Writing It Down So I Don't Have To Remember It Later: Paris

My grandfather has always told me that anytime I travel I should write down my memories, that way I'll always have a record of my journeys to look back on later in life. Like most advice given by my elders, I've completely ignored it - until today.

Having a kid has taught me, among many other lessons, that you truly have to cherish your opportunities to travel and see the world, because they come fewer and further between now that SOMEBODY has to be home to feed the little bastard all the time.

So in an effort to keep a record of our trek to Europe, I am going to try to file at least one missive from each portion of our journey. This is Paris.

I don't feel the need to rehash the entirety of our time in France; rather I think a snippet of one of the days will adequately sum up all of the thrills and frustrations that come with being a stranger in a strange land.

We had been told by a friend that there was an excellent falafel place in Paris called L'as Du Falafel. I realize Paris is known for food that is much hoitier and/or toitier, but in my experience, where there is falafel there is often also shawarma, and I made a deal with myself long ago that if shawarma were within a 10-mile radius of my mouth, it'd soon be in my stomach as well.

We went to L'as Du Falafel for lunch on Wednesday, and while standing in line for it, I found myself in a familiar setting. I recognized someone I knew.

Note: This happens to me ALL THE TIME. I have run into former campers at the Vatican, a former girlfriend's college roommate in Nice, and once, in Prague, a girl I had met at a high school retreat for one goddamn weekend in 10th grade (It may seem quite ridiculous that I would remember/recognize her, but to be fair, her first name was Hart. Hard to forget someone like that when you are me.). At this point, running into people I know all over the world is a trivial experience, much akin to the surprise I get when I win a dollar on a scratch and win lottery ticket.

Therefore, it was no surprise that standing in line for falafel was a girl I went to college with -- not even someone I was especially friendly with, just one of the multitude of Jewish girls at Texas that vomited in their mouths at the thought of hanging out with my fraternity. Not that I am bitter. All kidding aside, it was nice to see her and catch up for a few minutes, and while the "holy shit" factor of crossing paths so randomly with someone has worn off, it really is one of the warmest feelings you get when traveling.

That warm feeling was immediately followed by one of the coldest feelings you get when traveling -- getting solicited. It's truly one of the worst parts of being an American abroad. You are almost instantly recognizable and generally seen as a giant walking dollar sign. Or Euro. Whatever.

The falafel stand is right in the midst of the Jewish section of town, which in this case meant our solicitor was not selling Eiffel Tower replicas or handbags, he was selling something I'm even less interested in -- orthodox religion*.

* It is here I must give my standard disclaimer that everyone should feel free to believe and observe what they like, but I have particuar disdain for the fundamentalist sects of every religion, who often feel the need to lecture you on how you are doing it all wrong. GOOD. I'M GLAD I AM. NOW LET ME SIN IN PEACE.

As we ate, a Chasid with no regard for personal space entered ours to ask if we wanted to lay tefillin. We politely said no, and hoped that would be the end of it, but solicitors are not ones to take no for an answer, at least not the first several times. So he asked us if we were Jewish, which, thinking quickly and hoping to avoid an endlessly drawn out situation that no matter how it goes down does NOT end in me laying tefillin, I simply said, "No."

This caught him by surprise. "You're not Jewish?" he asked.

"Nope." I said.

"I could have sworn you were Jewish," he said, rightly assuming that any American eating at a falafel stand in fucking Paris is probably a member of the tribe.

"Sorry," I said. "B'Hatzlacha!"

Kidding! I didn't say that, but I wouldn't have felt any shame if I had. I am proud of my Jewish heritage, but the ends justify the means, and in this case the ends of eating my delectable shawarma undisturbed far outweighed any remorse I might have for baldly** lying right to someone's face. Also, to be fair, I'm pretty sure by his definition I'm not a Jew anyway, so I think we're all good here. 

** I suppose every lie I tell is done baldly.

After lunch Hilary and I headed to Montmarte to see Sacre' Coeur and walk around the artist colony. On our way up to the church, I saw a group of men trying to sell bracelets, and knew we'd have to get by them to reach our destination. One approached me, and once again any respect for my personal space went right out the window. I tried to change directions, but he beat me to it and began to try to forcibly put a bracelet on my arm.

I literally had to yank my arm free from him, and heard my self angrily say, "Please don't touch me!"

It's probably the angriest I've spoken to anyone outside my immediate family since I told Amy Cohen to PLEASE shut the fuck up when everyone was trying to nap on the last day of camp one summer. Both of them had it coming.

I'm curious how successful that level of aggression is as a sales tactic, but I had no interest in sticking around to find out. At least he didn't want me to lay tefillin.

As it turns out, traveling is a lot like being a parent. There are moments of sheer joy and wonder, but you often times have no idea what you are doing and you are constantly suspicious that someone is trying to steal your wallet.

I wanted to make you a man Jamie, instead you made me a woman

I have a confession. 

In the lead up to, and aftermath of, Jamie's birth, I didn't read much parenting material. I am sure this makes me a bad parent in some respects (ignorance is bliss?), but my general approach has been that there are so many conflicting opinions on how to raise a baby, I just try to do what feels natural. 

