Makeup
Makeup is a serious topic in Paris. Traditionally, women wear very little. When they do, they follow certain rules. First, if you wear lots of eye makeup, you are not permitted to wear anything but neutral, matte lipstick. In general, if you wear anything remotely shiny or glossy on your lips you are probably either a hooker or an American. Incidentally, this rule also applies to showing cleavage. Cleavage has replaced running shoes as the international symbol for the American Woman. American Man is still recognizable by his running shoes and his stubborn refusal to wear a winter coat in subzero temperatures.
French women rarely wear foundation. They think you should take really good care of your real skin (lots of facials, lots of moisturizer, etc.) and then let it show. Of course while they are telling you this, they are systematically working their way through a pack of cigarettes a day, wondering why they are singing alto instead of soprano and where the heck that nagging cough came from. The fascinating part is that French women seem completely amenable to aging. They don't try to freeze themselves in time and they look down on women who do.
My own theory about why French women don't wear makeup is that they always wear 6-inch heels and consequently are in horrible pain. Any makeup would be ruined by their tears of agony.
In the States, we take a slightly different approach. As we approach middle age we look at ourselves in the mirror one morning and say something like: "Whoa! What the heck happened???" We then execute a series of extreme measures.
1. We exfoliate like crazy.
2. We buy wrinkle filler. This stuff works very well (I know people who use it). You slap it on to the cracks in your face and in a few minutes, those little lines disappear! Fabulous stuff.
3. We apply primer. This stuff also works well (I'm told), because it smooths out unevenness in the skin.
4. Now we're finally ready to put on makeup! There is new foundation that actually comes with a little tray and a sponge roller so you don't put on too much at once.
Let's face it, we're not applying makeup, we're putting up drywall! First we sand, then we spackle, then we prime and, finally, we paint. Our morning routine is like an accelerated episode of Bob Vila's This Old House. And that's just to pick up the kids at carpool.
French women wash their faces, put on moisturizer with sunscreen, and go out to face the world. When I walk around Paris I see plenty of women under 35 and lots of women over 50 but, it seems, no one in between.
In the US, we have perfected the look of being in our early 40's, because what happens between 40 and 50 is truly horrifying. Laugh lines become wrinkles, chins double, and our necks develop more rings than a hundred year old redwood. We hover around 40 (we hope) for about 10 years. Then we give up and get a blue rinse and a perm (at least I plan to) and hope for cataracts so we can't see our faces crack like a Florentine fresco.
French women don't fight the aging process and they view women who do as pathetically insecure (and, most likely, Americans or hookers). Between 40 and 50 they go downhill fast. This isn't genetic, it's due to their odd habit of taking incredibly good care of their skin except for smoking a pack a day and spending the month of August each year oiled up on the Riviera.
I don't know which approach is better, although I wonder what people have against pathetic insecurity. It's worked pretty darn well for me, I can tell you. But I'm definitely packing away my shiny lipgloss and keeping my blouse buttoned until I get back to the US.
samedi 12 décembre 2009
dimanche 6 décembre 2009
December 6, 2009
I went to the Christmas markets this week. During the month of December, shopping stalls are set up all over town. The biggest is on the lower part of the Champs Elysees. Very festive. Lots of exotic stuff that you don't need but really want to buy anyway because you can say "Oh this little trinket? I got this in Paris," and really annoy your friends. It really it is a fun atmosphere. Throngs of people from everywhere and, in addition to stuff, there are plenty of food stalls. Roasted chestnuts (on an open fire!), mulled wine, German beer, sausage, crepes, chocolates, cotton candy (or, as they say in France, "Daddy's beard"), and plenty of Christmas music piped through loudspeakers, including that old holiday classic, Night Fever, by the BeeGees.
The American Embassy is right at the base of the Champs Elysees. It's very heavily guarded, but it's a beautiful building and I asked one of gendarmes if I could take a picture.
"Absolutely not," he said. No smile.
"Okay then, can I take a picture of you?"
"Definitely not," he said. No smile.
"That's too bad," I said. "You could of been famous in America."
"Madame," he said, "I already am." Hint of a smile.
Apropos of nothing, I have been struck by the difference between US and French policies towards the prevention of unwanted pregnancies. In the US, we have spent hundreds of millions of dollars on this issue. We have a National Campaign! We have task forces, initiatives (I love initiatives, don't you?), TV ads, pamphlets, etc. There's even that fun high school program, where at-risk teenagers get to keep a baby (usually fake) for the weekend, so they can get a taste for how drastically their lives will change. And, that old American favorite, abstinence. Some serious intellectual firepower behind that one.
What did the French do? Well, they convened a task force, but they did it over a really nice dinner and disbanded it by the time the cheese course arrived. And while they did put "abstinence" on the menu, er, agenda, this was in deference to the US government, which at that time required all US allies to put abstinence on every agenda, even if the meeting was about global warming (and you thought climate change was caused by carbon dioxide!!).
Throughout the evening, whenever the conversation stalled, someone would say...
"Maybe we should try promoting abstinence."
Everyone else at the table would laugh heartily and then refocus on the problem at hand.
