care in the world...the French certainly know how live life.

The only thing I lament is not staying longer. Two days was enough to just scrape the city's surface. I want to come back to explore the Palace of Versailles and get lost in the Louvre and buy a thousand more macarons.

Life in Glasgow so far

I was prepared to write a long entry about a weekend in Paris but the internet in the apartment has not been cooperating with Flickr. A post about Paris without pictures seems wrong; sacrilegious, even. I'll find a solution soon, but in lieu of that I thought I'd let loose a little and just blog about what life here has been like so far.

A typical work week begins Monday when the alarm goes off at 7:10. I get ready, caffeinate myself as quickly as possible, tell the (colorblind) boy that his undershirt clashes with the shirt he picked out, and we aim to be out the door by 8. About once a week I forget something (usually my phone), stop mid-stair-descent, turn around and go back for it.

I venture outside; on any given day there seems to be about a 50% chance of drizzle. It's usually nothing that a hood can't take fend off, but it tends to dampen the spirit nonetheless. The flip side is that when the sun does make an appearance in Glasgow, it instantly puts the entire city, myself included, in a cheery mood. Sunshine is definitely not taken for granted round these parts.

Work is about a mile away. On the way there I pass through the city's bustling center which includes hordes of commuters pouring out of Glasgow's Central Station. If I get the timing right I usually pass a man who looks like Walter White walking in the opposite direction. I tug at the boy's sleeve and inform him of my W.W. sighting.

The boy and I get to the client site and settle into our respective seats. The day usually begins quietly - a few hellos and how were your weekends here and there - but the conversation doesn't linger because this early crowd knows that these quiet minutes in the morning are precious. Precious for mental calibration, for getting an early start to the day's work, for luxurious slow sips of coffee before the circus arrives.

And arrives it does. By 10:30 most of the team is here, many straight from the airport. Every time I see a fellow ThoughtWorker enter the team room and roll their suitcase into a corner on Monday morning I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me for not having to fly each week anymore. But I digress. We walk through our card wall (an array of index cards that capture chunks of functionality to develop or tasks to investigate) as a large group and we then break into smaller huddles which usually conclude with "Go team!" - a cheesy but effective motivator to start the day.

Here is where the daily narrative ends, for no day at work is the same and certainly no day is predictable. Usually it's a mixture of writing on white boards, kicking off or handing over user stories, talking with my product owner or business SME, and a random assortment of meetings/discussions/team Kumbayamylords. On average Monday through Wednesdays are fairly crazy and fast-paced whereas Thursdays and Fridays are a lot more relaxed. I'm still trying to find ways to plan ahead and flatline my cortisone levels.

Although the work can be challenging, it is also rewarding. We're working with a smart, willing client and the software we're building provides value in the short term and serves as a technological platform for further transformation down the line. Our culture at work encourages being honest with each other, challenging our own assumptions, failing fast, iterating quickly, speaking up for technological excellence, and cracking fart jokes. It's truly a fun and interesting place to be; most days I wake up excited to go in and do some cool stuff.

And as for working on the same project team with the boy - well, that's been surprisingly smooth. It helps that everything is out in the open and everyone is very laid back. Occasionally he and I will butt heads on something or another but that's bound to happen between any business analyst and developer. We work it out like big boys and girls.

The work day usually ends between 6:00 and 6:30. Sometimes I have to force myself to leave the office because the work can be so engaging and it's almost addictive to stay and do just a bit more. (This project/domain is BA crack, I tell ya.) Recently our weeknights have been a packed agenda as well; on Monday we go on a group run, Tuesdays and Thursdays are for rock climbing, Wednesdays usually involved a team outing of sorts, and Friday is for pub. On nights when we don't eat out (which is most of the time) we whip up something simple for dinner before spending the last few hours of the evening surfing the internet or watching something on Netflix together. Then it's time for bed.

