Monday, 26 September 2005
Once Upon a Time
Great news from my side of the pond: I'm engaged.
I proposed to Heather exactly six weeks ago yesterday, and she accepted. Also six weeks ago.
Now for those of you who complain about how long I take to tell a story, that's the short version. For the rest of you, the full story follows the jump.
Heather and I met about a year and a half ago, but it didn't take our dating too long for me to realize how amazing she was. It's a cliché, but we really do have that "click." So I guess it wasn't too surprising that announced to my family last Christmas that I'd made my mind up, and was going to ask Heather to marry me.
Now I have a rather, um, particular approach to things: Making decisions, large and small, involves much thought and consideration on my part. I mix in a bit of gut feeling, sleep on it, and weigh my options. Sometimes I raise my idea up the flagpole to see which way the wind blows, other times I float it to see if it'll sink or swim. Eventually - or sometimes quickly - I'll make my decision, and everything is set.
Except that, in the real world things work differently...
And so, it came to pass that - after I'd made my announcement to my parents in December - January came and went. Then February. And March, April, and May.
June arrived, with its fresh summer glow and gentle breezes - at least, it did somewhere in the world, because it was pretty cold and rainy in Paris this whole summer. In any case, I felt a certain impetus - not an urgency, certainly, but still something - to follow through in action.
Let's back up a moment: Heather and I both like warm weather. I wanted to be able to celebrate our engagement (if we do) in nicer weather (at least, if we're living in the northern hemisphere). July was off-limits because of the Tour de France. Yes, the whole month (she's that much of a fan). May and June were tough because of our schedules, and because I still wasn't sure where I wanted to "pop the question."
We'd talked about finally taking a real vacation later this year (distinct from taking a trip - as we each do - which usually involves much visiting and little relaxation). Or there was my idea that I'd check with a friend who might have good marketing connections; maybe there was a way I could ask my question in oh-so-subtle two-meter tall letters on a monument.
Or the classic, ask her at dinner - in the Eiffel Tower. (Or maybe not, everyone does dinner engagements.) Or write to the U.S. Tour de France cycling team - maybe I could have them shout out "congratulations Heather and John!" during their victory lap as they passed where we usually stood on the Champs Elysées.
From small-time to far-fetched, my ideas all included France. It's been an important part of our lives, and I wanted to include it (lest it feel left out). In any case, I had several good ideas and a general time in mind.
But a ring is sort of necessary, or so I hear.
When I took Heather to Florence for Valentine's Day, she pointed out some rings that she liked. Emerald is her birthstone, and she mentioned that she wouldn't mind something "different" for an engagement ring. Er, that is, if we were to get engaged, she coyly added.
So when June came along, and I was going back to the U.S. for - wouldn't you know it, a friend's wedding - I decided that it was about time that I got myself going. I armed myself with a little advice from Heather's good friend Allison, which also confirmed my ideas about the ring, and then it was off to the States.
I'd originally planned on getting ideas from shops in the States, then shopping around for the actual ring in Paris once I returned to France. But I had a great experience working with Randy, the jeweler who my parents recommended. I realized that I would just use what I learned in the U.S. once back in France, and decided it'd be much better to go with someone who had actually taken so much time to guide me through my choices.
And so, I made my decision to get the ring from Randy that Saturday while I was back. Of course, it certainly helped that he tracked down some amazing diamonds to choose from, a pair of matching emeralds. Heather would get her unique ring: a diamond solitaire, as clear and as flawless as I could find, with a dark-green emerald to each side.
Perfect.
It was around this time that I'd started narrowing down my choices for where to pop the question. "Big-deal" was out: Anything involving monuments seemed a bit over the top, and unpredictable besides. The Tour finish-line idea, while fun, would have meant that I'd be proposing to Heather after a long (potentially hot) day spent standing - for nine hours or more. Not pretty, so July was out. And proposing over dinner at the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower? Maybe someone else, but I decided that wasn't for me.
So, I turned back to "small and personal." It was pretty apparent to me that even if we ever got around to taking a "real vacation" this year, it wouldn't be in August nor would it be in France. Fortunately, there was a perfect alternative.