Finally, just as they were finishing their third bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais, one guy at the table said,
"I don't know about the rest of you, but this Beaujolais is really bringing out the Beau Geste in me. I'm going to call my twenty-two year old 'friend' and see if I can't visit her a little later. Are we about done here?"
Two other under-deputy-secretaries looked at each other and broke into toothy French smiles. And the official French policy on unwanted pregnancy prevention was, uh, born.
Today, thanks to this group of brave men, you can find an automatic condom dispenser within spitting distance of most liquor stores in France.
Who says socialism is inefficient???
The American Embassy is right at the base of the Champs Elysees. It's very heavily guarded, but it's a beautiful building and I asked one of gendarmes if I could take a picture.
"Absolutely not," he said. No smile.
"Okay then, can I take a picture of you?"
"Definitely not," he said. No smile.
"That's too bad," I said. "You could of been famous in America."
"Madame," he said, "I already am." Hint of a smile.
Apropos of nothing, I have been struck by the difference between US and French policies towards the prevention of unwanted pregnancies. In the US, we have spent hundreds of millions of dollars on this issue. We have a National Campaign! We have task forces, initiatives (I love initiatives, don't you?), TV ads, pamphlets, etc. There's even that fun high school program, where at-risk teenagers get to keep a baby (usually fake) for the weekend, so they can get a taste for how drastically their lives will change. And, that old American favorite, abstinence. Some serious intellectual firepower behind that one.
What did the French do? Well, they convened a task force, but they did it over a really nice dinner and disbanded it by the time the cheese course arrived. And while they did put "abstinence" on the menu, er, agenda, this was in deference to the US government, which at that time required all US allies to put abstinence on every agenda, even if the meeting was about global warming (and you thought climate change was caused by carbon dioxide!!).
Throughout the evening, whenever the conversation stalled, someone would say...
"Maybe we should try promoting abstinence."
Everyone else at the table would laugh heartily and then refocus on the problem at hand.
Finally, just as they were finishing their third bottle of Nouveau Beaujolais, one guy at the table said,
"I don't know about the rest of you, but this Beaujolais is really bringing out the Beau Geste in me. I'm going to call my twenty-two year old 'friend' and see if I can't visit her a little later. Are we about done here?"
Two other under-deputy-secretaries looked at each other and broke into toothy French smiles. And the official French policy on unwanted pregnancy prevention was, uh, born.
Today, thanks to this group of brave men, you can find an automatic condom dispenser within spitting distance of most liquor stores in France.
Who says socialism is inefficient???
dimanche 29 novembre 2009
November 29, 2009
Hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving. We had ravioli.
I had been noticing over the past few months that my hair had lost some of its natural highlights. This is probably due to the fact that Paris is pretty far north and the sun isn't as strong. So, I asked one of the few French women I know who has blonde highlights where she gets them done. As you can imagine, this is quite a dangerous question. First, you are telling this woman that you know she's a fraud. Second, you are admitting that you are a fraud. I was pretty sure I was safe, however, because this babe had dark brown roots (my roots are medium brown largely due, again, to the northern location of Paris). She was very happy to tell me all about highlights in France.
Apparently it is safer to have an organ transplant than to get your hair highlighted here. Since very few women have light-colored hair, very few of them want blonde highlights and, consequently, there are very few colorists who know how to make you look like a natural blonde. You could just as easily come out with orange or green hair, she told me. I thought about it later and realized that the only French blondes I've ever known were Brigitte Bardot (tramp) and Catherine Deneuve (icon, goddess, and even she's now a brunette).
She wrote down two phone numbers for me. Turns out it's quite a clandestine process to get your hair highlighted. She said to use her name if they gave me any trouble; if I called the second place, where they do brunette and red highlights as well, she said I should be sure to ask for a blonde specialist (I think I dated one of those in college).
Just to be safe, I called the first place. I got an appointment for the following week which I thought was pretty amazing. The place is called, I kid you not, Blondes. When I got there (it's down a little alley off a little street off another little street), I opened the door and.....
...it's a middle-aged Barbie factory!! The place is tiny; there are maybe four stations. In each chair was a woman between 40 and 70 at some stage of blondeness. Buzzing around them was Franck (the "c" is silent). Franck never actually looked me in the eye. He motioned me to a chair, picked up a few strands of my hair between thumb and forefinger, and looked at my roots, scowling furiously.
"What do you want?" he asked.
I stifled the impulse to be a smartass.
Instead, I apologized for my poor French and said I had recently arrived from the US.
"To see me, of course," he said.
"Of course," I replied.
"To become blonder," he said.
Quick on the uptake, that Franck.
He informed me that he would accept me as a client (apparently, making the phone call is only a first step), in spite of the fact that I did not have a small dog lying at my feet the way the other women did. A (blonde) assistant scurried over to prepare my hair.
When I was duly prepped, Franck returned with a palette and brushes! Sadly, no beret.
I had just started to relax and eavesdrop on the cellphone call of the woman next to me, when...
..."What ees thees?" Franck asked, jabbing his finger into my lap.
"A Kindle," I said.
"What ees thees Keendle?"
I explained the concept. Franck was outraged.
"You see thees? Thees Keendle?!" he shouted around the salon. His assistants all lowered their eyes and began furiously sweeping the floor. The other blonding women all looked up, terrified. It's not a good thing when your colorist is upset. Remember the orange and green?
