Today was going to be an exciting day anyway, because in a few hours Morgen and I are leaving for a one-week trip to Spain. We’ll be in the town of Marbella, on the southern coast, just a short drive from Gibraltar—which we might also visit. Perhaps we’ll even get adventurous and take a ferry across to Morocco. We’re celebrating the 10-year anniversary of our first date (February 24, which is also the anniversary of Laura Palmer’s death—an oddly appropriate coincidence for a couple of Twin Peaks fans).

So, that would have been reason enough to be happy, but we have something else to celebrate too. On Wednesday we finally received confirmation from the Caisse Primaire d’Assurance Maladie (the French social security agency, which manages the national healthcare plan) that we’re in: we’re officially covered by France’s CMU (couverture maladie universelle), and in fact our coverage was made retroactive to the day we applied, back in December. We have an actual French social security number and everything, which I think is just terribly cool.

Now, I realize that most people don’t regard a new health insurance policy as the most exciting thing in the world. But this has been a long and often very frustrating process for us; not so many months ago we had a bunch of different people telling us that we’d never be eligible for social security here, since we don’t have jobs in France (at least, not the way the French government thinks of jobs). Although we’ve had private insurance all along, it wasn’t great—a bunch of things weren’t covered, and we would have been in bad shape if any major medical expenses had arisen. But with the kind help of a friend who made some inquiries on our behalf and pointed us to the right forms to submit at the right office, we finally got past that hurdle. And now we can convert our third-party policy to a “top-off” plan that pays for what you might think of as the deductible or co-pay for the regular French health insurance. So we’re in good shape, and all for a mere (cough) 8 percent of our annual income.

Anyway: off to Spain! It’s our first European vacation since moving here last summer, and I can hardly wait. We’ll report back, with pictures, as soon as we can.

I was awakened this morning (that would be, er, yesterday morning, as I’m writing after midnight) by the doorbell, but I only had 30 seconds to be grumpy about it. It was the mail carrier, delivering my French driver’s license (two signatures required for delivery). Back when I passed my road test, I asked my driving instructor how long it would take to get the actual license in the mail, and she said that two months was typical. But it came in only six weeks (to the day), which is nice. Especially considering that in another week, we’re heading to Spain for a weeklong vacation, and we’ll be in an area where it’s awkward to get around without a car (while one-week car rentals cost less than cab fare to and from the airport—go figure).

Now I definitely need a new wallet. French driver’s licenses (which are sort of tri-fold booklet type things) are significantly larger than the credit card-sized licenses we get in the U.S., and neither my license nor my carte de séjour will fit in my current wallet. (Or, there’s always the man-purse option, this being Europe and all, but I like to travel light.)

It’s a sad day in Paris. A landmark dating to 1831, and one of our favorite places to immerse ourselves in decay and general weirdness, was severely damaged by fire yesterday morning. Deyrolle, the taxidermy shop and walk-in cabinet of curiosities, was the site of a major blaze yesterday morning that took 55 firefighters and 14 engines to extinguish.

I wrote about Deyrolle several years ago on Interesting Thing of the Day. It had recently been renovated, and although Morgen had a chance to see it in its new (if brief) configuration, I did not. According to the store’s official blog (original French/Google English translation), their massive collections of mounted butterflies and other insects were destroyed, along with many of their stuffed animals (though I don’t know specifically which ones). The owners insist that Deyrolle will rise from the ashes (stuffed Phoenix, anyone?), but it breaks my heart that visitors will never again be able to see the old shop as it once was.

Today is—or rather yesterday (the 9th) was, since I’m writing this after midnight Paris time—my 41st birthday. This evening Morgen and I went out for dinner with some friends at a fantastic Indonesian restaurant near Les Halles, Djakarta Bali. I thought that was appropriate given that this time last year we were in Indonesia. (On my 40th birthday, we hiked to the rim of Mt. Bromo, an active volcano. Now that was a memorable day!) It brought back some great memories. The food was delicious, the background music was right on, and I got to impress our friends and the wait staff by using most of my meager Indonesian vocabulary (though it was weird to be switching among English, French, and Indonesian so frequently).

