My New Neighborhood

The shop guys work on fixing my bike and offer me a cup of coffe while I wait.

I walk to after-school tutoring. One day the students read some of their writing for everyone. Everyone laughs at a 7 year old's story about a milkshark. I am proud because I sat next to her as she wrote her sentences without help.

The Blommer Chocolate Company makes two blocks of my commute to work smell delicious.

Sometimes I see other women biking to work, but not usually.

The Walgreens cashier speaks Spanish or English, depending on the customer.

The coffee shop that was replaced by the Bank of America two years ago just reopened, and everyone is happy.

Anyone who doesn't get to the yoga studio 20 minutes early on Sunday probably won't get a spot (that's because it's free).

I get lost walking home from the grocery store even though it is less than a half mile away.

At the Damen L stop in the mornings, the CTA worker standing by the turnstiles reminds me of a circus ringmaster. "Next downtown train approach in less than one minute!" And everyone scurries to make to the platform before the train comes and goes.

My neighbor has a typewriter. He sits at a table in his black-and-white tiled kitchen and types wearing his bathrobe.

I buy my fruits and vegetables from a store that only sells fruits and vegetables.

A man on the bus spit shines his shoes.

The cafe downstairs frequently burns coffee.

No Job? Volunteer

Yesterday I went to a volunteer information session. To start off, you always have to go around and say your name, what you do in grown-up life, why you're interested in the organization, etc. I've done this enough times to have a staple what-I-do joke ready. I say "My name is Betsy and my job is to find a job." People laugh. I'm pretty funny.

I do one of the first introductions, then listen as every single person after me also introduces himself or herself as unemployed — recently laid off, working part-time at a clothing store, whatever. From the little I gather about them, these people sound super educated. Between the five of us, we speak German, French, Mandarin, Spanish and Hebrew. I am the youngest and probably least educated person there.

In 2008, I left the country for a year just when our economy got really yucky. I heard a lot about the doom and gloom, but I wasn't around to see how the economy was affecting people's lives. Well now, here I am. Sitting at this table. These people are smart. These people have marketable skills. These people probably have plenty of solid work experience. These people do not have jobs.

On one hand, it makes me feel nice that as white do-gooders, we are all finding constructive things to do with our unemployed selves. By volunteering, we're making the world a better place, you know? But at the same time, I am remembering when someone told me "Just think. You don't have a job, and you have all these skills. Think about the people that don't have jobs and don't have any skills. You are much better off than them."

The Dangers of Job Hunting*

I knew looking for a job would require fortitute, patience, and confidence. I knew it would require thick skin. I did not, however, know that my skin would have to be thick enough to withstand flying shards of glass.

Wait, what? Ok, rewind.

Folks say networking works in the job hunting game, so I've been trying my hand at it. I've been actively meeting new people in my field at events and such. Last night, my friend organized a tweetup at a sushi restaurant. We had a good time, met some cool people, were weirded out when a woman whipped out some Tupperware to take home the free salad leftovers. Things were winding down when a fight erupted closeby. Flying tables, broken glass, roaring tempers… it was time to get out of there.

We piled into my friend's car and started driving away when we saw another friend leaving the restaurant. The guys who started the fight started to approach him, so we tried to encourage him to get in the car so that we could all leave safely. Unfortunately, the dude had more fight left in him. He ran towards the car and judo kicked the back passenger window.

So that's where the glass shards come in. There were some minor injuries, but nothing that required major medical attention. It was mostly really freaking scary. If I hadn't gone to this tweetup, I never would have been involved. But I need a job. And I am going to keep looking for one, and I am going to keep going to tweetups. Apparently, I just need to build up my immunity to breaking glass.

*Thanks Anna for suggesting this title.

Moving Day Come Soon!

Today I picked up the keys for my new apartment and stopped by to check the place out one last time before the move. I stood in the empty shell of what will be my new home, and it felt so so good. I felt like amazing things might happen there.

I'm going to bring this back to Paris — don't act surprised. I started feeling myself in Paris when I had my very own space. Sure, it was an 8m x 8m teeny tiny room with a futon, peeling plaster and one bitty square window, but it was mine. I was free to close the door to the world around me, uninterrupted and typing like a madwoman and sipping cup after cup of tea. And I was free to open it and step outside and explore. Either way, it was my decision, and I took full advantage of that.

I crave this sort of freedom in Chicago, and soon I will have it. Except now I will have a room and windows twice as huge. All the more space for my big ideas and big dreams to grow behind my closed bedroom door. And that means bigger ideas and dreams to escape when I open it and step outside to explore.