I didn't read much, but I did read a little. And the one nugget that managed to stick with me had more to do with the changes we go through as parents than anything I gleaned about raising a child.

I read somewhere that post-pregnancy, the mother tends to experience many changes in hormone levels*. This I knew. What I didn't know is that studies have shown that fathers undergo hormonal changes as well, including a drop in testosterone levels.

* You. Don't. Say.

Less testosterone? I did not like the sound of that. I am a man. I want to remain that way. So ever since Jamie was born, I have tried to pay attention to my hormones to see if I could tell a difference. 

Sports? That's a manly pursuit. Still love 'em. Check. 

Sex? Yeah, still want it. Check.

Fistfights? Well, maybe I'm not quite as manly as I like to think.

The point is, in the six months since Jamie joined the family, I'd never seen any evidence of a decline in masculinity.

Until recently, that is.

With Jamie down for a nap this past Sunday, Hilary and I took the opportunity to play a little DVR catch up. I'd heard good things about the season finale of Saturday Night Live, so we put it on.

For those that didn't see, the episode ended with a tribute to Kristen Wiig, who is leaving the show after seven pretty spectacular seasons. Check it out:

Watching her say goodbye to her fellow castmembers, my eyes started to well, and soon enough, I was experiencing a salty discharge -- I was crying**.

** much to Hilary's delight, I might add.

Typically speaking, I am not a man giving to great expressions of emotion. I didn't cry when we got married, I didn't cry when Jamie was born, and I didn't cry at his naming -- things I've seen several of my male friends do.

By my count I have cried exactly one time in the last decade, and that was when my grandfather died.

So pre-Jamie, it took a death in the family -- the first close family member of mine to pass away, in fact -- to get the waterworks flowing inside me.

Now that Jamie is here? Apparently all I need is the Target Lady saying goodbye to late night television to turn me into a blubbering mess.

Goodbye testosterone. It was nice knowing you.

Look ma, hands!

Jamie hangs out with his cousin Eli

The first of many times!

Questions one asks at 1:30 am

What's the correct maneuver for getting a shit-smeared onesie over an infant's head without getting poop all over your baby?

First things first

After months and months and then days and days of anticipation, we finally have an idea of when this baby will be making his official debut.

Tonight Hilary is going to the hospital where they will perform some procedure of some kind that is NOT an induction* to try to help spur things along, and then if nothing has happened by tomorrow morning then she will be induced. The moment, give or take a few hours, is finally here.

* The doctor described it to us in much greater detail, but that's pretty much all I took away from it.

Am I freaking out? I've actually become strangely calm about everything since we passed the due date on Friday, for reasons I can't quite understand. Last week it was all I could think about, but now I'm just kind of in a state of suspended animation.

One thing that keeps rattling around in my brain, as we prepare to welcome our first child to the world, is my, shall we say, less than stellar record the first time I do anything. There is always some sort of mini-crisis attached to any new venture I undertake, or at least that's the way it feels. As in:

- First day as a camp counselor. After 17 years as a staff brat and camper, and my first assignment is at the pool. I am playing around with some of the kids, and I pick one up to throw him (as kids generally seem to enjoy). As I am throwing him, I realize I am heaving him right on top of several other nine-year olds. Mistake #1. Mistake #2? Yelling "SHIT!" as he was descending on top of them. I immediately sank underwater to question my self worth for about 45 seconds.

- First day of college. My first class was at 9 am, so I naturally set my alarm clock for 9:15**. I remember specifically setting it for 9:15 the night before, and never having it dawn on me the inherent problem with my timeline. I realized my mistake in the shower (once again yelling "SHIT!"), rushed to make the last five minutes of my first class, then left immediately to make sure I was at my 10:00 on time. Except I wrote down the wrong section of the class, so I went to the wrong building, and I missed that one too.

** I might do that purposely much later in my college career, but at that time I planned to attend all my classes. Can you imagine such a thing? Just typing that sentence makes me laugh now.

- First day of home ownership. Hilary and I bought a house in April, and within 30 minutes of the movers setting down our last few boxes of stuff, we began a load of laundry in our second-floor laundry space. Unfortunately there was a leak in the hose running from the back of the washing machine to the drainage pipe, and soon water was seeping through a crack in the wall to create several nice water stains on our living room ceiling, which we came dangerously close to having to drill holes in to alleviate the problem. In the first 30 minutes! I'm shouting "SHIT!" right now just thinking about it. Also we screwed up our alarm system and the cops came the next morning.

There are plenty more examples where that came from***, but I don't want to bore you anymore.

*** Of course this includes my virginity, but that's a story for another day or blog.

Sufficed to say, I plan to do some mighty careful stepping when I first get my hands on our son. And maybe I should let the doctor cut the umbilical cord.  

You know when is a bad time to get an email virus?

When everyone you know is awaiting an email from you telling them of the birth of your first child.

For anyone affected, I hope at least the link sent you to a good porn site.

Damn you Yahoo!