plants! ants!

My latest attempt at a flower box

I tend to jump into things with little forethought; getting myself out of trouble is one of my self-perceived strengths. (Long-time observers and friends, you may see it differently). When I had my original ant problem -- not to be confused with my current ant problem -- a friend mentioned that ants hate salt. Delighted to have a natural solution, I created a salt barrier near their entry point. Instead of sprinkling a little salt near them to test their reaction, I joyously dumped an entire 500 gram box of sea salt in a semicircle around my balcony door, convinced that if a little salt would deter them, a lot would scare them more. In truth, I have never been good at science. In seventh grade, I copied my middle older brother's old lab reports, because copying his answers was easier than thinking up my own.

That bit of academic dishonesty was topped by my laziness in 9th grade World History. I remember we had been assigned an article about the ''Nacirema'' people. I listened attentively before the bell as my classmates whispered, ''that's American spelled backwards!'' Clearly I hadn't read the essay, nor the textbook we'd been wading through. When it was time to take the mid-term exam, I flipped through the four pages of essay questions and began to sweat. I don't remember the questions, but I know I couldn't answer a single one. I sat for a few minutes, and wondered how it would feel to get my first F. But then I shifted from panic to action. Slowly, I crossed out my teacher's questions and wrote in my own. Thankfully I was clever enough to ask questions that I could actually answer. I worked until the bell, and confidently handed in my paper.

Back to my adulthood shenanigans: A few hours after sprinkling half a kilo of salt on my floor, I was disappointed to see ants walking up the salt mound, down the other side, and right into my living room. ''You fuckers,'' I thought, as I crunched salt crystals under my feet. I wondered why I hadn't done any research before acting on off-hand advice.

As for my current ant problem, I just bought a plant off of craigslist. The price was right (15 euros), and I'd been wanting a little greenery in my apartment. In recent months, I've killed a Gerber daisy and a white cyclamen. A while back I bought the quintessential, hardy Parisian flower box plant, the geranium, and killed that too.

Dead Gerber daisy

I was hopeful about this new plant. I shlepped it home and beamed at its twisting beauty. Noticing the soil was dry, I watered it, then went to meet a friend.

You might notice that I have started keeping eggs on the counter top, too.

When I got home a few hours later, I noticed an ant in my bathroom. ''I'm going to have to tell my landlord he really needs to take care of this ant problem,'' I fumed. Then I walked back into the living room and saw ants scurrying across the floor. I picked up my shoe and began splattering carcasses, hoping that the ants would become frightened upon smelling death. Yes, they were frightened and scurried under tables and out of sight. I continued slapping my shoe to the floor and admitted to myself, with sadness, that my new plant was infested with ants. ''They must have fled as soon as I watered the plant,'' I concluded.

I banished the plant to the balcony and planned to disown it the following morning. Before going to bed, I emailed my mom for advice. My mom wrote back that her mother used to take ant-infested plants outside, rinse the soil with soapy water, and re-pot them. ''Rubbish!'' I thought to myself. ''Who WASHES a plant?'' My brother's wife sent a link stating that ants are deterred by certain smells, so I placed four cinnamon sticks and a few cloves of garlic in the top of the soil. The ants stayed out of sight, but I knew they were still in the soil.

As I kept researching, I noticed that the easiest solution promoted online is to drown ants in a borax solution. Except I challenge any of you to find borax on a store shelf in France. I tripped over myself in the hardware store when trying to request it. ''Bonjour Madame. Auriez-vous du borax. Bo--rahx,'' I tried. ''I mean, in English we call it borax. I don't know what you call it here. Acide borique?'' When the saleswoman asked what it was like, I could only add, ''it's a white powder.''

''No, we don't have that,'' she answered confidently. I checked with someone in the paint department, and someone else in the gardening department. No one knew about borax, and no one had any suggestions for an alternative.