My Adoration of Snow

One of my biggest complaints with Paris was the weather. Specifically, the winter weather. When I think about winter in Paris, I think mainly of icky grey skies and rain. Perhaps an occasional centimetre of snow, enough to get the Parisians in a tizzy, but nothing for this Midwestern-born girl to blog home about.

When I think winter, I think snow. Lots and lots of snow. The 10-inches-overnight kind. The traffic-ruining kind. The no-we-don't-get-a-snow-day-this-is-freaking-Chicago kind. The did-you-shovel-your-sidewalk-three-times-today? kind.

And, precisely one week after I removed my heaviest winter coat from its dry cleaning bag and coated my boot zippers with PAM cooking spray to loosen them up for the season, it is here. The snow is here.

Yesterday Chicago was put under a winter storm watch. It started snowing last night and hasn't stopped all day. And it's not going to stop all night, or tomorrow night maybe. Lucky for me, I don't have a car that could possibly get towed, nor do I have a job to commute to. So the snow isn't ruining my life as it is ruining other people's lives. Instead I shall focus on the minute details of my own simple life, which are mainly Nestle chocolate mint hot cocoa, not slipping and falling on my runs, and reveling in the fact that right now, Chicago is the only place in the world I want to be.

December 31, 2008

Part 1:

When 2008 came to an end, I was standing in my own apartment in a room full of people I didn't know. I was dressed as Parisian as I could pull off, thus as colorless as possible: black dress, black tights, black shoes. Due to some roommate tension, the night had not started off well. But I was moving out the next day, so I did my best to forget about it and enjoy myself. At midnight, there was champagne and kisses on the cheeks for everyone.

The last few months of 2008 had been tough. I had moved to Paris. I hadn't made many friends. I was getting ready to move for the third time. I still stumbled over my French. I felt like I was barely keeping my head above water in the classroom, even though I had been teaching since October. I felt sorry for myself a lot.

But a lot changed in 2009. I immediately hit it off with my new roommate. My French started improving, as did my teaching. I started writing and exploring and living Paris more. The last time I felt sorry for myself in Paris was when I knew I had to leave.

Part 2:

When 2009 came to an end, I was standing in a room full of people, most of whom I hardly knew. I was in America now, so I dressed it: my dress and shoes were red and gold. As Jake's cell phone ticked to midnight, he opened our $6 bottle of champagne. I clicked red Solo cups with the people around me. I gave someone his first high five of 2010.

The last few months of 2009 had not been particularly easy. I didn't have my own apartment yet. I missed Paris, and sometimes still dreamed in French, or accidentally started to speaking French when ordering at a restaurant. I was only keeping my head above water by freelancing and temping as I looked for a job.

I couldn't yet tell a lot would change in 2010. Maybe I would find a writing job and would be able to afford to explore and live Chicago more. Maybe it would be some more time before that happened. But at least one thing had changed dramatically since December 31, 2008. I only sometimes feel sorry for myself.

Read Stuff in English in Paris

I wrote another article about Paris. This one took a lot more legwork and skype calls across the Atlantic. It's about English language bookstores in Paris. You can find it here. Or click the link below.

http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/09-12/a-guide-to-english-language-bookstores-in-paris.html

Hot Journalism Job!

Love this job description for the A.V. Club D.C. Opens like this:

Are you desperately clinging to a career in journalism while the newspaper industry goes up in flames? Want to work for a fast-paced news organization staffed by gruff copy editors—relics of a bygone era—who constantly bitch about the slow death of print media while simultaneously contributing to it? Tired of trying to make a living as a freelance writer, and finally coming to the realization that an extra part-time job or three is the only way you're going to make rent this month? If so, The A.V. Club is for you!

Getting Back on My Feet

If you asked me how my job hunt was going, I would say not very well. I spend hours on cover letters, delete them, and rewrite them again. I ask everyone and anyone I know or meet if they've heard of any openings. I work my network to try to get ins at jobs I'm applying for. And on and on. Thus far, none of it has done me any good.

I checked out the unemployment rate and was both encouraged and discouraged to see that Illinois has one of the higher percentiles in the nation. Encouraged because it's not just me. Discouraged because I still don't have a job.

So a couple of days ago, I decided to do something. There's nothing I can do about this. I am convinced that I am doing everything in my power to land a job and can't possibly do any more. But since it causes me so much stress, worry and hopelessness, I thought I should throw myself into doing something more positive.

