F Train to Paris

In which a Jewish family from Brooklyn moves to Paris, France for two years of work, school, and adventures.

Tonight represents a parental milestone: my oldest son’s first rock concert. He and a group of friends went to see Green Day at Le Zenith, a theater way on the other side of Paris. And I just want to say that I was the cool Mom who not only agreed to let him go but fronted the money for all the tickets.

 
My first rock concert was The Beach Boys at Madison Square Garden, in 1975 (I think). My friends and I had partial view seats, behind the huge sailboat set that dominated the stage. It never occurred to me to wonder what my parents thought about it, but they certainly stayed up waiting for me, as I am waiting for J., who is on his way home as I write this.

This week represents a couple of other firsts: On Sunday I made my first batch of chocolate ganache (a thick icing made simply by boiling cream, pouring it over pieces of bittersweet chocolate, stirring, then chilling the mixture), which I used to ice a batch of cupcakes. I then served them to French friends who came over for tea. They had never had cupcakes before, and delicately ate them with a fork. I baked a dozen cupcakes, and our three French guests, among them, ate one and a half.  My family ate the rest.

And later the same day, I had my first encounter with a Paris pickpocket. We (all five of us) were on the metro at around 7pm, coming home from a benefit concert of Mozart’s Requiem at the American Cathedral, for tsunami relief. The train was packed, and the trip seemed to take forever, although we only traveled four stops.

When we got off the train, there was a sudden burst of frantic activity. Two young men pushed me and another passenger toward the wall. They turned out to be cops, and they eventually explained that the other guy had opened my backpack, put his hand in, and had even had his hand in my coat pockets. I had been totally unaware. I checked my bag and found my wallet, my cell phone—everything was there. The pickpocket had been completely unremarkable: a short man in a leather jacket, with gray hair but a young face. I had noticed him, but in fact it had been the undercover cops, in their hoodie sweatshirts, who had made me nervous.  

Even though the pickpocket hadn’t stolen anything, I had to wait for the cops’ supervisor to arrive, bringing a statement for me to sign. The kids went home, and Ralph stayed to keep me company. We chatted with one of the cops while we waited—he was impressed that we could speak French. He said that pickpockets usually target foreign tourists, who are all the more freaked out because they can’t communicate with the cops. While we stood there talking, someone jumped the turnstile right behind the policeman’s back. 

Later, the boys, especially R., said they were glad they had gone to the concert, because otherwise they would have missed all the excitement.

posted by: pariskleinmans at 22:19 | link | comments (2) |

Comments:

#1  21 January 2005 - 07:20

 

Too bad about the pickpocket experience. I'm glad you didn't lose anything. I'm hearing more and more stories about people getting robbed here.

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