We're now onto day 2 of this endeavor. This morning I followed my grandmother's advice. I immersed the flower pot in soapy water, and later noticed the ants crawling up the stalk and onto the leaves. Disheartened, I went back to the Internet. ''What am I doing wrong?'' I wondered. And then I read more carefully: apparently you need hot, soapy water to kill ants. So now I've doused the entire plant with hot soapy water and have re-immersed the pot in a bucket full of more hot, soapy water. If nothing else, I'll have the cleanest garlic cloves in town.

I've been wanting to start an herb garden for a while, but I'm suddenly beginning to reconsider the idea. If you strip me of my powers of persuasion, if you take away my ability to finagle, it seems I may not encounter success. On the other hand, I'm slow to feel defeated, so who knows what I'll be up to next.

Missing letters and extra syllables

Anyone who has learned a foreign language knows that there is often a fine line between saying ''le mot juste'' (the right word) and really sticking your foot in your mouth. I myself have certainly produced a few good gems over the last few years -- and even as recently as last night.

Back when my French abilities were in a state of charming mediocrity (now they're just in a state of decline), I was in the car with a much older, more conservative colleague. He was awkward, but polite. The radio was blaring as we buckled our seat belts. ''Maybe he is older, tragically single and hard of hearing all at once,'' I thought. Shaking my head knowingly as he spoke, I had no idea what ''we'' were talking about. Soon I worked up a bit of courage. After rehearsing the following line carefully in my head, I said, ''Est-ce que tu peux baiser la radio?''

Unfortunately, I had just asked him to fu-- the radio. The mistake was innocent enough. A second ''s'' in the word turns it from a sexual act, baiser (which can also mean ''to kiss'') to a dignified request meaning ''to lower,'' baisser. A single ''s'' in French sounds more like an English ''z,'' which is important if you want to distinguish between ''poison'' (pwah-zzowh, or poison) and ''poisson'' (pwah-sssoh, or fish).

My colleague was polite. He didn't try to have sex with the radio; he just shut it off.

I often retell this story to students when we get down to the nitty-gritty of English pronunciation. ''Making mistakes is okay, normal even,'' I tell them. ''Just be prepared to laugh at yourself.''
 
At a recent lesson, one of my students spoke about the bank's ''chair holders.'' I interrupted him immediately and picked up a chair. ''Frédéric,'' I said, ''Right now I am a chair holder. I think you are talking about shhhhhhareholders. Shhh shhh shhh,'' I repeated.

But back to last night when I walked into the pharmacy with a stuffy nose. ''Mon nez est bouchonné,'' I told the pharmacist loudly. I knew I'd misspoken when all eyes looked towards me. Turns out that I had accidentally told her that my nose was corked (like a tainted bottle of wine). It's okay, though, because I was so congested that she understood what I meant, ''mon nez est bouché.'' After discussing my symptoms further, I bought a few products and was on my way. ''It's bouché (bou-shay), Johanna,'' I chastised myself, knowing that I confuse those two words often. Then I realized that bou-shay can also indicate boucher, or butcher. Yes, French is difficult, and silent letters are scattered all about.

But historically, it is an important language, too. If you're watching the Olympics these days, you might notice that the announcements are made in French before English; both are official languages of the Games. Monsieur Pierre de Fredy de Coubertin is credited with re-launching the Olympics in1896. But Title IXers beware: Coubertin was against female athletes. He argued that it was simply unappealing to watch women exert their bodies that way, and that since they did not participate in ancient Greece, they should not participate in more modern times, either. He did, however, think that women were suited for the task of handing out medals. Thankfully, his opinion was overruled, and four years later, the Olympics had its first female competitors (in Paris, no less!).

For now, my French is far from perfect, much like the rest of me. As I watch the rest of the Summer Games, let's just hope that I don't get served a corked bottle of wine.

Chocolate Binge

For some unknown reason I had a can of sweetened condensed milk sitting in the back of my cupboard. This is not a crime, but I still kept it buried, not quite sure how to interact with its contents. I eat certain foods that are frowned upon here as being ''chimique'' (artificial), but that goopy, too-sweet, cream-imposter had me stumped. That is, until I came home one evening and was craving chocolate. Indeed, I'd been craving chocolate for a few days prior, but the recent heat wave had been an overall appetite suppressant, so I never stocked up. That evening, however, I was desperate. I scoured my cupboards, hoping that I'd left a morsel between the tea and oats, or maybe behind the sachets of baking powder. Pas de chance. No luck. Then I dipped my hand into a bag of plump Chilean raisins, wondering if they would work as a replacement (of course not, though I threw a handful in my mouth just to be sure).