"Eet will be the death of the library!" he shouted.
The four other middle-aged Barbies all murmured their agreement, shook their heads, and scowled at me. Eventually they went back to reading Vogue (not that they needed to).
"Where can I get one?" Franck whispered, clearly not quite as upset as he would have us believe.
Two hours later (without a hair cut; Franck only does blonde) I was out the door minus a down payment on a car. "You may come back in three months," he announced as I was leaving.
He did a fine job and I am pleased to report that I am back to my natural color.
I had been noticing over the past few months that my hair had lost some of its natural highlights. This is probably due to the fact that Paris is pretty far north and the sun isn't as strong. So, I asked one of the few French women I know who has blonde highlights where she gets them done. As you can imagine, this is quite a dangerous question. First, you are telling this woman that you know she's a fraud. Second, you are admitting that you are a fraud. I was pretty sure I was safe, however, because this babe had dark brown roots (my roots are medium brown largely due, again, to the northern location of Paris). She was very happy to tell me all about highlights in France.
Apparently it is safer to have an organ transplant than to get your hair highlighted here. Since very few women have light-colored hair, very few of them want blonde highlights and, consequently, there are very few colorists who know how to make you look like a natural blonde. You could just as easily come out with orange or green hair, she told me. I thought about it later and realized that the only French blondes I've ever known were Brigitte Bardot (tramp) and Catherine Deneuve (icon, goddess, and even she's now a brunette).
She wrote down two phone numbers for me. Turns out it's quite a clandestine process to get your hair highlighted. She said to use her name if they gave me any trouble; if I called the second place, where they do brunette and red highlights as well, she said I should be sure to ask for a blonde specialist (I think I dated one of those in college).
Just to be safe, I called the first place. I got an appointment for the following week which I thought was pretty amazing. The place is called, I kid you not, Blondes. When I got there (it's down a little alley off a little street off another little street), I opened the door and.....
...it's a middle-aged Barbie factory!! The place is tiny; there are maybe four stations. In each chair was a woman between 40 and 70 at some stage of blondeness. Buzzing around them was Franck (the "c" is silent). Franck never actually looked me in the eye. He motioned me to a chair, picked up a few strands of my hair between thumb and forefinger, and looked at my roots, scowling furiously.
"What do you want?" he asked.
I stifled the impulse to be a smartass.
Instead, I apologized for my poor French and said I had recently arrived from the US.
"To see me, of course," he said.
"Of course," I replied.
"To become blonder," he said.
Quick on the uptake, that Franck.
He informed me that he would accept me as a client (apparently, making the phone call is only a first step), in spite of the fact that I did not have a small dog lying at my feet the way the other women did. A (blonde) assistant scurried over to prepare my hair.
When I was duly prepped, Franck returned with a palette and brushes! Sadly, no beret.
I had just started to relax and eavesdrop on the cellphone call of the woman next to me, when...
..."What ees thees?" Franck asked, jabbing his finger into my lap.
"A Kindle," I said.
"What ees thees Keendle?"
I explained the concept. Franck was outraged.
"You see thees? Thees Keendle?!" he shouted around the salon. His assistants all lowered their eyes and began furiously sweeping the floor. The other blonding women all looked up, terrified. It's not a good thing when your colorist is upset. Remember the orange and green?
"Eet will be the death of the library!" he shouted.
The four other middle-aged Barbies all murmured their agreement, shook their heads, and scowled at me. Eventually they went back to reading Vogue (not that they needed to).
"Where can I get one?" Franck whispered, clearly not quite as upset as he would have us believe.
Two hours later (without a hair cut; Franck only does blonde) I was out the door minus a down payment on a car. "You may come back in three months," he announced as I was leaving.
He did a fine job and I am pleased to report that I am back to my natural color.
dimanche 22 novembre 2009
November 22, 2009
French Dudes
French men (Frenchmen?) fall into distinct categories. First you have the presidential, corporate titan types. These are the ones you see in the movies; they are generally the size of Armand Assante and they dress in long cashmere coats, cashmere scarves, and expensive suits. They don't actually wear the coats of course; that's a sure sign of weakness. Instead, they drape them over their shoulders. You spot this species only occasionally during daylight hours; he is usually being driven somewhere in a black car with tinted windows. When he does venture out on the street during the day, he is distinguishable by his rapid walk, the cigarette dangling elegantly from his index and middle fingers, the full size umbrella, and the cellphone attached to his ear. He is usually scowling.
The really interesting ones are the middle management types. These fellows are everywhere. They ride the metro, the bus, and the free bicycles that are available throughout the city. They dress very, very badly. Typically very skinny suits (jacket sleeves often a tad too short), tangerine shirts, large horn-rimmed glasses, and an excess of gel in the hair. Jerry Lewis meets Buddy Holly. They also smoke, but they hold their cigarettes between the thumb and index finger. The distinguishing feature of the middle manager is his shoes. They are very long and very pointy. Combined with the skinny suit, this gives him the appearance of a court jester. Which is probably exactly right for a middle manager. The middle manager opts for one of two styles when it comes to winter coats: bathrobe (long and fuzzy, with a tie belt), or Eastern European mobster (long black leather). Middle manager wears the coat because, well, it's cold. Scarf is usually very bright, probably borrowed from significant other and umbrella is the compact fold-up type.