Back in April, Heather and I went to a wine tasting at the home of Mara, one of Heather's coworkers. It ended up being a tasting of different kinds of champagne - always good. And conversation turned, as it might, to Champagne (the region). A couple of Mara's friends had been to an excellent hotel with an equally excellent restaurant. A bit expensive, they'd said, but worth it. Heather ooh-ed and ahh-ed.
Bingo.
Heather couldn't stop making big eyes about this story of wonderful culinary experiences in the heart of her favorite French region. Clever as I am, I quickly announced that if she drove, it was on me.
And then she promptly forgot. (Or, as she tells it, didn't think that I was serious.)
In any case, this was the perfect "stealth" location. A weekend getaway, to a region that she loves anyway. Easy to make the excuse that I'd really hoped for some time together, away from our jobs. Because it was true: By August, she would need a break from her travels (as she does a lot), and I from my latest client project.
So the stage was set: she liked the idea of a weekend getaway, so I booked it. I even think I had her convinced that there were no ulterior motives. Or rather: not convinced, because she never suspected.
But there was the rub: there was something about the ring that I didn't mention. See, I'd spent a lot of time with Randy in June - choosing the diamond, the emeralds, the setting. Trick was, he wouldn't have it ready for me by the time I needed to return to Paris from my short trip. Not a surprise, and I wanted something so important to be ready in the time that it needed, no sooner.
So I did what any fiancé-to-be who lives in a different country from where he bought a ring that wouldn't be ready in the four days that he was around for a wedding. I flew back for a weekend just to pick it up.
Yup, that's right: I set up the first weekend of July for the ring to be picked from Randy, the jeweler. I chose that date because Heather would herself be on a trip at that time. I flew to the U.S. on Friday and returned to France on Monday. She was none the wiser, and I had her ring.
[Updated Wednesday, 26 October 2005: As Heather reminds me in her comment below, I left out one detail. The Tour de France had started that very same weekend, and she had left me in charge of taping it. So I had to change a video tape the first thing after flying back from the U.S. on Monday because it ran out of space the day before. And she never even suspected...]
Unfortunately, it's impossible to get insurance for a ring in France. I mean, it is possible - but it's only insured at your home. Nowhere else. ("What if it gets stolen when I'm walking with it?" "Oh, monsieur. [verbal rolling of eyes] That would be too easy!" The agent neglected to tell me if it would be too easy for me to be the scam artist she was insinuating that I was, or if it would be too easy for them to simply do. Their. Job.)
None of my bank's branches have safety deposit boxes. Of course, why would I ever want to keep something valuable at my bank?
So, for the next six weeks - from when I bought it in the U.S. to when we had our weekend in Champagne - I had the single most expensive purchase I'd ever made, sitting in my pocket. Folded tightly in a eyeglass cleaning cloth deep in my pocket, it went everywhere I did. Occasionally it would come out of the wrapping so that I could make sure that I was, indeed, as so foolish as to carry it around like spare change. Otherwise, like a bejeweled vampire, the ring came out only at night to lay by my head while I slept.
So finally, we come to the actual date: 14 August 2005. Or rather, just before it.
Saturday saw us stopping by Mailly Grand Cru, Heather's favorite champagne house. After lunch, we took tours of Moët & Chandon (perhaps better known for their Dom Perignon prestige cuvée), Mercier, and De Castellane. Despite this being her umpteenth visit, Heather had never done the touristy thing of taking champagne house tours, and it was fun for me too. I definitely recommend Moët & Chandon's tour; you can probably give the other two a pass. We were very glad to have done the visits in that order, with the best experience (and champagne) of the three done first.
Then it was off to Royal Champagne [booking], our hotel and restaurant. It's a four-star hotel, and I'd been able to book a suite - a very nice combination of circumstances. Our suite's windows overlooked rolling hills and vineyards, features typical to the region which I love so much.
Mmm, and dinner: our main reason for having chosen the hotel was its one-star Michelin restaurant. The best French cuisine is found in the countryside, so it's not surprising to find luxury hotels like this one out in the middle of nowhere. We weren't quite "in the middle of nowhere," since we could see Epernay (capital of Champagne and home to the champagne houses we'd visited as well as many more). All this - and a beautiful, languid sunset - at our table for two, perfectly situated near the window.