I glanced at the time and knew that the shops in my neighborhood were all long-shut, their metal volets rolled down and locked. In my tipsy haze, I googled ''baking with sweetened condensed milk'' and then narrowed in on brownies. The list of ingredients was simple: an egg, some vanilla, cocoa powder, flour, baking powder, melted butter and the gooey canned milk. I switched on the oven and began to stir together the ingredients, not actually using a measuring cup or spoon. ''I got this,'' I had myself convinced through my drunken haze, ''I'll just taste the batter and adjust the proportions as necessary.''

Disclosure: yes, I eat batter with raw eggs. And have for most of my 31 years. You might be surprised to know that French people often leave their fresh eggs on the counter, far from the controlled temperatures of le frigo, and to my knowledge, that hasn't killed anyone yet.

Meanwhile, because I was really using this recipe as a suggestion, I also skipped the shortbread crust and left out the required milk chocolate (had I had that, of course, this whole baking adventure would have never come about). I poured, shook, and sprinkled the ingredients that I did have with the fervor of a chocolate junkie. While admiring the brown batter that was suddenly before my eyes, I realized that the ''mixing bowl'' I had been using was actually my beautiful Mauviel pot (bought in a sweet village called Villedieu-les-Poêles), and smiled with satisfaction when I realized I could just put the pot directly in the oven (c'est trop fort, ça!).

If you look to the right of ''Mauviel 1830,'' you will see some remnants of my failed brownies

About twenty minutes later, a spoon test (which is when you dig a spoon into the outer edge of the brownies, and bring it to your lips with confident disregard to more scientific approaches), confirmed that my brownies were ready. I distracted myself for a few minutes while waiting for them to cool. And then I scooped some more into a bowl and began to eat. Except what I was eating had only a hint of chocolate, and not much flavor beyond that. I took a few more bites to be sure and then covered the pot. I looked once more for any bits of real chocolate in my apartment, but then sighed, and went to bed.

The next day I popped inside the local chocolate shop, thinking I'd probably be disappointed by their goods, but wanting to be certain about that. Upon learning that there was a minimum purchase to use a credit card (seven or eight euros), I committed to buying a small box of chocolates. I gazed hopefully at the marzipan and rhum raisin, eventually choosing 12 pieces to take home. That night I had a friend over for dinner. After cheese and salad, we opened the box and began sampling, taking a bite, and passing it along. I think the matcha was great and so was the orange crème. Eventually my friend went home and I had half the box left. ''Leave them for another day, Johanna,'' I told myself. Ten minutes later, the junkie-instinct was back, and I ripped open the box anew to begin sampling the ones left behind. ''Too many nuts,'' I thought of the first one, pulling out another piece. ''Too sweet,'' I noted, reaching for another. ''Ugh, why did I buy mocha?'' I wondered about the third. I continued until the small piece of tissue floated gently to the bottom of the box. That's when I knew I'd finished a box of mediocre chocolates all by myself.

A few days later I felt harassed by the opened can of sweetened condensed milk that sat on a shelf in my fridge. About one third of the contents remained, and I was too proud to toss it out, hoping it would grow mold first. My impatience won over, and I got back on google, where I stumbled upon a fail-proof recipe for truffles. ''I think you've had enough chocolate for a while,'' I said to myself at first, but before I could put on the breaks, I was reaching for the cocoa powder and scooping out the last of the sludgy milk into a bowl. I took a quick bite of the mixture, added a little vanilla, and placed it in the fridge. A few hours later, I went to roll my truffles in almond pieces, but looked on helplessly as my hands took over once more, reached for a clean spoon, and started shoveling the mixture into my mouth. A few bites in, I started to feel sick, and put the bowl away. That evening I met a friend for dinner and a stroll through the gardens at Palais Royal. When I got home, I decided it would be best to finish off the truffle mixture that same day and start afresh in the morning, which is exactly what I did.