Then you've got your miscellaneous student (short jacket with epaulets, tight jeans, bright and shiny athletic shoes, scarf in primary color, ipod) and worker types (baggy jeans, baggy shirt, baggy jacket, baggy eyes, plaid scarf circa 1970). No umbrellas for either group; these men are water resistant.
Apart from the sheer anthropological fascination with the subspecies of French Man, it is important to be able to identify them from a distance. For example, never approach corporate titan/presidential type without being invited. He is dangerous, particularly when dining with his 23-year old mistress, and will attack without provocation.
And where does French Man go for a hair cut? I am glad you asked! Corporate titan/presidential dude has it done in the office by a visiting barber. Middle manager goes to a place called "Fabio Salsa." Because what guy wants to get his hair cut at a place that's just called "Fabio?" Where's the spice? Where's the zest? Worker/student does it himself with uneven results.
I was on the metro earlier this week and an elderly man tottered slowly on right before the doors closed. It was a pretty crowded train and I was sitting in a seat reserved for just such a person. So I offered it to him. "Certainly not," he said indignantly. "I am only eighty-seven and quite fresh." Youbetcha.
Happy Thanksgiving!
French men (Frenchmen?) fall into distinct categories. First you have the presidential, corporate titan types. These are the ones you see in the movies; they are generally the size of Armand Assante and they dress in long cashmere coats, cashmere scarves, and expensive suits. They don't actually wear the coats of course; that's a sure sign of weakness. Instead, they drape them over their shoulders. You spot this species only occasionally during daylight hours; he is usually being driven somewhere in a black car with tinted windows. When he does venture out on the street during the day, he is distinguishable by his rapid walk, the cigarette dangling elegantly from his index and middle fingers, the full size umbrella, and the cellphone attached to his ear. He is usually scowling.
The really interesting ones are the middle management types. These fellows are everywhere. They ride the metro, the bus, and the free bicycles that are available throughout the city. They dress very, very badly. Typically very skinny suits (jacket sleeves often a tad too short), tangerine shirts, large horn-rimmed glasses, and an excess of gel in the hair. Jerry Lewis meets Buddy Holly. They also smoke, but they hold their cigarettes between the thumb and index finger. The distinguishing feature of the middle manager is his shoes. They are very long and very pointy. Combined with the skinny suit, this gives him the appearance of a court jester. Which is probably exactly right for a middle manager. The middle manager opts for one of two styles when it comes to winter coats: bathrobe (long and fuzzy, with a tie belt), or Eastern European mobster (long black leather). Middle manager wears the coat because, well, it's cold. Scarf is usually very bright, probably borrowed from significant other and umbrella is the compact fold-up type.
Then you've got your miscellaneous student (short jacket with epaulets, tight jeans, bright and shiny athletic shoes, scarf in primary color, ipod) and worker types (baggy jeans, baggy shirt, baggy jacket, baggy eyes, plaid scarf circa 1970). No umbrellas for either group; these men are water resistant.
Apart from the sheer anthropological fascination with the subspecies of French Man, it is important to be able to identify them from a distance. For example, never approach corporate titan/presidential type without being invited. He is dangerous, particularly when dining with his 23-year old mistress, and will attack without provocation.
And where does French Man go for a hair cut? I am glad you asked! Corporate titan/presidential dude has it done in the office by a visiting barber. Middle manager goes to a place called "Fabio Salsa." Because what guy wants to get his hair cut at a place that's just called "Fabio?" Where's the spice? Where's the zest? Worker/student does it himself with uneven results.
I was on the metro earlier this week and an elderly man tottered slowly on right before the doors closed. It was a pretty crowded train and I was sitting in a seat reserved for just such a person. So I offered it to him. "Certainly not," he said indignantly. "I am only eighty-seven and quite fresh." Youbetcha.
Happy Thanksgiving!
dimanche 15 novembre 2009
November 15, 2009
Rob has been here for 10 days, which has been wonderful. This weekend he took the girls to EuroDisney. Besides hanging out with us, he's done battle with the formidable headmistress at our original school, who thinks the new French accounting system, which centers on keeping the tuition of departing students while filling their slots immediately with new tuition-paying students is perfectly reasonable. Rob and the headmistress have spent some quality time together and she is "reconsidering" her position.
He has also been dealing with infrastructure issues. Last week we took a field trip to Ikea. As you know, Ikea is generally located just outside a major city in a suburb. Your route through the store is mapped out in festive little yellow footprints, so that you are forced to pass things that you have no use for, but that are incredibly cute and cheap. As a result, you find yourself filling up your big yellow Ikea bag with lots of bright blue plastic dishes, orange storage boxes and other stuff that will make your house look like, well, like Ikea.
Well, Rob decided that Claire and Erin needed a bunkbed. Erin has been sleeping on a futon in the room they share, which doesn't sound too bad until you learn that there's no room to open the thing and she's been forced to sleep on it folded up. Not a problem when you're visiting for a few nights, but not a viable long term arrangement.