A fun day visiting champagne houses, and no ring. Dinner, and no ring. (As Heather tells it, "When he called me up a couple of nights before to ask what I was wearing to dinner, I thought, 'well, maybe this isn't going to be the weekend if it's not important enough to him to know what to wear.'" My excuse: besides trying to hard to make it seem like a normal weekend, I honestly wasn't thinking what might be perfect dinner attire.)
And then a peaceful night, far away from the traffic and noise and lights of Paris.
We ordered a room-service breakfast on Sunday. No ring. Lazed around for the remainder of the morning. No ring. Bathed, packed and were on our way out for our noon appointment for lunch, with a half an hour to spare.
And then, once the car was packed and we had made our final round of the room, I coaxed Heather to the window. "Why don't we have one last look at this great view?" She hesitated, then reluctantly walked to it with me.
We stood together, looking at the rolling hills bathed in late-morning sun. I turned to Heather and said, "Eighteen months." (The day more or less marked our eighteen-month anniversary.)
"Yeah," she whispered. "Eighteen months."
"Let's make it forever."
"Yeah," she replied with a sigh, absent-mindedly.
"No," I said, getting down on my knee. "Let's make it forever."
Amidst her giddy incredulousness, I turned up my right palm to reveal... the ring. I'd hidden it by wearing it on my pinkie the whole time that we'd packed to go.
And Heather cried out, "yes!" ("Some girls don't!" she later said. Meaning that some forget to say "yes" - but I like the double meaning.)
I'm not sure who was shaking more, her or me. But I managed to place the ring on her finger on the first try.
Then it was off to lunch on a boat cruising the Marne, and afterwards a horse-drawn carriage ride. It took us the rest of the day to come down to Earth from the highs of that moment
I'd finally decided on the perfect moment: Sunday morning. Our own instant, just the two of us. And so, images of our trip now serve as a reminder. Pictures taken on Saturday come from before our engagement. And every photo from Sunday shows us beginning our life together.
Tuesday, 27 September 2005
Not Just Another (French) Face
There. Take a look at them, the pictures below (click to enlarge).
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See them? That card, my carte de résident, represents five years, two months, nineteen days, and some change. I'm now officially a permanent resident of France.
I was more than a little worried, since my income has declined year-on-year during the five requisite years of renewing my temporary carte de séjour. My employment and financial circumstances were mostly beyond my control, but I still expected for them to put my application for permanent residency in a bad light. The clucking sounds that the fonctionnaire made while I submitted my latest papers, one month ago, did little to encourage me. In fact, I was flat out pessimistic about my chances after that.
Today's visit started with a ten-minute wait while the clerk, who sells official stamps (a centralized proof of payment), attempted to start her cash register. Not exactly an auspicious start. But we joked while she rang up my purchase, and parted with a smile. Yet another friendly face greeted me at the visa office - the same office as I'd visited in August.
A half an hour's "ten minute wait" later, and the clerk who'd received me summoned me into her cubicle. (This was a good sign. My last visit had me paired with a woman who readily admitted that she really would have preferred coffee and the morning off instead of working on cases like mine.) Immediately after I entered her cubicle, the woman had to excuse herself for others at the front desk. But, she said, not to worry. "Everything is fine."
And sure enough, it was. Upon her return, she slid a card to me for the "honor and the pleasure" of reviewing my information printed on its multicolored surface. This was it! My permanent residency card: Good for ten years. No more saving pages in my passport for full-page carte de séjour stickers. No more amassing piles of paperwork. No more hours spent waiting for a ten-minute appointment. No more annual visits to renew my carte de séjour.
It's times like this that I'm in love again: In love with France, in love with Paris, in love with the possibilities. Gone for a while are the galères of a foreigner's life in Paris, hurdles that I have to jump through which are simply minor obstacles - if anything at all - for natives.
I remember it clearly: five years ago, when I went to pick up my first carte de séjour (the time leading up to that is a story in itself, but not for now). A young woman, American if I remember right, was waiting when I arrived and we chatted after I sat down for my own wait. In time, she was called up to get her titre de séjour.
And, as it turned out, it wasn't for a carte de séjour like mine, but a carte de résident. With a radiant look on her face, she thanked each of the fonctionnaires behind the counter. Then she turned, said her goodbyes and good wishes to me, and left to share the great news with her French husband.