Interestingly, tonight was our second consecutive evening of trilingual entertainment. Last night we attended the “avant-premiere” of the film The Oxford Murders, featuring a question-and-answer session with star Elijah Wood and director Álex de la Iglesia. Elijah speaks only English, while Álex is Spanish and speaks just a bit of English (and no French). So there was a French translator, but sometimes the director couldn’t figure out how to say something in English and slipped automatically into Spanish. After asking for linguistic help from the audience, a young woman came down to translate from Spanish into French, but the result was a hilarious mixture of three languages (often in the same sentence) and lots of staggered laughter as various segments of the audience got the gist of some joke. The movie itself, I’m sorry to say, was merely so-so, but it was great to see Elijah Wood in person, and the overall event was tremendous fun.

But back to my birthday…what truly made today magical was returning home to find that one of the two elevators in our building was suddenly back in service! Both of the elevators have been en panne for about three and a half weeks, and that has been a major drag since we live on the 10th floor (meaning, because of the way floors are numbered here, that we have to walk up/down 11 flights of stairs). When we saw a handwritten sign saying the one elevator was working, we were in shock. Our neighbor from across the hall happened to be arriving home at the same time and was equally surprised. I mentioned that today was my birthday, and he agreed that it was a fantastic birthday gift.

Well, I’ll say this much: La Poste is running efficiently this week. It took just 24 hours for the post office to deliver the results of yesterday’s practical driving exam. I passed! In fact, it appears from the notification as though I got a perfect score. Now I just wait to receive the actual license (permis de conduire) in the mail; in the meantime, my test report serves as a temporary license. Wow. I can’t tell you what a huge relief this is to me.

Here’s what my test report looked like:

Having passed the notoriously difficult written portion of the test for my French driver’s license a few weeks ago and spent several further hours behind the wheel with an instructor from the driving school by my side, I was finally able to take my road test this morning. It was nerve-wracking, as I’d anticipated. I was mentally prepared for either of two outcomes: I pass and get my license, or I fail, take more lessons, and try the test again in a few weeks. Of course I hoped very much to pass, but given how unusual (from my perspective) the French traffic laws and expected driver behavior are, I accepted the possibility that I wouldn’t please the inspector on my first try. What I was completely unprepared for was what actually happened. I finished the course—having performed, I felt, generally quite well (though with a couple of minor flubs)—only to have the inspector tell me that she’d send me the results of my exam by mail.

What…seriously? After all this anticipation and anxiety, I don’t even get a thumbs-up or thumbs-down at the end? Amazing but true. I have to wait for an envelope in my mailbox (supposedly as early as Monday) with the good or bad news. Geez.

I think I passed. I was feeling good vibes from the inspector (95% of the time, anyway) and from my instructor—who sat in the backseat the whole time, ostensibly to translate, though in fact she barely said two words throughout the whole test. (Luckily, I have mastered the French expressions for “turn right,” “turn left,” “go straight,” and “park here,” which comprised the bulk of the instructions given during the exam.) But I don’t really know; the things I perceived as “oh-by-the-way-look-out-for-this” kinds of reminders may have been intended as “you-idiot-anyone-who-misses-this-obvious-thing-fails-instantly.” I guess I’ll find out in a few days.

Update (January 5, 2008): I passed!

Well, I’ve been living in interesting times. Less than a month ago, Morgen and I were wondering whether we were going to have a dull Christmas, since our budget was, shall we say, not conducive to travel (or bringing family members here to Paris). We were, however, looking forward to the week between Christmas and New Year’s as a time to start getting caught up with the many things we’d fallen behind on so that we could begin 2008 with relatively clean slates.