Palais Royal in full bloom

 One week into my chocolate binge, I am beginning to feel a little bit silly. Here we are in a city full of delicious sweet treats, and I keep acting on impulse to satisfy a craving that could so easily be sated with a little more planning. Tonight I'm going to a friend's house for dinner. She said we'd be eating à la bonne franquette (a simple, informal meal), and told me I didn't have to bring anything. Ignoring her completely, I picked up a beautiful melon this morning and am contemplating something more: a bottle of rosé or maybe some cookies à l'américaine. As you can imagine, though, I'm feeling self-conscious about my baking abilities and wonder if I might be better off stopping by À la Mère de Famille or some other well-respected chocolate store instead. 

While I don't encourage you to eat any brownies that I make on-the-fly after a late night out, I do suggest you bookmark the sweet little town of Villedieu-les-Poêles, well-known for its copper pot merchants. Une poêle is a frying pan, and the village name reflects a cookware trade that dates back to the Middle Ages. Their weekly market has apparently been a tradition since the 12th century.

This morning I woke early and stood outside the health food store, waiting for its doors to open. I selected three bars of chocolate, which are now resting comfortably in my cupboard next to the loose leaf tea. I have sampled the dark chocolate with cranberries, and felt satisfied after a few small squares. I'll be heading out to my friend's apartment soon, and so must scuttle along to figure out what I will bring. Maybe a simple bar of chocolate.

A trail of chicken feathers to the police station

A friend of mine told me that her husband called the police after a stray dog wandered onto their yard and attacked their chickens, killing one, injuring a few others, and scaring the rest. I understood his response because I had a similar knee-jerk reaction to contact the police, but I was in France, and in my case, the ''stray dog'' was actually bad customer service at the post office. Or, to be more precise, Chronopost (a relative of DHL). 

The drama started because I had been trying to open an online account with a Belgian bank. Nine months into the process (nine!) I had submitted all the required paperwork and was finally approved for a checking account. The subsequent procedures seemed simple enough: I would receive my ATM card in one envelope and a pin code in another. The ATM card arrived and I eagerly awaited each day's mail for the pin code. Instead of receiving the code itself, I received a letter from my new bank telling me to go to a Point Relais de Chronopost (which can be located in any store that agrees to distribute letters and packages on-site) to get the letter with my pin code. Fortunately, my new bank had chosen a point relais close to my apartment. ''Easy-peasy,'' I thought.

Just before noon that same day, I walked to the point relais and asked for my letter, forgetting that it was almost lunch time. The young man working at the desk politely told me it was impossible. ''Comment ça, impossible?'' I asked. How could he legally prevent me from getting my own mail? He began to talk to me in English and before I could feel  insulted, I realized it was simply because he didn't speak French very well. He explained that his ''patronne'' was at lunch and that she had not yet shown him how to hand a point relais letter to a customer. When I suggested we might be able to figure out the process together, he refused. Eventually I convinced him to rifle through the letters sitting in a pile behind the desk. He looked through them tentatively for a few seconds, and then gave up.

''I need this job,'' he stammered. ''I've been calling my boss all morning and she just yells at me. I don't want to call her again.''

I didn't want my impatience to get him fired, so I said, ''Why don't you give me your boss' number? I'll speak to her directly.'' He saw I wasn't going to leave and began to dial.

When I spoke to the owner, I started with politesse, ''Bonjour Madame, excusez-moi de vous déranger.'' (Hello madame, I'm sorry to disturb you). And then I explained the situation. The woman shrieked into the phone, saying that her empolyee was new, he didn't know how to have me sign the release form, and that she'd be back at 2 pm and that was that. I promised to complain to her superiors, but even in my fury, I saw that there was no alternative but to come back later.