Rob did his research and discovered that the best available bunkbeds are at Ikea, and that we didn't have to travel to Sweden to find one! They have Ikeas right here in France! However, they are located outside the city in a suburb. No problem, we thought, we'll order online and have it delivered. Unfortunately, online orders take 15 days and Rob isn't coming back until December, by which time Erin will look like one of those 85 year-old French women that are shaped like an upside-down "L" and persist in waving their canes at anyone under 60 and muttering about the war. We did not even consider the possibility that I could put together the bunkbed, for several reasons. First, I am still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from trying to put together a TV stand in the 1980s. Second, it would be very difficult to make a Sophie's Choice and knowingly have one of the girls sleep on the bottom bunk where they would be very likely to suffer a crush injury as a result of the top bunk collapsing completely (thanks to my tossing out those extra screws that were left over at the end of the assembly process; if you've ever put anything from Ikea together, you know that there are never any screws left over). Third, I'm in Paris dammit and if it doesn't involve a baguette, coffee or wine, I'm not doing it.
Aha! Rob had a brilliant idea. We called the nearest Ikea store and tried to order the bed by phone and request an expedited delivery. We are nothing if not resourceful. The woman on the other end of the line (working in the "deliveries" department, mind you) informed us that she had no earthly idea how to process a delivery order over the phone and we would just have to come in to the store.
So, on a Tuesday evening, Rob, Erin and I embarked on our journey to Ikea.
First we got on a metro (subway). Then, we got on a light rail train. We bought our tickets, bounded down the stairs and hopped on, thirty seconds before it left the station. I looked at the map just to be sure we were headed in the right direction. And we were. Except we'd gotten on an express train. Erin pressed her little nose to the window as we zoomed by the station where Ikea was. After we managed to get off the train from hell and retrace our steps on a local train, we finally reached our station. Were we done? NO, we weren't done! Now, we needed to find the bus to take us from the station to the shopping center where Ikea is located. At this point, Rob and I were giggling hysterically and people (including our daughter) were moving away from us on the bus.
By the time we got to Ikea, we were exhausted. However, they were incredibly efficient and we were in and out in about 15 minutes, which was about two hours less time than it took us to get there. Here's the best part. We had an incredibly helpful sales guy. This was surprising, since sales training in France consists of learning the following phrases:
1. "What will it take to get you out of my store so I can go back to smoking my cigarette and looking bored?"
2. "Do you want it or not?"
3. "I don't care what time it is. We are closed."
4. "That looks terrible on you."
Once they have mastered these phrases, they are required to read that famous sales book, "Getting to No," and voila! They are ready to sell.
It turns out that the three French people who actually enjoy selling stuff to other people are all working at Ikea! Our incredibly helpful sales guy had clearly flunked sales training and consequently was not qualified to work in clothing stores, phone stores, insurance offices or restaurants. He was very apologetic for not speaking better English, although we did teach him to say "Awesome!" He was happy to see us, he was happy to sell us the bed and he was happy to send us downstairs to pay for the bed, where get this! Another happy guy took our money! Awesome!!
Our incredibly helpful sales guy had informed us that they could deliver our bunkbed the next day. I thought Rob was going to cry. There was one slight catch. The bed would be delivered from the depot. The mattress was in stock at the store. So, if we wanted both items delivered, we'd have to pay twice the delivery charge. The sales guy looked at Rob and said "The mattress rolls up; it weighs only 5 kilos. If you are any kind of man, you should be able to carry it." And so, Rob carried the mattress on the bus, and the train, and the metro and down the street all the way back to our apartment. He is now officially Parisian.
The next day, the bunkbed was delivered during the four-hour window that we had requested. Rob and I hugged each other, we hugged the kids, we hugged the delivery guy. Rob put the bunkbed together the next day and guess what? Not a screw was missing.
Kiss your minivans for us.
He has also been dealing with infrastructure issues. Last week we took a field trip to Ikea. As you know, Ikea is generally located just outside a major city in a suburb. Your route through the store is mapped out in festive little yellow footprints, so that you are forced to pass things that you have no use for, but that are incredibly cute and cheap. As a result, you find yourself filling up your big yellow Ikea bag with lots of bright blue plastic dishes, orange storage boxes and other stuff that will make your house look like, well, like Ikea.
Well, Rob decided that Claire and Erin needed a bunkbed. Erin has been sleeping on a futon in the room they share, which doesn't sound too bad until you learn that there's no room to open the thing and she's been forced to sleep on it folded up. Not a problem when you're visiting for a few nights, but not a viable long term arrangement.
Rob did his research and discovered that the best available bunkbeds are at Ikea, and that we didn't have to travel to Sweden to find one! They have Ikeas right here in France! However, they are located outside the city in a suburb. No problem, we thought, we'll order online and have it delivered. Unfortunately, online orders take 15 days and Rob isn't coming back until December, by which time Erin will look like one of those 85 year-old French women that are shaped like an upside-down "L" and persist in waving their canes at anyone under 60 and muttering about the war. We did not even consider the possibility that I could put together the bunkbed, for several reasons. First, I am still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from trying to put together a TV stand in the 1980s. Second, it would be very difficult to make a Sophie's Choice and knowingly have one of the girls sleep on the bottom bunk where they would be very likely to suffer a crush injury as a result of the top bunk collapsing completely (thanks to my tossing out those extra screws that were left over at the end of the assembly process; if you've ever put anything from Ikea together, you know that there are never any screws left over). Third, I'm in Paris dammit and if it doesn't involve a baguette, coffee or wine, I'm not doing it.
