Femme on Fire

Il Latini (Last Night First)

In Florence there is a restaurant famed mostly for communal eating and more dead pigs hanging from the ceiling than you can shake a stick at. Tonight, our final night in Italy, we made this our choice for dinner and arrived extra early given the queue we had seen previously. As we waited, and people collected near the door, we made friends first with Tom (who also ran the marathon with APLA) and his partner, Charles, then Lauren from Virginia, and her parents, Holly and Tom, who currently live in Milan. After waiting together for 20 minutes in the cold, and after edging out the Italians who don't know the meaning of the word "queue" we decided the seven of us should dine together.

So, beneath entire pork thighs, hung in pairs with bone protruding, we shared a delightful evening. Plates of local specialties flowed almost as freely as the casks of table wine. Salamis, prosciutto, mozzarella with tomatoes, ravioli, penne, and a plate of so much meat we could have been at medieval times, followed by what seemed like the entire dessert tray, plus biscotti and dessert wine, plus Asti. PHEW. And when food and wine flow so freely, you know conversation is keeping the pace. Holly, my mother, and I talked about everything from weight in Milan (even lower than LA) to travel to shopping and especially TV (which they miss desperately in their new town), Tom and Charles also work in the industry and we know some of the same people, Lauren works as a faux finisher and does murals, Tom of Milan had a lot to say about American vs. European way of life. It was fun and a little raucous and entirely wonderful. Now, almost three hours later, I have to figure out how to pack everything purchased into my bag, so that we can come home in the morning.

Home! I am so excited. I've been homesick since we arrived in Venice almost a week ago, and being incredibly sore and a little ill since Sunday hasn't helped. Just two incredibly long flights and I can stop sleeping on wooden planks in a single bed. So long, Italia!

Italia!

Life has finally slowed down enough for me to realize, with excitement, that I'm leaving for Italy tomorrow!!! Mom and I fly to Florence tomorrow evening, arriving a day later, and spend a week galavanting about until I run the delightful Firenze Marathon on Sunday, the 26th. Then three days before we depart will be spent with a great deal of hobbling and whining. This will be my fourth marathon and my first trip to Italy. Yay!!! As a bonus, this is the first time that my mom will accompany me to a marathon, and the first time that my mom will get to meet my totally awesome coach, Monica, whom I have trained with for four years.

I can't wait to eat pasta, drink wine, and run my ass off. Although, it could be argued that I can do that in Venice, CA.

The Hidden Party Pooper

If you've ever bought a house, applied for a car loan, needed a cashier's check, or tried to wire money abroad, then you know that the easiest part for all of this is having the money. The hard part is banks. Banks suck. I hate banks. I can't tell you how many times I found myself in a bank in tears when I was buying Casa de Ranchito, but it was a lot. Usually these tears, fueled by frustration, rage, and impotence to change the situation, are set off by the evilest of all people- outranking even lawyers- branch managers and head tellers!

You see, a lawyer knows the law, but realizes when he doesn't know the law, he should check a big dusty book, or have one of his underpaid peons do it for him. When a banker doesn't know something, it's your fault. And if they don't have the correct information it's always "a few extra days."

Case in point: today, at the Studio City branch of a bank we shall call Fells Wargo, so that I may avoid litigation, I talked to their manager about an international wire transfer I needed to complete today. Actually, I started by going to a desk where I was informed I needed to see a teller, then I went to a teller who looked at me startled and handed me a form. She could offer no help in filling out said form, so I went to one of those tables with the attached pens and attempted to do it myself. I thought I had done a pretty bang up job, so I went to talk to another teller. Confused, he motioned for the manager, who started by looking over my paperwork and informing me that Paris is in the UK.

Paris.

in the UK.

This is new information for me, I was under the distinct impression they were in France. I tried to explain this to her, but she insisted that there was no England, only UK. I quickly responded that France was not in England, it was another country, and a part of the Europe mainland. She seemed to get it, so we proceeded. She took me to another computer and looked over my forms. She had questions about every number and letter I entered. She tried entering some herself, and when I caught her in a mistake she told me she was dyslexic. A dyslexic banker. I don't even need to make a joke about that, it is the joke. From that point on my eyes stayed glued to her every pen swipe and her every key stroke. Finally, she attempted to pull up the bank information in her computer- and started by selecting country: United Kingdom.

Some people will not be convinced easily.

I told her to use France as the country, and again she stated that France is not a country, it's called UK. I then told her to flip to the "F" portion of the list. Do you want to guess what we found there? Anyone? Anyone? If you guessed "France" you can give yourself a nice pat on the back and thank your lucky stars that you've been watching international politics with some modicum of interest for about 300 years. The last I heard of anyone trying to merge these two marvelous nations was in a Shakespearean play. Finally, we had the country selected and we attempted to enter the "BIC" number for the bank. For those of you not well versed in international banking, this is like a routing number. Unfortunately, this is where my rage at Fells Wargo falls apart, as I presume human error outside of myself and the woman "assisting" me is responsible for the fact that a different bank comes up in the system when you enter the BIC number I was given by the landlords. I finally returned home in a huff to try calling the central number for Fells Wargo and talking to their Wire Transfer department.

After that, the story accelerates towards a finish. I was denied phone access to making a wire transfer, but the man in that department gave me their number, and told me to call from the bank if there was any problem. I went to the branch near my house, armed with information, and aside for some minor mixups, my wire is now supposed to be at the ready. Unfortunately, I did miss the 1pm cut off time because no one told me about it at the first bank, and there's still no garauntee that the wire is going to the right place, but given all the information I was able to provide, it may just take "a few extra days."