And that is when I walked to the local police station, expecting to obtain some sort of police report that proved she was bad at her job. When I arrived at the Commissariat du 5e arrondissement, the woman at the front desk asked for the purpose of my visit. I slowly explained my story (thinking briefly of Arlo Guthrie losing his mind at the police station in ''Alice's Restaurant''), mentioned how in the US it is illegal to tamper with someone's mail, and was about to continue before she said, ''Why would you leave the US to come here?'' Having deflected my anger with a few more laughs, she suggested I go talk to the woman again, which is exactly what I did.

As soon as I walked into the boutique, I heard the woman ask her employee, ''is that her?'' and he nodded his head in my direction. She launched into me with a barrage of insults. I smiled serenely, handed her my driver's license, and watched her fill out the requisite form. Once I had my letter, I chastized her for the lack of professionalism in her store. At that, she pointed towards the door and ordered me to leave. As I walked towards the exit, she finished with, ''vous êtes malade,'' (''you are crazy'') to which I promptly replied, ''et vous êtes bêtes'' (and you are stupid). With that, she pushed me over the threshold and out the door. I stood and stared at her for a few seconds before turning down a side street.

I was not proud of my behavior in the store, and thought a bit about how and why the situation escalated so rapidly. Hours later, I realized that my rage should have been targeted on my ex-boyfriend, with whom I was dining that night. Instead of thinking about my unresolved feelings towards him, I got into a fight with a stranger. As the hours wore on, I veered from pangs of shame to peels of laughter. ''Did you really try to file a police report?'' I asked myself.

Since then, I've been making an effort to keep my expectations low when it comes to customer service here. And on those days when I need to be coddled, I hop on Skype. From there, I call my US bank, which seems to have an indefatiguable desire to provide gracious service. And if ever I start raising chickens, I'll try to keep my eye out for stray dogs.

Damsel in distress: an alternative ending.

 It was the light of course, but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant.

-- Ernest Hemingway, ''A Clean, Well-Lighted Place''

The other night I had a startling dream: I was walking down an anonymous, woodsy street when I told myself, ''be careful here, you might get abducted.'' Seconds later, I was being carried away by a faceless man, who promptly took me to a well-lighted room and locked me in. I don't know how long I sat there staring at the beautiful wood floors, but eventually I realized that I felt trapped and sought an escape. I was being well-treated (''il était correcte,'' the French might say), but I was certainly stuck. Somehow I thought to turn the doorknob in my room. It opened at once, and I saw my kidnipper watching TV. He might have glanced at me as I ran towards the stairs and out the door, but I was determined to be free and ran fast. In my dream, I remember thinking that I would have to start running faster during my jogs if I expected to escape faceless men on a regular basis.

Lady Gita in the foyer

And it's true, my legs have felt particularly heavy and resistent to exercise lately. I used to blame the hilly Buttes Chaumont Park, but jogging along the Seine last week (glorious, breezy morning jog!), I noticed the same dead-weight legs, even though the course was flat. So when I woke early this morning, I hypothesized that if I were sitting down as I exercised, my legs might cooperate better, or at least, have more pep. The local commerces were still sleepy when I started off on my burnt orange, cement-caked, trash-picked (thanks Hildete!) Gita racing bike towards Park de la Villette and along the Canal de l'Ourcq. The landscape changes quickly there, and I was happy, twenty minutes later, when I was finally free of construction zones and sharp curves to enjoy a straight, flat terrain. In the sunny 8 am stillness, I kept murmuring, ''Oh my God, yeah'' as I barrelled over cobblestone and onto the bike path, feeling shivers of excitement as I took in the quiet and the green.          

Park (parc) de la Villette

Around forty minutes into the ride, my legs were stiff and tired, so I stopped along a garden, and stretched out on a granite bench. ''Isn't it lovely,'' I thought to myself, ''to be carefree?'' Often when exercising, I have fairly rigid ideas on how long I should sweat before I can stop, and rarely invite myself to take a nap mid-trot, but this morning, I simply wanted to enjoy a leisurely ride. I watched more serious bikers zip past, and returned to thoughts about the dream.   