Aha! Rob had a brilliant idea. We called the nearest Ikea store and tried to order the bed by phone and request an expedited delivery. We are nothing if not resourceful. The woman on the other end of the line (working in the "deliveries" department, mind you) informed us that she had no earthly idea how to process a delivery order over the phone and we would just have to come in to the store.
So, on a Tuesday evening, Rob, Erin and I embarked on our journey to Ikea.
First we got on a metro (subway). Then, we got on a light rail train. We bought our tickets, bounded down the stairs and hopped on, thirty seconds before it left the station. I looked at the map just to be sure we were headed in the right direction. And we were. Except we'd gotten on an express train. Erin pressed her little nose to the window as we zoomed by the station where Ikea was. After we managed to get off the train from hell and retrace our steps on a local train, we finally reached our station. Were we done? NO, we weren't done! Now, we needed to find the bus to take us from the station to the shopping center where Ikea is located. At this point, Rob and I were giggling hysterically and people (including our daughter) were moving away from us on the bus.
By the time we got to Ikea, we were exhausted. However, they were incredibly efficient and we were in and out in about 15 minutes, which was about two hours less time than it took us to get there. Here's the best part. We had an incredibly helpful sales guy. This was surprising, since sales training in France consists of learning the following phrases:
1. "What will it take to get you out of my store so I can go back to smoking my cigarette and looking bored?"
2. "Do you want it or not?"
3. "I don't care what time it is. We are closed."
4. "That looks terrible on you."
Once they have mastered these phrases, they are required to read that famous sales book, "Getting to No," and voila! They are ready to sell.
It turns out that the three French people who actually enjoy selling stuff to other people are all working at Ikea! Our incredibly helpful sales guy had clearly flunked sales training and consequently was not qualified to work in clothing stores, phone stores, insurance offices or restaurants. He was very apologetic for not speaking better English, although we did teach him to say "Awesome!" He was happy to see us, he was happy to sell us the bed and he was happy to send us downstairs to pay for the bed, where get this! Another happy guy took our money! Awesome!!
Our incredibly helpful sales guy had informed us that they could deliver our bunkbed the next day. I thought Rob was going to cry. There was one slight catch. The bed would be delivered from the depot. The mattress was in stock at the store. So, if we wanted both items delivered, we'd have to pay twice the delivery charge. The sales guy looked at Rob and said "The mattress rolls up; it weighs only 5 kilos. If you are any kind of man, you should be able to carry it." And so, Rob carried the mattress on the bus, and the train, and the metro and down the street all the way back to our apartment. He is now officially Parisian.
The next day, the bunkbed was delivered during the four-hour window that we had requested. Rob and I hugged each other, we hugged the kids, we hugged the delivery guy. Rob put the bunkbed together the next day and guess what? Not a screw was missing.
Kiss your minivans for us.
dimanche 8 novembre 2009
Feelings
You Americans. All you ever want to do is talk about your feelings. Bah!! Many of you have emailed and said "Kara, how do you feel about living in Paris? Do you like it? Do the girls like it?" So, in order to satisfy your need to know, I have thought deeply about these important questions.
In spite of spending much of my time making fun of the French, I am very fond of them. Remember, I make fun of everyone (yes, including you). But, it's hard to say I love Paris when the kids are having a bad day. If one of the kids says someone was mean to her at school, or she's running a fever, I don't sit around and say "Trala! We love Paris!" So, we have good days and bad days, but I'm glad we're having them here for a year. There are certain things I miss about the US, besides Rob and all of you. I miss space. We're living in pretty cramped quarters. I miss watching sports in real time. I miss my social life. I miss the kids having a social life. I miss the dogs. I miss takeout.
It's hard watching the girls struggle with French, with navigating a new city, with trying to make friends. When I ask them, Megan loves it, Claire likes it, and Erin says there are good parts and bad parts. They'll be in a better position this time next year to tell you whether they liked it or not.
The French way of life has a lot of advantages. The socialist system is based on the principle of equality and the value of all work. The waiter's job is as important as the CEO's job. When the doctor goes to a restaurant, the waiter doesn't fall all over himself to please the CEO. Ordering dinner is a transaction between equals. While Americans think the French act superior, and are often offended by the attitudes of French service people, I think it's more that the French don't act inferior. Even waiters and cab drivers take a month-long holiday in the summer. By law, most stores can't be open on Sunday. So, even retail employees have Sundays off and can spend them with family and friends.
It's definitely a more paternalistic system of government. The economist in me says if people want to work on Sundays, they should be able to. But if the system is set up so that you make a good living (did I mention the month off during the summer?) without working on Sundays, that seems worthwhile.
The French have clearly chosen equity over efficiency. As an American, I sometimes want to shake them and say "You could be so much more productive and make so much more money!" But of course they know that. They just choose not to. They really are happier knowing the waiter gets a big bonus and six weeks of vacation every year, even if that means they pay 7 dollars for a cup of coffee. They jealously guard their employment benefits and their time off and they will almost always choose more time over more money (of course, the system reinforces that, since the extra money is taxed at a ridiculous rate).