On December 20, my mother called to tell me that my father had died that morning. He had been in the hospital for four months. Without getting into all the details, he’d had major surgery to treat a life-threatening condition in August and initially appeared to be on the road to recovery. In the months that followed he had periods of ups and downs, but then, for reasons that aren’t entirely clear to anyone, he abruptly began to deteriorate and died from what amounted to multiple systems failure less than three weeks before his 86th birthday. Morgen and I flew to Pennsylvania for the funeral, which was held on Christmas Eve, and spent a week with my mother before returning to Paris. I’ve had some unusual holidays, but this will surely be remembered as the most cheerless ever.

I’ve been reflecting on our time in Paris—six months now, as of yesterday—and my predominant feeling is that of being mystified as to where all that time went. I don’t just mean that in the usual “time flies” sense. It feels as though I’ve been in a daze most of the time. We were, and are, delighted to be here; we enjoy the views, the vibe, the food, and everything else. But we (or at least I) have been remarkably distracted to the extent that it’s often been hard to appreciate or even be aware of where we are. During the second half of year, apart from the constant worries about my father’s health, I had a relentless succession of Really Big Deadlines (mainly Take Control books and Macworld articles); we had to work through the complex processes of getting our cartes de séjour (long-term French residence cards) and applying to join the French healthcare system; I took driving lessons so that I could get a French driver’s license (a notoriously long and difficult process, even for people who grew up here); we both got sick a few times with cold-like symptoms that hung on far too long; and we endured the usual array of strikes, breakdowns in our building (elevators, water, heat), and administrative challenges with various French bureaucracies.

As a result, a lot of things got put on the proverbial back burner. For example, posts on all our blogs have been few and far between, and it’s been months since we’ve had any new articles on Interesting Thing of the Day. I’m still behind on several important projects for various publishers. And we’ve had precious little time for sightseeing or other leisure activities.

I’m hoping that January will indeed be a fresh start, that I can stay (or get) on top of my various obligations, and that 2008 will be a year with fewer distractions and more fun. My goals for the year include not only writing the usual array of books and articles, but some entirely new and interesting projects, several trips, and a generally lower level of stress and higher levels of sanity and solvency.

Tomorrow morning I’ll take the road test for my driver’s license, and if I pass, that’ll be one more big thing I can cross off my list. (If not, well, I get four more tries…) Then, as long as life isn’t too interesting, I’ll try to go back and fill in some of the many blanks on this blog about how we got where we are now and what lies ahead.

Not technically France-related, but pertinent to the title of our blog, is the news that an enormous white truffle was dug up in Tuscany last week. Weighing more than three pounds (almost 1.5 kg), this pungent monster may break the Guinness World Record for largest truffle. In a classy move, the folks who found it are planning to auction it off on Saturday, with the proceeds going to charity.

Apologies to those of you who have seen this, but I just read about the growing number of Complaints Choirs worldwide, which are just what they sound like, choirs which sing a litany of complaints set to music. The genesis of the idea came from two Helsinki artists who were inspired by the Finnish expression “Valituskuoro,” which translates as “Complaints Choir,” but actually refers to the phenomenon of a bunch of people complaining about something at the same time. Taking this expression literally, under these artists’ influence, the first Complaints Choir was formed in Birmingham (UK, not USA). Since then, groups have sprung up all over the world, including in Helsinki.

I think this is a fabulous idea, and I would love to join one of these choirs. Seeing as it’s nearly Thanksgiving (in the US), this may seem an odd time to promote complaining—this holiday is supposed to be about being thankful after all–but somehow singing about our common daily annoyances (which might seem particularly acute to expats) shows just how petty most of these complaints are, while still acknowledging them in a light-hearted way. To see what I mean, take a look at the video below of the Helsinki Complaints Choir in action (don’t worry if you don’t speak Finnish, there are subtitles).

In the course of doing research for my latest post on Gridskipper, Algerian Patisseries in Paris, Joe and I had to sample as many delicious Algerian pastries as we could. It’s a tough job, I know, but someone’s got to do it.

If you’ve never tasted Algerian pastries, I would highly recommend them. They are similar to pastries made in other North African countries (including Tunisia and Morocco) as well as the Middle East. The French refer to this whole category of sweets as patisserie orientale, and while there are basic similarities (they usually involve honey, nuts, and pastry, of course), there is a dizzying array of variations. I especially like ones involving pistachio and hazelnut, but also interesting combinations of flavors, like almond and citrus.