I'll never forget that look she had - there, at the very beginning of my own story here in France. Today, I was able walk out of the same building with the same glowing smile.
It feels just as great as it looks.
Wednesday, 28 September 2005
Une vie à deux
Heather and I spent this last weekend looking forward - "forward" as in anticipation, ahead, towards what the future holds for us. We've decided that we'll get married in Paris, since France has been such a large part of our lives - not the least in that we met here. We're also working to make it a bit more of a permanent part of our lives, too.
So on Saturday, we crashed a wedding. Well, "crashed" is maybe not the right word for it because it turns out that all French civil ceremonies are open to the public. But we didn't know this when we woke up early and got dressed in our spiffies. We also didn't know that when the security guard asked us if we were there for the 11:30 or 12:00 wedding and we replied, "umm, 11:30?"
After killing a bit of time in the neighborhood, we returned. I approached the nice assistant (to the officiating vice mayor), who personally showed us the salle de mariage before the next ceremony started.
It was a beautiful room, restored to its 18th century state and full of dark wood, velvet, and ornate decorations. The three large hanging paintings made it seem more like a museum room than a public office. After a few minutes, the assistant escorted us to the registration clerk for our paperwork. The clerk was helpful and had a slightly wacky sense of humor, which made the process seem that much less dry and... officious.
See, in France, you're required to be married in a civil ceremony - and that civil ceremony has to take place in the mayor's office. Even if you have a religious ceremony, you have to physically go to the mayor's office first. This is their form of separation of church and state, and makes some sense when you think about it.
Heather and I are fortunate in that we live in Paris, and that we live in separate arrondissements. Paris has twenty arrondissements, each with its own mayor. The "mayor of Paris" is actually number 21, presiding over the other twenty. Each mayor has several vice mayors, many (all? I don't know) who, in addition to the mayor, can preside over marriages.
Twenty mayors and their teams means twenty mayor's offices; with us in two jurisdictions, we have a choice of where we'll get married. My arrondissement's office has a beautiful ceremony room. On the other hand, Heather's has a nice garden in the back (useful for pictures) and a really cool vice mayor who would officiate (the vice mayor officiating on Saturday in my arrondissement was a bit stiff, though not unlikeable). We saw her mayor's office in action when we went to a wedding last summer - one we'd actually been invited to, at that. The decision will probably come down to which one is able to best work with our schedules.
I now have a packet of things to complete, including both of us visiting the doctor for prenuptial medical exams. Wow, this is feeling more real by the day...
Sunday saw us at the Salon Immobilier de Paris, or the Paris Real Estate Convention. We started off with very little in mind, but left with much better ideas of our budget and what type of apartment we'd like, as well as contacts at several agencies.
I guess it's apparent that we're planning on buying a place in Paris. As you probably understand from the marriage bit above, we don't live together yet. We want something that will suit us both, as well as act as an investment.
Why a new place? Heather, bless her, believes that it's best that we move in together to a new place. Otherwise, we both feel there'll always be that lingering sense that one of us is "invading" the other's space. Besides the fact that neither of our places is well-suited for two people, I've had a less than happy experience with moving in to someone else's home. Fortunately, Heather had the same thought totally independently. Another reason that we're such a great match.
Why buy? I guess buying real estate is as good of a sign as any that you're in it together as a couple; it's a pretty exciting step. I have to admit that don't look forward to some of the brass tacks of a search, but shopping for a place can be cool. Home is where the heart is, and I'm hoping that a new apartment will be the perfect compliment to our new lives together.
Thursday, 29 September 2005
Jamiroquai Brings It On
Besides getting engaged, earning French permanent residency, and planning for my future, I've been doing some more "normal" stuff - for instance, going to concerts.
Jamiroquai in concert at the Palais des Omnisports de Bercy
Last Friday, Heather and I went to see Jamiroquai at the Palais des Omnisports de Bercy. Yes, "last Friday" - this is a timely entry, for a change!
I think we each only own one of his albums, and it might even be the same one. But ever since my friend and then-roommate Mark introduced me to the music, I've grooved on Jamiroquai. No? That didn't work? Yeah, I can't pull off being cool or hip. But you can deal with it.