A few friends have offered their interpretations, but I keep coming back to my original thought: 'Wherever you feel stuck,'' I told myself, ''you can get yourself out of it. And even then, look carefully at what you call being 'stuck.' Maybe it's more imagined than real.'' 
My bike is back in the bike room downstairs, and my apartment is as sunny as ever on this blue-sky Monday afternoon.

Here's hoping you have a clean, well-lighted place of your own.

For more information on the bike path along the Canal de l'Ourcq, please visit here (in English) or here (in French).

Rules of the (Politeness) Game

While riding the metro home this afternoon, I was startled out of my texting haze when the train lingered longer than usual at the Anvers station, hundreds of meters below the majestic, self-cleaning Sacré-Coeur basilica (more on that later). I took the opportunity to count, perhaps for the seventh time, the number of stops left before arriving at my station, though I already knew it was only four. While riding most lines of the Paris métro, you can check email, answer the phone, and generally provoke your fellow commuters with the help of your cellphone. Side note: in German, a cellphone is called ein Handy. Handy, yes, when you want to aggravate those around you.

Before getting back to the business of chatting on gmail, I glanced at the yellow-toothed man sitting across from me, then watched as he offered his seat to a woman standing beside us. Seconds earlier, I remember thinking, ''she's an older woman. Someone should offer her a seat, but not me. It's hot in here and I'm tired.'' Fortunately, the man across from me was thinking something similar, and offered his seat to the older woman. She politely refused. As the train doors closed and the train lurched forward, he added, ''but you're tired, Madame. You're falling asleep on your feet.'' When she ignored him, he stood up, and continued his conversation with another stranger nearby. The two confirmed that she was indeed closing her eyes and should sit down. Meanwhile, two sassy teenagers swooped in and took the empty seat. ''That woman is not happy,'' they whispered to each other, smiling at me for confirmation. I smiled back, and could only guess from the older woman's body language that she resented this on-going assessment of her physical and emotional state.

Now that I'm in the comfort of my own apartment, I'm listening to France Musique, the classical music station that is part of the French public radio family. Note to budding Francophiles: listening to Radio France on a regular basis will, most assuredly, improve your French. I remember when I first moved here, my listening comprehension was limited at best. I rejoiced the day I recognized the words, ''pwahn eff air,'' which of course means, ''.fr'' (as opposed to ''doht cohm''), and is very useful when trying to join a typical French conversation. Anyway, I urge you to listen to the radio, though tonight's program is an interview with Leslie Caron, and includes brief interviews with her English-speaking acting partners. Right now I'm listening to an extract from Gigi. Someone should write a report about how a large slice of the French people adore American culture, especially Broadway, movies that came out before the late 70s (more contemporary Woody Allen films also make the cut) and the NYC scene en générale. And this despite their frequent criticism of America and her unhealthy tendancy towards excess!

We've all heard legends about the unmannerliness of Parisians, and watching commuters during rush hour here can provide good evidence to support this reputation. Our old friend, the yellow-toothed man, initially showed a dose of chivalry, but ultimately, his gesture tumbled into the Land of the Rude. And when it comes to rudeness, a friend of mine has sussed out the most effective response to the worst offenders: you know, the people who take up the whole doorway as they climb onto the train before you've gotten off, or those who push you without abandon just before the train doors close (squishing you into the forearm of a fellow passenger, or worse, a pole littered with hands gripping high and low). These brusque movements can only be forgiven if they are immediately followed by an, ''Excusez moi'' or ''Pardon.''

If not, when you encounter such indecency, you should immediately swing your body around, hopefully giving a good nudge to the guilty party as you do so. Then, as you look him or her in the eye, you say, ''Madame / Monsieur, vous êtes mal eduqué(e).'' Notice that you must start with a polite Madame or Monsieur to show that you, yourself, are ''bien eduqué(e).'' There is a strong emphasis on manners here, and to imply that a French man or woman does not have good manners, you insult that person to his or her core. For a final flourish, look the offender up and down once more, and then swing back around to your original position, eventually pulling out your trusty cellphone to check for any messages you might have missed during the brief altercation.