So I started training for a half marathon. At this point, I am not sure I am even going to physically make it to the race. The registration and travel will cost money I don't necessarily have. But that isn't really the point right now. The point is more doing something that makes me feel good about myself. This is about working towards a goal I know without a doubt I can accomplish with dedication and work. And I really need to think less about job hunting for a few minutes a day. Now I can think about how much I really don't want to go running, which is what happens when you have to do it every single day.

And so, I bring to you yet another photo of running shoes. Guess which ones have run a marathon on top of a couple hundred miles and which ones have run three.

Betsy Learns About Bikes

The minute CTA anounced a fare hike, I decided right then and there I would ride my bike through winter. Pay $6 a day to ride the train? No. Pay nothing to get some good excerise? Yes.

Although CTA has now announced they won't increase fares, I'm already commited — to something I am not prepared to do. I really don't know how to take care of my bike. I don't know how to change a flat. I don't even know how to grease my chain. Winter in Chicago means dirty snow and slush, potholes, salt, and whole bunch of other things that can hurt and rust and do other mean things to bikes.

So last night I took advantage of West Town Bike's Women's Night. As long as you're a girl, you're free to come work on your bike under the helpful eye of female mechanics. Dudes tend to dominate the world of bikes, so this was an opportunity for me to learn a thing or two in a low-pressure environment.

As I predicted, I was not a fast learner. I couldn't even get my wheel off at first. But with some good old-fashioned elbow grease and some patient guidance from the mechanics, I successfully removed both tires, took them apart, and put everything back together. Two and a half hours later, I was coated with a thin layer of bike grease, my thumbs felt like putty, (27-inch tires are TIGHT) and I had broken a nail. It was a good night.

Unfortunately, I must have tightened my brake pads or one of my wheels too tight, because I then rode home against some sort of resistance, which kept worsening by the block. Those five miles were tough. But hey, I made it. And now, I know which tool to take to my bike to fix the problem. Thanks, West Town Bikes.

Yep, That's How It Goes

A message from a friend I haven't talked to in a few months:

What are you up to? Do you have a job in journalism? A friend of mine has a masters from Medill and just got an internship at Huffpost and my sister graduated from NYU in journalism and is working at JCrew. So good luck, it must be tough.

When I Get a Job…

I am creating a list of things I shall do once I am employed. And I WILL become employed… some day. So I better make a list of what how to spend all this money once I have it.

- Make my first donation to This American Life
- Buy a bottle of wine that is more than $8. And some nice jeans. And some other material possessions.
- Move into a sweet one-bedroom apartment with my cat
- Register for yoga classes. And maybe a triathlon, too
- Create a Zipcar account
- Open a high-yield savings account
- Take my mom to dinner and a show

I can't wait. It's gonna be great.

Betsy Gets Another Byline

Months and months ago, I asked Rolph Potts for some tips about breaking into travel writing. He suggested that I pitch a story about something in Paris I knew better than anyone else. Something in which I was an "expert."

As an American who had only spent a year in Paris, I felt like I had nothing to unique to write about. Could there possible be some aspect of Paris I knew better than my Parisian friends? Well, I was the only person I knew who spent hours upon hours upon more hours running in Paris. A pitch was born.

I emailed an editor at a travel website with my idea. He bought it — not for much, but he bought it nonetheless. And so, Running in Paris: A Guide to Scenic Trails and Special Advice for the City was born.

(Grandma and Grandpa: Click on THIS to read it.)

A Grave Chicago Sin

You say Chicago, I say hot dog. Chicago. Hot. Dog. A real one looks like this (notice the lack of ketchup):

Yesterday I had two above-par hot dogs from America's Dog. This was first Chicago hot dog experience since before I left for France over a year ago. Needless to say, I was excited.

There was a problem though: too much dog. I was foolish to think I could eat two of these things. I made it through about a third of the second one when I went to grab a knife and fork so I could pick through the tasiest bits.

Wait, did you catch that? Because it took me about three minutes to realize what I was doing, get really embarrassed, and look around to see if anyone noticed. I was eating a Chicago hot dog with a KNIFE AND FORK.

I obviously looked like a tourist. I'm blaming France. France taught me to eat everything with cutlery, (French) fries included. I definitely did not look like someone who is, um, from Chicago. Where hot dogs are made to be eaten with your hands.

What I did wasn't just a mistake. It was a sin. I am so ashamed, and the best I can do it promise it will never happen again.

To whom it may concern,

The above phrase is dominating my life right now. I apologize to all my loyal blog readers - all fourish of them - for Reve Rouge's MIA-ness lately. Instead of writing blog posts, I have been writing cover letters. I feel like I have written a gazillion of them.