Before we moved here, I learned that perhaps the most famous of the Algerian pastry shops in Paris, La Bague de Kenza, was located on our new street. I couldn’t wait to try their celebrated sweets, and was not disappointed when I did. For those planning a visit to Paris at some point, I would definitely suggest a trip to La Bague de Kenza. For those who want to try some Algerian pastries, without the cost of airfare, you might be interested in Les Douceurs de Kenza, a cookbook created by the co-founders of the shop (available from Amazon in France and Canada). Or you could check out this Algerian cooking blog for more recipes.

Now that I have your attention, you may be wondering what the three items in the name of this post could possibly have in common. The answer: all three were subjects of recent posts I wrote for Gridskipper.

My latest post is about Pétanque in Paris and includes places where you can watch games in action, grab a pint with the players, or outfit yourself to do serious boules battle.

In the creepy spirit of Halloween, I wrote about where you can see dead animals on display in the post Paris Taxidermy.

And finally, my post about Quick and Easy Japanese on rue Sainte Anne highlighted the rue Sainte Anne in central Paris where it’s possible to find excellent ramen restaurants and a number of Japanese grocery stores.

I can’t say exactly when it was I decided that if I got married I wouldn’t change my last name, but I know that by the time I got to college the idea was pretty much confirmed in my mind. I knew a lot of people at that time who were finding creative ways to combine both last names of the couple getting married: hyphenation, a double last name for both, or a combination of two names into one word. There were even some couples who chose a completely different last name to share. While I applauded the creativity of these folks, I knew it wasn’t for me.

So when Joe and I got married, I stuck to the plan and didn’t change my name (for the record, neither did he). Since then, we’ve opened joint bank accounts, signed leases together, filed joint tax returns; all the things that married couples do, and for the most part we had no problems because of our different surnames. Of course, we laughed about the insurance agent who kept sending personalized return address labels to “Elizabeth Kissell” (Elizabeth is my hardly-used first name) and even more hilariously, someone named “Liz Kissell.” Nothing about that name was mine, it was like an entirely new identity I could choose to assume if I ever needed one.

While it’s by no means a universal practice in North America, a married couple having different last names is common enough that large institutions usually know how to handle the situation. As we’ve been finding out, it’s not so simple in France.

To start off with, the French language itself is a bit biased as to how male and female individuals are referred to. Unlike English, French doesn’t have a gender-neutral way of identifying a group of people; instead of “they” or “them,” the group is identified by whether it contains male or female members. If a group is solely male, “they” is rendered “ils,” for an all-female group it is “elles.” However, if there is even one male in a mostly female group, they are all “ils.”

It makes me wonder if that language quirk has any effect on how married couples are identified, because it’s been my experience here that institutions keep wanting to lump us together under one name. For example, our bank here issued me a bank card for our joint account with my correct name on it, but all our bank statements are addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Kissell.” I noticed another example of this when we received our Cartes de Séjour; my card not only listed my first and last names, but also my “Nom Marital,” while Joe’s card had no such addendum about the name of his spouse.

I don’t mean to imply that there’s anything malicious about this, just that it chafes a bit to have a choice I’ve made undermined by social custom. And it puzzles me that a country so devoted to the cause of equality, and so dedicated to women’s welfare and rights in other areas, still clings to this convention. I think language does matter, and it may be that this practice is just the tip of the iceberg on attitudes about men and women’s roles in society. Or maybe not. I don’t know enough yet to say whether it’s just an annoying fact of life, or a sign of something systemic. And I’m very curious to know what French women themselves make of it. Is there some way to maintain a separate identity that I haven’t learned about, or is it just accepted? Perhaps there are bigger battles to fight.

One of the best things about living in Paris is that we have the time to explore the not-so-obvious aspects of the city. The Eiffel Tower is hard to miss, but there are many places that are hidden, or not easily seen unless you know where to look. In my latest post on Gridskipper I run down some of the best underground sights in Paris–that is, literally under the ground.