If you think I've gone all soft and mushy, don't worry. I promise I'll get my cynical mojo back in time for next week's blog.
In spite of spending much of my time making fun of the French, I am very fond of them. Remember, I make fun of everyone (yes, including you). But, it's hard to say I love Paris when the kids are having a bad day. If one of the kids says someone was mean to her at school, or she's running a fever, I don't sit around and say "Trala! We love Paris!" So, we have good days and bad days, but I'm glad we're having them here for a year. There are certain things I miss about the US, besides Rob and all of you. I miss space. We're living in pretty cramped quarters. I miss watching sports in real time. I miss my social life. I miss the kids having a social life. I miss the dogs. I miss takeout.
It's hard watching the girls struggle with French, with navigating a new city, with trying to make friends. When I ask them, Megan loves it, Claire likes it, and Erin says there are good parts and bad parts. They'll be in a better position this time next year to tell you whether they liked it or not.
The French way of life has a lot of advantages. The socialist system is based on the principle of equality and the value of all work. The waiter's job is as important as the CEO's job. When the doctor goes to a restaurant, the waiter doesn't fall all over himself to please the CEO. Ordering dinner is a transaction between equals. While Americans think the French act superior, and are often offended by the attitudes of French service people, I think it's more that the French don't act inferior. Even waiters and cab drivers take a month-long holiday in the summer. By law, most stores can't be open on Sunday. So, even retail employees have Sundays off and can spend them with family and friends.
It's definitely a more paternalistic system of government. The economist in me says if people want to work on Sundays, they should be able to. But if the system is set up so that you make a good living (did I mention the month off during the summer?) without working on Sundays, that seems worthwhile.
The French have clearly chosen equity over efficiency. As an American, I sometimes want to shake them and say "You could be so much more productive and make so much more money!" But of course they know that. They just choose not to. They really are happier knowing the waiter gets a big bonus and six weeks of vacation every year, even if that means they pay 7 dollars for a cup of coffee. They jealously guard their employment benefits and their time off and they will almost always choose more time over more money (of course, the system reinforces that, since the extra money is taxed at a ridiculous rate).
If you think I've gone all soft and mushy, don't worry. I promise I'll get my cynical mojo back in time for next week's blog.
dimanche 1 novembre 2009
November 1, 2009
Losing our Grippe
Well, it's been quite a week. We were to have left for Amsterdam on Wednesday and return last night. Didn't happen. Erin was a little under the weather on Sunday. On Monday, Megan and Claire started feeling ill. By Tuesday everyone (except me) was down with a high fever, body aches, and a cough that sounded truly frightening. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who can blame you? I thought it too. It's here, it's bad, and we've caught it. H1N1!! I got a call from another parent. One of Claire's classmates, who has asthma, had tested positive. So, I called the doctor.
As you may recall, last summer the French had assigned legions of officials to the issue of "la grippe." Committees were convened, emergency measures were designed, kissing was outlawed, masks were distributed and sneezing in public was strictly prohibited. Now it was time to reap the rewards of a careful, albeit bureaucratic, process. I admit, I thought to myself, "I made fun of them last summer, but darn if they weren't right. Now, I can relax. They're prepared. I'll get the kids tested, we'll be quarantined, we'll get to wear those cool masks. We're in good hands. Step 1: call the doctor.
The conversation went something like this.
Me. "My three kids have the following symptoms: blah blah blah."
Doctor. "Probably just a cold."
Me. "Yeah, I don't think so. High fever, blah blah blah."
Doctor. "I'm sure it's just a cold."
Me. "Well, just the same, I'd like to get them tested."
Doctor. "For what?"
Me, to myself. "Are you f---'ing kidding me?"
Me, to the doctor. "For H1N -
Doctor. "LALALALA."
Me. "Excuse me?"
Doctor. "I am singing a lovely French song. We sang it during La Resistance."
Me. "Uh, very catchy. As I was saying, I think my kids might have the H-"
Doctor. "LALALALA! I cannot hear you! I will continue to sing my lovely song from La Resistance until you stop trying to say this stupid thing that I refuse to hear!"
It occurs to me that singing a lovely song is going to do us about as much good resisting la grippe as it did during La Resistance but, to my everlasting credit, I keep this thought to myself.
Me. "Well, my kids are really sick. What do you suggest?"
She advised fluids and rest. Medical school has really paid off.
After extensive research, I think I've figured out what's going on. The French have been preparing for the H1N1 for many months. All of these preparations have left them completely exhausted. Consequently, they have absolutely no energy left to execute the plan. Of course, if the virus strikes and they don't execute the plan, they'll look like incompetent imbeciles. More committees will be convened, more studies will be completed, and heads will most certainly roll (the French take this last expression quite seriously. For more information, see Marie Antoinette, circa October, 1793).
So, somewhere in the Elysee Palace last September, officials got together over a casual lunch of pate foie gras, coquille Saint-Jacques and a nice bottle of Rhone Roussanne and decided that actually allowing the virus to infect the French was a no-win situation. The question was how to prevent it? How to stop it at the borders?