Oh yes, and now for that promised tidbit about the Sacré-Coeur: when you look at the photo above, you may be startled by the contrast of the glimmering grey-white façade with pockets of deep black smut. The reason is this: the stones, named Chateau-Landon after the city from which they come, are self-cleaning upon contact with rain water. Only the parts of the façade that are sheltered from the rain will turn black. Clever, clever Mother Nature.

If you would like more on the French public radio, visit www.radiofrance.fr (pwahn eff air, of course). The best way to visit the Sacré-Coeur is to approach it from behind. Take the metro to Lamarck-Caulaincourt or the 80 bus to Square Caulaincourt. From here, meander along Avenue Junot, swing through rue Norvins and rue Lepic, finally taking rue Cortot towards the basilica. One you reach the Sacré-Coeur, be prepared for throngs of tourists.

Falling Back in Love with Paris (Again)

This week I've been subletting my apartment to a former co-worker from NYC. The timing was perfect: I was going to go home for a family wedding, and she was going to enjoy a week in the 19th arrondissement. My plans changed, but hers stuck, so she arrived, and I began a week of couch-surfing, with most of my time spent on a friend's futon on rue du Temple in the 3rd.

Since moving to one of the périphérique neighborhoods in February, I am now used to quiet streets and large parks. Near me, there is a laundromat (a sign of lower-middle class incomes, just like milk chocolate, according to one of my former professors), an elementary school, a few empty restaurants, and two clothing stores that appear to be trapped in a late 80s matronly fashion dilemma. And I love it there: cozy, unsophisticated, tourist-free, and very green.When school is in session, I open my balcony doors and listen to the shrieks and laughter of the children playing during recess; their steady chorus relaxes me.

But here in the 3rd, I am five minutes from the Hôtel de Ville and the Seine, around the corner from the Pompidou art museum, and within reach of tempting food markets, bakeries, and clothing stores. We are approaching the end of France's bi-annual soldes period, where stores mark down their wares a little bit more each week. Most stores are offering discounts between 50 and 69 percent, with about ten days left to scoop up discounted merchandise.

I have had a lovely week exploring the Marais. Two days ago I found a splendid spice shop that has been family-run since 1809. The company started by selling saffron, and has grown to include everything from vinegers, salt, cooking utensils, and ice cream. As I marveled at the collection of beautiful ingredients, I couldn't help but say, ''La boutique est magnifique!''

The store clerk proudly responded that the company creates all of their spice blends in the nearby factory. When he showed me a container of whole cloves, I was impressed by their perfume, color, and size. ''Alas,'' I told him, ''I am between apartments right now and can't really buy anything.'' He smiled and said, ''Of course, Madame, but we will be going on summer holiday on July 28th, so either you come back next week, or wait until September.''

I know Paris has a reputation for its sleepiness in August, but that is one of my favorite months to be here. And furthermore, I have come to really appreciate the French (European?) insistence that people live more balanced lives. I was glad to hear that he and his colleagues would soon get a break from work. How civilized. But then again, I did have a moment of panic. Having never experienced an August in the 19th, I don't know what will be open near me next month, but I have time to figure it out.

Last night I ate dinner with the woman who is subletting my apartment. She asked, ''what is your favorite thing about living here?'' I took a minute before responding something like, ''there is a culturally-imposed rhythm here. You sit down for lunch. At one of my teaching jobs, they schedule an hour for lunch, and that is standard, accepted, and anything less considered indecent.'' I also told her about my recent trip to the dry cleaner. I went around 1:30pm, only to see that she was closed for her regular two hour break between 1 and 3pm. I did initially curse the French and their inability to run a business properly, but then I remembered the face of the woman who was cleaning my clothes and thought, ''and why doesn't she deserve to have lunch too?'' This is some of the beauty of France: most people are equal when it comes to something as basic as eating. The fact that it is a little bit inconvenient for me to pick up my laundry actually makes me appreciate the service even more.

Today I move back into my apartment. Tomorrow I'm heading back to the spice shop.

For more information about the spice shop, visit: Goumayat (Store for the general public) / Thiercelin (original family business), 3 Rue Charles-François Dupuis, 75003 Paris, France
+33 1 44 78 96 74