After avoiding the subject for way too long, I’ve signed up for French driving lessons. Unless your American license was issued in one of the 13 states (see below) that have a reciprocity agreement with France, you have to take both the written and driving tests once you live here permanently. That means drivers’ ed all over again.

Technically, one could sign up on their own for these two tests, but the catch is that you must have a car equipped with brakes on the left and right sides. On your own, you also have to register for the exams through the Préfecture- a process that seems quite daunting to me. The only real solution for those of us from the “other 37 states” is to go through a driving school.

Advantages:

1. The school takes care of the registration at the Préfecture.

2. You learn what is expected of you on the exams.

3. You learn all sorts of French vocabulary you’ll never learn in college (i.e. point mort = neutral, angle mort = blind spot). And, yes, all the references to death (mort) do freak me out a bit.

Disadvantages:

1. Expensive (at least 1,000 euros for the classes and exams).

2. Time-consuming (you actually have to study, even if you already “know” how to drive). The whole process takes several months.

3. Apparently, less than 60% of the candidates get their license on the first try (and in Paris, you may have to wait up to six months for another exam date!).

See why I’ve put it off for so long?

Short-term visitors and students in France can both drive on their American licenses- no problem. Foreign residents can drive on theirs for up to one year. For those who have the right to exchange their license, they must do it in these first twelve months- otherwise, all is lost and they have to take the lessons and tests. To date, these states are part of the agreement: Arkansas, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Kansas, Kentucky, Michigan, New Hampshire, Ohio, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Virginia.

One of the hardest parts about this whole process is finding a decent driving school. After quite a bit of research and a few visits, I ended up going with this school. These were my criteria:

1. Convenient location and open hours

2. “Reasonably” priced (haha!)*

3. A friendly vibe and professional atmosphere

*I chose a school with the best value for the money. For example, they propose unlimited classroom courses and three months access to their on-line lessons and practice tests (many schools didn’t offer this at all). I chose not to go with the most inexpensive schools, but a medium-priced and well-established one. Driving schools in Paris are more than abundant and the smaller ones frequently go out of business.

I’m actually having fun studying, especially when I ask people who already have their license the mock questions and they don’t know the answers. It’s not their fault. It’s simply that the test is difficult and not always straight-forward. The way the questions are formulated can be tricky and you have to learn to think like the test (makes me feel like I’m taking the SATs all over again). I’m also having fun putting to work what I’m learning by walking around Paris, pretending I’m a police officer. I give imaginary tickets to, well, pretty much everyone.

In order to give me test-studying energy, I started off the morning with some home-made muesli. Originally from Switzerland, it’s made of uncooked cereals and is extremely easy to make. The advantage of making it yourself is that you can choose whatever ingredients you want- and you won’t get stuck picking out dried coconut shavings, for example.

The three essential ingredients are:

1. Uncooked, very slightly toasted cereal flakes

2. Dried fruits

3. Nuts

I used a combination of five different cereals in equal parts. If you don’t find them already toasted, you can do it yourself. Be careful not to leave them in the oven too long- otherwise they’ll become too crispy, like granola. Muesli should practically be raw.

Toasting the nuts, like the cereals, brings out the flavor. I especially like adding slivered almonds. I grill them (without any oil) in a frying pan. Watch them very carefully, as they cook fast- I’ve burnt many a batch!

Recommended ingredients:

Barley flakes

Oat flakes

Rice flakes

Rye flakes

Wheat flakes

Small Sultana raisins

Slightly toasted slivered almonds

Combine ingredients and you’re done. Top with sliced banana for extra fuel.

This week I got to meet David Lebovitz and picked up a beautiful (and heavy) copy of his latest cookbook, Ready for Dessert.

Once a pastry chef at Alice Water’s Berkley-based restaurant, Chez Panisse, Lebovitz now lives in Paris. On his blog and in his books, he not only shares recipes, but also comical anecdotes about his everyday life in Paris- many of which the rest of us can identify with. My first glimpse into the chef/author’s world of witty sarcasm and goofy observations came as I was leafing through the introduction of an earlier book, The Sweet Life in Paris. Here, he describes the “exact” moment he “became Parisian.” This story alone is worth a trip to the bookstore, especially for we foreigners who will undoubtedly chuckle and say, “That’s so true!”

At the WHSmith-sponsored reading, Lebovitz kept joking about one of his recent blog posts and his misadventures at the grocery store. I, too, have grocery store stories, but more generally I seem to have plastic bag stories. This, in fact, is one of the five or so items I’ve cried over in France- well, it’s never really the bag itself, but the callous person behind the bag who is always the last straw in an already long line of straws. One of the bag stories put an end to my buying produce at the grocery store. The other story put an end to frequenting one of my favorite boulageries.

I don’t actually know what the real policy is because each grocery store employee seems to dictate their own rules. Until that day (incidentally, the same day Obama was sworn into the White House), no one had ever abided to the “all produce must be in a much-too-big plastic bag” mantra. In many European grocery stores, you must weigh your produce and stick the price on it before proceeding to the cash register. In some stores, there is someone who does this for you- usually they are friendly enough. The weighing process often involves a large plastic bag- which I never want (and, in my opinion, goes directly against the grocery stores’ marketing ads supporting sustainable development). Sometimes, there are small paper bags that you can use, but it seems I’m always having to ask for them. Thus, for thick-skinned, easily-portable items (such as a single lemon or three attached bananas), I’ll get them weighed without a bag. Usually, no one cares and I leave the store happily counting the lack of non-biodegradable items in my canvas shopping tote. One day, however, the antagonist of my story not only says (in a very unfriendly tone) that my lemon must be in a plastic bag, she refuses to give me a paper bag (stacked in a neat pile next to the scale)- even after I tried to explain why I didn’t want yet another plastic bag (that would be sealed with the price sticker and, once broken, not reusable). I went on about how it was the store’s policy to be sustainable. When people aren’t friendly, I don’t buy- unfortunate for me, because I couldn’t make lemon bars that day.

