The training schedule for the Semi Marathon de Paris, that I found here; Half Marathon training schedule at Shape.com felt like a needle popping the balloon of my ego when I read that it wasn’t enough to run, I needed to introduce something called cross training into my routine.

Scrambling for a solution and a bit bored with the gym, I decided to check out the 1930’s historical monument, La Piscine Pontoise. Makes sense, no? You need to exercise so you search out a little bit of architect? The Montparnasse pool is just a few blocks away, the Piscine Pontoise involves taking the metro. But I figure if I am going to suffer, I might as well do it in style.

Like a turquoise jewel, adorned with two rows of blue doors and set in an ornate mounting several floors below a precious steel and glass ceiling. It is a beautiful space and for the most part, I love going there. For the most part, because the French are not exactly the best people on planet earth for following the rules and Parisians in particular seem to think they were created to keep everyone else in line so they can have their way with the world.

Managing the anarchy in everyday life requires a very precise choreography that took me several years to master. But I am new to it all at the pool, severely handicapped by my poor vision and pathetic paddling skills. Which means there are incidents. Incidents involving others that happen several times every session and leave me screaming, berating folk and spewing my outrage. Silently, in my head. It is a pretty hysterical place to be as I go back and forth and back and forth, having so much fun with my anger, I forget to count my laps.

Yesterday it started 1/2 way through the first lap. Well, actually, that is not true, it started while waiting line and the woman behind me tried to cut in front. As if getting into the pool area nano second sooner was going to help her win Olympic gold. We were on dry land, so I brushed it off. Handed in my ticket, got a dressing room, made it downstairs; took my shower, got my paddle board and found myself at that 1/2 lap when I found myself blocked by someone trying to run in the water and here is what happened in my head;

“Oh my god, its that guy really trying to run in the water? Doesn’t he know this is a lap lane? Wow, nice back, but still, he needs to get over to the retard lane. Whoah!!! Did you just think that, Sylvia? Retard lane? Seriously? You’ve been in France WAY too long. You can’t say OUCH. Now who just scratched me? What the??? What is that woman wearing on her hands??? Damn, can’t see.

So back to the whole retard thing. You really can’t say that, you’ve got to come up with a better term. Hmmm…. Chicks who chat lane. That’s perfect! Stick with Chicks who Chat lane, gives the perfect image of all those lazy chicks hanging on the side. What are they doing here, anyway? Addicted to the scent of chlorine?

Made it! One lap down, dozens to go. No, no, stop that, no backstroke, remember the last time you attempt the backstroke. You got head butted. Twice. Oh, whoa!!! That woman is wearing huge, black rubber gloves! Looks like she’s trying to wash away evidence after a chainsaw murder… Hey, monsieur! That black lane of the pool bottom is a LANE!!! Stay in your lane!!! Damn it!!! I know we lost Waterloo, but really, we’re not British, in this counrty you drive to the right. Same for the lap pool, folks? Don’t any of you drive? Oh, wait, probably not, what with the metro and all….

And so it goes, on and on for 40 minutes. I’d feel like most of this was my fault for being a slow swimmer and lame navigator, but since I’ve been on a roll, I’ve had lots of Parisiennes come clean and admit they’ve abandoned the pool because the Parisiennes are simply im-poss-ible.

My couch faces a series of 3 French windows, running the three metres from floor to ceiling. The night sky hides the chapel beyond, I see only the silhouette of a larger than life winged angel blowing her trumpet to the glory of god.

With Mr French at business dinner and Em fast asleep after a ight spent cramming for her Spanish class, the house is quiet. I can hear the cat padding down the hall, full drops of rain hitting the zinc on our balcony and the Louche Life.

The Louche Life is a free online radio station started by my very own Beast Cadet, the woman who referred me to Tempo Doeloe and who once spent an entire month with me in Paris taste testing every chocolate shop in the city. The sacrifice she made for our friendship still boggles my mind.

For years now, Madame BC has been sending me playlists, compilations she created for me to write by, dine by and live by and now those mixes are available to the world. Her music selection is (and I quote her station) “Eclectic & urbane: sparkling jazz vocals and R&B gems of all eras spiced w/instrumentals & offbeat/off genre surprises. Sinuous vamps that grab & pull, swinging voices, hypnotic polyrhythms, soulful performances – come slip into the groove!”

So now I invite you to slip into the groove, for a very diverse mix of music to ease your day.

http://www.live365.com/stations/adafelice

Earl Grey is my favorite tea. It has been my favorite tea since I first tasted it, so long ago that I can’t even remember when. When I went through my purist Chinese tea and scorned any other flavored teas, I still loved a good Earl Grey.

Its the bergamot flavoring that I really love. What’s a bergamot? Its an orange! A tiny little orange from Southern Italy and it taste very much like a lemon. They don’t use the acid fruit of the citrus, but the fragrant oil that is in the skin.

A few years ago, while shopping at my local market, I came across a black slate sign with “bergamot” scrawled across in chalk. Without hesitating, I scooped a few of them and put them in my bag to see what I could do with a bergamot of my own.

Not much, it turns out. I have never learned how to make anything extraordinary with this fruit, except a nice, hot, fragrant drink the French call an Infusion. I boil water, pour it over the rind and let it steep for a few minutes before adding a bit of honey. A lovely, relaxing drink I look forward to every January.

Yesterday I turned to a colleague and asked, “May I please take a picture of your dick?”

“Of course!” she replied enthusiastically.

In the US, that question would generally be answered by a resounding slap, either of the wrists or of the papers hitting your desk as a bailiff serves you with a lawsuit. In the oh-so-very French office I visited last week not a single eyebrow hair was raised over my perverse curiosity.

It is not usually a subject that amuses me, but, in this office, I was surrounded by genitalia. The dick in question had an affectionate little note calling my co-work a little whore, too. Illustrated on desk tops, the back of chairs, and serving as screensavers, this week I was surrounded by dicks, reminding me

that I am not Dorothy and I am most definitely not in Kansas.

Every day co-workers yell at each other, usually screaming across the open space. Sometimes it is a joke. Usually it is a not. And the language they use is far from professional. Arguments often end with one loudly referring to the other as a connasse, or a pute. Imagine a co-worker calling you a whore? I can’t wait to see how I react the day it happens to me.

Having immigrated to this country, I tried very hard not to judge and accept cultural differences for what they are. But it is very difficult for me to imagine that my educated, ambitious female colleagues are really ok with the locker room behavior that goes on in the work place. On the other hand, I think every abusive argument I have witnessed has been started by a woman, and before they dish it out, they must know how it is going to end.

Yesterday, two women were moving a bench and the receptionist stopped them in horror, commandeering the first man to pass their way and insisting that he assist in the manual labor. Is all the vulgarity the flip side of the chivalry? We know from history that the knights were not immune to lewd jokes and crude behavior. Is it possible to consistently expect different behavior from one gender in the social realm and then be treated like complete equals in the professional realm?

As soon as I have the answers to these questions, I’ll let you know. Don’t hold your breath, though. What are your thoughts on men opening doors and pouring your wine, yet acting like cads in the office place?