My life is consumed by working or trying to find work right now. I take every snippit of freelancing I can get. And when I am not doing that, I am job hunting in every way I know how: stalking online job boards, writing those cover letters, reformatting my resume, sending handwritten thank you cards, calling my friend's mom's friend's friend who said he might be looking for someone, rewriting cover letters because the first drafts were horrible, donning my lucky green interview shirt every once in awhile, following up, etc. etc. etc. etc. There is so much etc. I can never do enough. There is always more work to be done in my search to find work. If I don't do everything I can to get offered job X, someone else will. And that person will get it. I don't want that to happen.

So right now, I have seven events on my Google calendar this week that are labeled "job shiznit." And it's only Monday. I need to write two cover letters and research a company where I am being interviewed tomorrow. I have to go. Sorry blog and its readers. Maybe I will get a job soon and subsequently have more time to write.

From the Job Hunting Trenches

The other day I went to a group interview for a job I desperately did not want. I don't know why I went. I don't even know why I applied.

Okay, that's a lie. I do know why. It was a job to work with children. I have fun with kids, and we usually hit it off pretty well. I have plenty of references who will speak highly of my experience and creativity. And since I'm jobless at the moment, a small part of my job hunt has me looking at jobs involving kids. Basically because I interact well with children, and because I think it's likely that I will be able to find something.

And that's what led me to this interview. I had to do some activities with other job candidates, almost all of them my age and female and overly peppy — in other words, the type of people who usually work with kids (and the type of people I tend not to get along with). The interview didn't go so well. I hated being there. I didn't even try to make them want to hire me.

I left feeling frustrated and dejected. What was I doing at this interview? I do not want to persue a career with children. I have a million other skills that fit my professional goals. I have the whole city at my fingertips in regards to finding a job that is a good fit for me. Why was I going through the motions of seeking a kid-centric job if I don't even want one?

This situation reminds me of a bartender back at a bar I frequented in Paris. I don't know his whole story, but I do know he is some sort of crazy genuis math wiz. But he's been bartending for six or seven years now. Even though he's good at math, and could probably make some good cash with those skills, I guess that doesn't make him happy.

So the moral of the story is just because you are good at something doesn't mean you have to work in that field. If I don't want a full-time kid job, well… then I shouldn't be looking for them. So I am going to stop. And if they call me back for this job, I will politely turn them down.

October 2 - 5

Have you ever been anticipating one single weekend for months? Maybe you'll be visiting a new city. Maybe you're planning a grand reunion with old friends. Maybe it's finally!!! time to run that race you have been working towards for the past 18 weeks. Or, maybe it's all of the above.

So the weekend comes. Naturally, your camera comes along with you. After all, this weekend has been in the making for months and months and everyone in your life knows it. You've got to have something to show for it when you get back.

You arrive. It is everything you hoped it would be and more. There is cooking. There is eating. There is sitting around the table reminiscing about this and that until who knows when. There is wine. You try to show of your France skillz by volunteering to open said wine, then embarrassedly realize several minutes later it's a twist-off bottle. Everyone laughs. Because you haven't changed. Even after what seems like ages, after your lives have veered in different directions since the last time you were together, everyone is still the same.

Then there's the big race. That 26.2 miles you have been thinking a lot about lately. You run it. It's hard. It's really much harder than any of these you've done before. Somewhere between miles 19 and 26, you wonder what you are trying to prove and who you are trying to prove it to. You think this is a very stupid thing you're doing. You think it would be nice to slow down your pace a notch or two or ten. But you know that would also a stupid thing, because that would be too easy. So you keep going and cross the finish line with your fastest time ever, and that makes it worth it.

Later, there is dinner with another old friend. More reminiscing. More laughing about the past, present, and future. And afterwards, beer. You have a Blue Moon, your first since returning to America. You leave the orange slice until the end, just like always. It tastes better that way.

Too soon, you are catching your $1* Megabus back to Chicago. You feel very sore and very content. And you realize you forgot to take pictures. No snapshots of the dinner making or of old friends or of sightseeing in the new city. No marathon-related photos. The problem is that you were having too much fun over the course of the weekend to feel obligated to document it. Your memories will have to suffice. And that is just fine. You don't mind one bit. You'll take living life over taking pictures of it any day.

*plus 50¢ reservation fee.

I Get It. And I Like It.

On Tuesday, night, Jake and I went to the Chicago premiere of Where The Wild Things Are.

(See the trailer HERE. I'm not sure how to embed it without everything looking silly.)