The weekdays have been flying by in a frenzy of such activity and the weekend always descends upon us rather suddenly. We've been traveling roughly every other one. So far I've accomplished 40% of my goal to visit ten new countries (Scotland, England, France, and Netherlands) - not bad for two months' time. There are more planned ahead: over Easter weekend we'll be going to Barcelona, and at the end of April we'll take a full week off to see Turkey, Vienna and Prague. In May there's Wales with the boy's family, and after that, some talk of Portugal and Greek islands for the summertime...

On weekends when we stay in Glasgow, it's a nice mix between playing catch up non-work work (planning more trips), exploring more of what's in and around Glasgow, and generally enjoying some down time. As sexy as the travel can be, the stay-put weekends are sometimes just as wonderful and often more needed for sanity-restoring purposes.

It's surreal to step back and think that we have been living on another continent for a little over two months. In that time we have basically started our lives anew - new apartment, new friends, new surroundings, new work. Yet it's all oddly familiar as well, like we're living in some sort of Scottish alternate reality where everything's the same but there's haggis instead of hotdogs.

I do feel pangs of homesickness for family and friends and Chipotle back in the US. But mostly I am happy and grateful for so many things: for the opportunity to see Europe, for the ability to have loved ones visit and experience Scotland themselves, for the fantastic project and team, and most of all, for being in the same place as the boy every night of the week. I am very lucky to be here in Glasgow.

West End

I have fallen in love with a neighborhood here in Glasgow. It is called the West End.

West End is the love child of Lincoln Park and Wicker Park after you subtract all the yuppies and hipsters. What's left after: a huge public park and a gorgeous college campus, both surrounded by quirky restaurants, vintage shops, free museums and friendly folk - all in a quiet residential area.

It's posh but not pretentious. Trendy but not unwelcoming. Quirky without trying too hard.

It's also home to Big Licks, an ice cream shop that serves the most fucking delicious ice cream I've ever had in my life. Big Licks is the pièce de résistance that single-handedly elevates the West End out of "Oh, this neighborhood is neat!" status and into "I must go to there every weekend" territory. 

The boy and I have made many a trip already, the most recent of which was for my birthday this past weekend. We strolled around the park, walked through the university campus, dined at the Ubiquitous Chip, watched Grand Budapest Hotel on comfy couches in an indie theatre, and topped off the celebrations with scoops of honeycomb and strawberry ice cream from Big Licks.

Prancing about the University of Glasgow

I was looking forward to eating here for weeks!

Venison haggis

My rice and mushroom cake. Delicious but not very photogenic.

The boy's fish dish. Much better of a presentation.

We enjoyed some oatmeal apple ice cream for ice cream...mmm.

Side note: I may or may not be drooling on my keyboard right now after looking at all those food pictures.

Two weekends before the last one (you can tell how behind I'm getting with these weekend blog posts, gah) we had made another trip out to the West End. This time we strolled along the river through the botanical gardens and eventually into the Kelvingrove art gallery.

Goofing around in the park

I call this the "awkward hotdog"

Insert-flower-name-related-joke-here

I call this "mad cow disease"

We stumbled into a rather arbitrary drum performance by a group that was very diverse in age, ethnic composition, etc. The boy told me that they were a group of recovering alcoholics.
I believed him and was horrified as I gawked at the younger members of the group (who looked 10-12). This went on for a full five minutes before he told me he had been joking...

The Kelvingrove, at last!

Big smiles and weary feet (not pictured)

The architecture inside was just as beautiful as the outside

An interesting choice in lobby decoration

Of course, we capped that visit with some ice cream too. Thinking back, I wish I had taken some pictures at Big Licks. But I was too preoccupied with the task at hand of stuffing my face.

I'll conclude this post by answering the obvious: if the West End is so great, why haven't we moved there?

The easy reason is that it would double the commute that we currently take to work (which is 15 minutes). We're also relatively content with our current corporate apartment.

The less-obvious reason is that I think we both quite enjoy having the West End as a real local treat. It's nice to have it as a destination, something to savor and explore - ideally on peaceful, undisrupted Saturdays and Sundays. I think living there would spoil that magic a bit ;-)