Jay Kay is a little ball of energy; I don't think he stopped jumping around for more than a few seconds at any time. It's amazing to me how someone can pull off a two-hour set like that, and not miss a beat. Yeah, don't talk to me about playback - maybe the band uses it, but I doubt it after seeing several improvs and spontaneous jams.
bathing in the light from the stage
The stage featured some incredibly cool lightwork. You can't make out the details in my crappy phone photos, but there was some sort of active screen stretching the full width and height of the stage. It was lit relatively conservatively for the first few songs, but at one point it exploded into a swirling starscape. From then on, it held my attention - maybe even a little too much.
I also enviously watched a nearby guy while he took some great digital snapshots with very good fidelity. I hope to have something capable of doing the same very soon.
Heather really enjoyed the show too. Jay Kay is a pretty small guy, judging from his height compared to other people surrounding him. But his energy is larger than life - and infectious.
the crowd goes home (packed Bercy arena was amazingly close to empty some 15 minutes after lights-up)
Bercy arena was packed. Consider that its capacity is 16,000, including seats and standing room. That's a whole lotta bodies - and every one of them was moving at least a bit. Even the "old couple" in their 40's one row up from us (who, incidentally, really needed to get a room) was dancing nonstop.
Good show, good vibe, great music - a golden combination. Catch Jamiroquai if they swing though your town.
Friday, 30 September 2005
London Town
I apparently have bloggerrhea, so I'll share with you Heather's and my weekend from a couple of weeks ago. (Strike that - I guess it was the weekend of the tenth. Man, time flies.) Heather's friend Billie from Chicago was in London on the first leg of a European trip. So we decided to take a mini break (look at me, speaking perfect English) and visit her and a few friends who live in the city.
artist in window at Selfridges; our portrait would be to the left of her face, if you could see it
This is one of the coolest things about having a high-speed train link: Hop the train in one city center, arrive in the other. No muss, no taxis, no airport shuffle. You do have to arrive at least a half an hour before departure, but since the Paris station is three metro stops from my apartment, this isn't a real hassle.
We had a great time visiting my friends Simon and Kristen for an extended lunch. I know them from my brief time at an apartment complex, during the eight months or so before I moved to Paris. He's English, she's Minnesotan, and they were my downstairs neighbors. They moved to London some three years ago, so we're neighbors of sorts once again.
They've apparently been on a museum kick, visiting several on different weekends. We were having such a good time that Heather and I joined them to see the Wallace Collection. Free admission! The English definitely get it.
An interesting tidbit: Sir Richard Wallace, in an act of charity, offered Paris drinking fountains. They're distinctive green constructs which you can still see throughout the city. When we arrived at the collection, I saw a very familiar sight out the corner of my eye. Yes, it was! One of the drinking fountains - a reciprocative gift from Paris to the Wallace Collection - in front building's entrance. Such a small world, that we, who have adopted Paris as our home, should just happen to go see the collection of another adoptive Parisian.
Billie met us that evening at the same bar that Heather's friend Raul and his girlfriend, Ruth, were at. That was a good time, and nice to see Raul and Ruth again. Billie is really cool, I was happy to meet another of Heather's good girlfriends. Plus I didn't act like a total prat in front of Billie, so Heather won't be calling the wedding off.
ha ha, we're so mature
Sunday was "just us" time, wandering around on foot after a lazy morning that included a relaxed breakfast and plenty of lounging around. London is a nice place for walks, and I love Hyde Park. There's nothing like that in Paris, something that's central and yet isolates you from the surrounding noise. We have parks, and we have big parks - but "central" and "extensive" are unfortunately mutually exclusive in Europe's densest city (also see this city list).
That was the weekend, nice and simple. High points were getting incorporated into a piece of art (corporate art, but still fun) by an artist standing in the window of Selfridges department store, and buying goodies (like four varieties of cheddar cheese) at Marks & Sparks. The literal "high point" was doing our tourist thing on the London Eye. Low points were walking around without my jacket (left in Paris, in expectation of warmer weather in London) in a t-shirt and... well, that's it really.
Oh, and Wagamama is great. Wow, did those hot noodles ever hit the spot on a chilly day. They really need to open one here in Paris, so let's get started petitioning them...