My other plastic bag story was at the bakery, about three years after moving to France. Had it been any old bakery, I might not have cared so much, but this was the very first bakery I had ever been to in France and, thus, it had quite a bit of sentimental value attached to it. I remember buying my first pain aux raisins from a cheerful, blonde girl with a bouncy ponytail. It was the most wonderful thing my twenty-something self had ever eaten. Throughout that entire first year I went there all the time. Thus, my deception when, years later, a grumpy woman refused to give me a plastic bag (the only reason I wanted one was because I had just bought two items, it was raining and I didn’t have any room in my book bag). Completely unprepared for the storm that was to hit me, I was paralyzed by the bark that informed me the bags were only for the sandwiches. I tried to insist, and was hoping the people in line behind me would support my cause, but all I ended up with was a pool full of water about to overflow from my eyes. I managed to get out of there before the tears really started flowing and my face turned all red.

These stunned, helpless moments don’t happen that often, but when they do- I wonder, “Was it my fault?” When I ask Sébastien (who in the evening can probably still see the blood simmering under my skin), he says, “No” and that “It’s not normal.” This is to say that even French people find this sort of behavior shocking and wonder where it comes from. Since neither of us are from a big city, we wonder if it’s that. Or maybe it’s the latitude and the lack of sunlight in winter that creates a handful of grumps. Unfortunately, I’m afraid it’s these few cranky people who give France a bad image. Think about it, if I came to Paris for a week-long vacation and encountered the woman at the bakery, I’d probably say “the French are rude,” too- something we know isn’t generally true.

Back to Lebovitz, go out and get his latest book if you’re up for baking (and stories). Also, if you’re interested in meeting him, he’ll be at Café Etienne Marcel on Friday, May 28^th. Check the WH Smith website for details.

You can’t have a blog on Paris without mentioning the infamous

This is where one goes for a handful of administrative documents in France, and in a foreigner’s case, for your titre de séjour- the card that gives you permission to live in France and acts as your “identity card.”  Once you move to Paris the Préfecture kind of becomes part of your life- like the post office, the bank, the grocery store (okay, maybe we won’t go that far).  After a while you just kind of get to know it, and most expats seem to have a story to tell- from waiting in line to being sent back home to fetch a missing document, from misunderstandings with employees to just plain confusion.  Maybe I’ve just been lucky, or maybe I’m just strange, but I actually kind of like going to the Préfecture.

The old stately building in located right in the center of Paris, on Ile de la Cité.  I usually arrive by metro, anxiously poking my head out of ground to have a peek at the row of green huts lined up out in front.  These little shops are overflowing with all sorts of plants for sale- and many also display Christmas ornaments that are always fun to look at through the large glass windows.  Then I turn around and see the stately Préfecture- and my husband waiting patiently for me on a bench.

This afternoon, though, I decided to take the 72 bus which strides along the Seine and lets me out on the north side of the water, so that I have to cross over the Pont Notre Dame in order to get to the island.  This is my favorite part of the journey- crossing the bridge and looking out over the Seine toward the west.  No matter what time of year, or what time of day, the sky is always striking.  I’ve seen pale hazy pink, bright clear blue, and cold misty grey hovering above the rows of bridges.

What always surprises me about the Préfecture is actually how quickly it all goes.  Since we were married, Sébastien and I have had to return every year to renew my titre de séjour, and then go back a month or so later to pick it up.  While the initial meeting with an agent takes longer, I can usually bet on ten or fifteen minutes to pick it up- I know, not the usual story we hear.   The secret is knowing where to go and in what order.

I walk through the security doors and through the main entry way- no point in stopping at the front desk like I did the very first time- I just continue out the back door and take two lefts until I see “Caisse” marked on a door to my left.  This is where I buy the timbre OMI (Office des Migrations Internationales)- a 70 euro stamp that they will stick on my papers.  Then I  walk directly back out this door and cross the hallway to a little machine that gives me a number when I press the button.  Today I was only three people away from the next agent.  This is where I see most people getting confused.  Instead of going directly to the cash register, they wait with a number to go through the magic titre de séjour doors, then they come out in search of the hidden register and missing stamp.  My advice is simply to not wait in line and go through those doors until you are armed with:

- the stamp

- your passport

- your old titre de séjour

- your récipissée (a piece of paper that proves you’ve requested a new titre de séjour- it basically bridges the gap between the old one, which is expired by now, and the new one, and lets you get back in the country if you leave during the change-over)

When it’s your turn, you walk through the doors, smile and say “Bonjour” to the agent, sign a paper and walk back out the door with a shiny, laminated card.

Then you walk out the exit, which is to the south- completely the opposite direction from where you came in.  Your entire body feels weightless and smugly satisfied because, after all, you’ve just accomplished something and, admit it, you’re happy to know Paris is your city for at least another year- as though it’s yours and only yours- and you walk past Notre Dame, back over the Seine, and look out over the ever-present sky, remembering all the reasons you’re in Paris in the first place.