It was great. The Music Box was packed head to toe with hipsters — good people watching. Dave Eggers brought Max Records, who plays Max, for a hysterical Q & A before the screening. Afterwards, Spike Jonez and Catherine Keener answered questions, too. I'm bad at reviewing movies, so you can read Jake's review on Chicagoist. But it was good. There was laughter. There were tears. And it didn't ruin the book. I liked it a lot.

We walked home afterwards, me in a fake gold crown they handed out at the door, and I felt so content. For once in a very, very long time, I didn't have to furrow my brow and try to understand any part of that experience.

I hated not understanding things in France. This isn't about language. That is only a teeny part of what I'm talking about. Just because you speak a language does not mean you understand the many cultural layers behind what's going on.

What was there to understand about Where The Wild Things Are? The whole audience grew up reading this book that was originally deemed inappropriate for children. We understood how the book make us feel as kids. We understood what a huge and delicate undertaking it was to translate this iconic piece of literature to the screen. We understood what it meant to have Dave Eggers and Spike Jonez on board for the project. We understood why Spike Jonez was so anti-CGI in creating the wild things. And when some moron asked if wild thing Ira was named after Ira Glass, we understood what an idiotic question that was.

The best part of understanding all these things was that I didn't have to think about them. I simply understood them. Just like that (picture me snapping my fingers). This, my friends, is something I missed dearly about America. It feels good to get it. It feels good to be back.

Sad Panda at Starbucks

I am at Starbucks. I am upset with myself. I don't want to be at Starbucks. I want to be at a café that a. has its own personality b. has a legitimate cozy feel, not a fake cozy feel c. isn't a multi-gazillion dollar business.

But Starbucks is the only café with wifi within 3.5 miles of my parents' house. And I have work to do. So I am at Starbucks.

There was one thing I used to like at Starbucks. They used to write your order and name directly on your cup. This reminds me of a story a professor's sister told my Advanced Writing class in college. Her name is Regina. Confused Starbucks baristas mis-wrote, then mis-read her name. I'm not going to be able to tell the story as well as she did. It's her story. You'll have to ask her to tell it to you sometime.

But no more writing on cups. Now they print out a label and slap it on your cup. It's so much less personal.

Sorry this post is so gloomy. I feel so gloomy being here. Please don't tell anyone I am here. It can just be our little secret. I will hurry to get my work done, and then I will stealthily slip out. It will be like I never came to Starbucks in the first place.

Let's Buy Some Food

The true "Yup. I am definitely in America now" moment came during one of the most monotonous pinnacles of everyday life: the grocery market. Or, as we say in these parts "the store," or simply "Jewel." First off, mom and I roll into Jewel in our running clothes, ready to do a week's worth of shopping. I like that in America, you can where whatever the flip you want to buy your groceries. In France, this doesn't fly. You need to wear real clothes.

Okay, so we're in our running clothes. We enter Jewel. Jewel is huge. It would be safe to say five times the size of my regular grocery store in Paris. And since it is so huge you can buy MORE FOOD!!! I am excited about the hugeness of it all. I can buy anything and everything. I feel like I have the world at my fingertips. That is, until I decide I want some peaches.

The peaches are huge. Like way, way too huge. I don't remember peaches being this huge. The tomatoes are also huge. And so are the bananas. Every piece of produce is overwhelmingly huge. I don't like huge anymore. I can't eat a peach or tomato or banana that huge. Why aren't they normal sized? Wait, what is normal sized? Mom says she can get better peaches at the farmer's market. Peaches this huge? Yep, they are the same size. Dang.

Okay let's move on from the peaches. That's a dead topic.

Next I see a whole slew of 100 calorie pack snack packs. Come on America. I knew you had these, but I forgot. You do not need to pay Nabisco extra $$ to put 100 calories worth of mini Chips Ahoy in a little bag. Just don't be a dum dum and don't eat so many cookies.

And a bit farther down that aisle, I see about 600 new varieties of Oreos. Double Delight Chocolate Mint'N Creme? Gross, who is going to buy that? There is some nasty peanut butter creme variety as well. Even I, proud devourer of gallons of PB, would not buy that. Everyone knows the best kind of Oreo is the original kind. Why bother with anything else? Cuz we're in America, that's why.

I am not going to ramble on too much more about all this, just one more thing. The manager of the store bags our groceries. We chat through the whole bagging process, and it feels so strange. I can bag my own groceries just fine. But it would be very odd if I lent a hand. We just don't bag our own groceries here. Because we're in America.