Update: Underground Sightseeing in Paris made the list of Best Maps of the Week on Gridskipper.

A few evenings ago, when trying to come up with a place where we could take a walk and enjoy the fall colors, I suggested the Parc Monceau, in the elegant 8th arrondissement. I had heard that this park was well worth a visit, and had been eager to see it since we arrived. After a long Métro ride across the city, from the east to the far west, we exited the Monceau station just as dusk was approaching.

We set out to do an entire circuit of the park, and stopped to admire particularly flamboyant trees or full-blown roses that smelled, as Joe said, like an artificially strong essence of themselves. We also admired the unique landscaping features built into the park—not only its tiered flower beds, but also a few more eccentric additions. We didn’t know what to make of some of them, and were a little confused about the overall theme of the park. What to think of a pint-sized pyramid near a classical Greek column? Or a miniature Japanese temple sharing the park with a Roman-style colonnade surrounding a koi-filled pond?

Besides these multi-cultural elements, there were also tributes to French culture—sculptures of famous writers, such as Guy de Maupassant and Alfred de Musset. I found these sculptures not only educational, but entertaining as well. For these great men (and I only saw male writers represented), whether depicted in bust form, or as a full-size statue, each had an accompanying bevy of nubile young women (or in some cases a single admirer) swooning in worship at their feet. If I ever become a famous writer, it’s not a tribute I would appreciate, but I can’t speak for Guy and Alfred and the rest of the gang (I wonder what Colette would have made of it all).

And I wonder what any of these folks would have made of some of our fellow park-goers. When we arrived, we shared the park with other walkers: nannies and their charges, well-dressed Parisians taking a shortcut to the Métro after work, and strolling seniors. We were in a relaxed state ourselves, enjoying the birdsong and the fresh air. Gradually, we were pulled out of our reverie by a few sweating interlopers galloping past us on the trail, and very soon had to abandon our leisurely walk altogether and cede the path to the hordes. We had come face to face with a new species of Parisian: the avid jogger.

Perhaps they are influenced by the example of their president, who has come under some criticism for his own devotion to “le footing,” as the French call it. In August, John Laurenson wrote an article for the BBC about this controversy, and after speaking with one of Sarkozy’s critics, French philosopher Alain Finkielkraut, he wrote:

The promenade (a French word, please note, that has made it into English) is the only physical activity that becomes the thinker. Aristotle walked. Kant walked. The poet Rimbaud liked to go for a stroll - because it makes it easier to think, to meditate, to converse. Jogging, on the other hand, is mere body management, devoid of spirituality or sensitivity, said Finkielkraut.

Comments like that are one of the reasons I moved to France. Although running has its place (as a means of escape), I have never seen the broader benefits of jogging. It’s hard on your knees, you can’t focus on the scenery as you run by, and you have to wear humiliating clothing. In addition, I’ve recently begun to question the value of strenuous exercise in maintaining one’s weight after reading this recent article in New York Magazine. Maybe these are all poor excuses, but someone has to stand up for the right to leisure, to watching the world go by at a walker’s pace. For if the French, masters (and mistresses) of the three-hour lunch and the 35-hour work week feel driven to jog, what hope do the rest of us have?

You might be thinking it’s a little early to be talking about Thanksgiving, but in fact it’s not too early to talk about Canadian Thanksgiving, which is celebrated on the second Monday in October. In honor of my roots, I wrote a post for the Web site Gridskipper about Canadian-related places in my new hometown of Paris. I’m excited to be a new contributor to Gridskipper, and would be oh-so-pleased if you would check out my post.

On the more general theme of thanksgiving, I am feeling extremely thankful for the opportunity I have to live in this beautiful city. This evening we took a walk down the Champs Elysées, and with the bright fall foliage and the twinkling street lights, it all seemed too lovely to be real. Of course not every day is sunshine and roses (more often grey skies and crowded streets), but almost every day I have moments of real contentment when I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.