But seriously, banks suck.

Finally

After weeks of looking and getting my hopes up, only to have them squashed later, I finally have an apartment. I am proud to announce my new abode! The neighborhood is very nice. It's on the famed "left bank" and actually quite near to the Seine, which is the river that seperates the left bank from the riff raff. I'll be really close to a metro stop, and not that far from the city center. It's also near a few universities and gardens and parks and stuff, but since it has the internet and cable, I assume I won't really be setting foot outside much. I mean, why go to a foreign country to look around? I can get everything I need from the local news.

And now, because I promised illustrations at some point in time, a map of my new hood:

C'est dommage!

I am in the process of getting my first lessons in the way things are done in France. Last weekend I wrote to an online apartment service to retain the apartment I mentioned previously and was sent a contract within a day. Then, when I had questions, it took several days to hear back from them. Finally, I received a response today from Charlotte, who says the apartment is no longer available and would like to help me find another place. Too bad! It was such a perfect apartment, I was especially drawn in by the lure of two nearby parks that are frequent locations for joggers, and the street market. Maybe something else nearby Anyway, I sent her an email letting her know what I'm looking for and what I liked about that place, hopefully I will hear back from her soon.

All of this harkens back to a conversation I had earlier today with two women from my French class. We met up to review some grammar giving everyone a hard time, and got on the subject of the move. One of them, Diane, has a son living in Marseille, and warned me that they move on a much different time line abroad. I'm sure I will learn quickly to appreciate and abhor the different pace. Here it's so easy and quick to book a place online- and it's very automated and impersonal, as well. With the French I will do well to remember that things work on a more personal, human level.

I'm sure a lot of deep breathing is to follow.

The beginning

Why?

One day, around this time last year, I was walking through my house and a voice said, "Why don't you move to Paris?" I recognized the voice instantly as my own, and though you might think otherwise from the events that have followed, it was not a voice with dare at the edges, it was not the voice of crazed adventure. The voice in my ear was calm, rational, and completely without challenge. The voice simply wanted to know why. So I listened to that voice. And I remembered that when I went to Paris at fourteen I could not conceive of a future without returning to live. I thought I would attend the Sorbonne and drink chocolat chaud for breakfast and eat baguette with strawberry jam. Since then my practical nature had won out, and I saw moving to Paris as immature, irrational, and incomprehensible. There are things I want to do with my life, that I plan to do, and I always thought something so grandiose would get in the way. However, that's not how the addage goes, is it? Instead we say, "Life is what happens while you're making other plans." So I might as well plan to go to Paris, and life will happen as it's meant to anyway. As much as it pains me to admit, you can't plan everything.

When?

I leave for Paris October 5th, 2005, or as they say over there, 5eme Octobre, 2005. I will stay until I can find a job or until my tourist time runs out. My return flight is booked for January 4th.

Where?

I am in the process of renting a short term, furnished apartment in the 17th Arrondisement (neighborhood). According to the map I used as a reference, the 17th is very diverse and the specific area I'm living in, on the west side near Parc Monceau, is very upscale. I will also be near the Arc de Triomph and not too far from my favorite area near Sacre Coeur and Montmartre. It is also a good area for jogging, and there is a street market close by most weekdays.

What?

My primary purpose for being in Paris will be to expose myself to a different culture and explore the feeling I had so many years ago that Paris is "home." I will challenge myself to be more open-minded than I have ever been before, and to take chances and try things that may take more courage than I am used to expending. I may even fail at one or two things. I will leave shortly to go to Dublin and run a marathon on halloween. And I will be looking for work, because without work I will forever be doomed to three month visits with a minimum of three months between, or working and living as an illegal alien. My greatest hope is to continue my current career as an assistant editor for film and tv, or even better, to find work as an editor, but I am also getting certified to teach English as a foreign language, to increase my possibilities. Once I find someone who would like to employ me, they will get working papers from the ministry and I will be required to return to the United States, or more specifically, my mom's house, for approximately three months. Then I can return for the length of my contract and after that we'll just see.

Who?

Will be taking care of the dogs? My dear friend, Jason, will be renting my house from me and taking care of my dogs. It's an ideal situation since he is at the top of the list for people I would trust for the task, he's able to pay rent, and the dogs won't have to move. When I return for my visa I'll be preparing the dogs for a Pet Visa so they're ready should I decide to take them with me at some point. The French love dogs more than a Beverly Hills housewife.

Wrapping up

This is an incredibly exciting adventure for me, but it doesn't always feel that way. Sometimes I am walking over boxes, looking at all I have to sift through, making lists of everything I have to accomplish before I go, and it feels like a major pain in the ass. Sometimes I am enjoying time with friends, or my dogs, or just watching an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on TiVo, and a wave of panic and fear washes over me. Sometimes I ache to think of all I'm leaving behind. And in those same moments I realize I couldn't be doing any of this without those emotions driving me, too. I will miss Los Angeles, and I will miss my mess, my dogs, my friends, my work, my traffic, my mom, my everything, but it's time to risk everything. I hope that by creating this travel journal it will make it that much easier to keep in touch with all of you, because you are all going with me in my heart. That is what gives me the strength and the courage for this journey.

With love,
Ariel