One French official said to the others, "If we don't ever call it H1N1, then it isn't, right?" He said this in French, of course, with the requisite hand gestures, shrugs, and smirks. The other officials slapped him on the back, had a cigarette together, and went back to work on other important national problems, like how to get Sarkozy's son to move to the Amazon.
And so, the following policy has been implemented. While there are 17 H1N1 testing centers in Paris, you can only get tested if you meet the following criteria:
1. You are already dead. That way, the government can point to your death as a serious underlying condition that made you more susceptible to the virus than had you been alive.
2. You are very, very old. As in over 100 years old. Chances are that you will be dead very soon, especially since all of the testing centers are located in the as-yet-unidentified-but-probably-terminal-and-definitely-highly-infectious disease wing of local hospitals. As you shuffle slowly down the hall to get your test, you will inhale all sorts of horrible germs from other diseases that will quickly kill you (please refer to #1 above).
Doctors have been strictly instructed not to so much as entertain the possibility that anyone still alive has the virus. Meanwhile, the French government is congratulating itself on its state of emergency preparedness and has offered to serve as a reference center for other nations interested in learning how to contain this dreadful virus. After their afternoon nap.
Well, it's been quite a week. We were to have left for Amsterdam on Wednesday and return last night. Didn't happen. Erin was a little under the weather on Sunday. On Monday, Megan and Claire started feeling ill. By Tuesday everyone (except me) was down with a high fever, body aches, and a cough that sounded truly frightening. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who can blame you? I thought it too. It's here, it's bad, and we've caught it. H1N1!! I got a call from another parent. One of Claire's classmates, who has asthma, had tested positive. So, I called the doctor.
As you may recall, last summer the French had assigned legions of officials to the issue of "la grippe." Committees were convened, emergency measures were designed, kissing was outlawed, masks were distributed and sneezing in public was strictly prohibited. Now it was time to reap the rewards of a careful, albeit bureaucratic, process. I admit, I thought to myself, "I made fun of them last summer, but darn if they weren't right. Now, I can relax. They're prepared. I'll get the kids tested, we'll be quarantined, we'll get to wear those cool masks. We're in good hands. Step 1: call the doctor.
The conversation went something like this.
Me. "My three kids have the following symptoms: blah blah blah."
Doctor. "Probably just a cold."
Me. "Yeah, I don't think so. High fever, blah blah blah."
Doctor. "I'm sure it's just a cold."
Me. "Well, just the same, I'd like to get them tested."
Doctor. "For what?"
Me, to myself. "Are you f---'ing kidding me?"
Me, to the doctor. "For H1N -
Doctor. "LALALALA."
Me. "Excuse me?"
Doctor. "I am singing a lovely French song. We sang it during La Resistance."
Me. "Uh, very catchy. As I was saying, I think my kids might have the H-"
Doctor. "LALALALA! I cannot hear you! I will continue to sing my lovely song from La Resistance until you stop trying to say this stupid thing that I refuse to hear!"
It occurs to me that singing a lovely song is going to do us about as much good resisting la grippe as it did during La Resistance but, to my everlasting credit, I keep this thought to myself.
Me. "Well, my kids are really sick. What do you suggest?"
She advised fluids and rest. Medical school has really paid off.
After extensive research, I think I've figured out what's going on. The French have been preparing for the H1N1 for many months. All of these preparations have left them completely exhausted. Consequently, they have absolutely no energy left to execute the plan. Of course, if the virus strikes and they don't execute the plan, they'll look like incompetent imbeciles. More committees will be convened, more studies will be completed, and heads will most certainly roll (the French take this last expression quite seriously. For more information, see Marie Antoinette, circa October, 1793).
So, somewhere in the Elysee Palace last September, officials got together over a casual lunch of pate foie gras, coquille Saint-Jacques and a nice bottle of Rhone Roussanne and decided that actually allowing the virus to infect the French was a no-win situation. The question was how to prevent it? How to stop it at the borders?
One French official said to the others, "If we don't ever call it H1N1, then it isn't, right?" He said this in French, of course, with the requisite hand gestures, shrugs, and smirks. The other officials slapped him on the back, had a cigarette together, and went back to work on other important national problems, like how to get Sarkozy's son to move to the Amazon.
And so, the following policy has been implemented. While there are 17 H1N1 testing centers in Paris, you can only get tested if you meet the following criteria:
1. You are already dead. That way, the government can point to your death as a serious underlying condition that made you more susceptible to the virus than had you been alive.
2. You are very, very old. As in over 100 years old. Chances are that you will be dead very soon, especially since all of the testing centers are located in the as-yet-unidentified-but-probably-terminal-and-definitely-highly-infectious disease wing of local hospitals. As you shuffle slowly down the hall to get your test, you will inhale all sorts of horrible germs from other diseases that will quickly kill you (please refer to #1 above).
Doctors have been strictly instructed not to so much as entertain the possibility that anyone still alive has the virus. Meanwhile, the French government is congratulating itself on its state of emergency preparedness and has offered to serve as a reference center for other nations interested in learning how to contain this dreadful virus. After their afternoon nap.
dimanche 25 octobre 2009
October 25, 2009
More on School
The girls are on a 10-day break; all of next week and through Wednesday of the following week. No one seems to know why. We will head to Amsterdam for a long weekend next week.
Prior to the break, parents were treated to the Euro version of a parent-teacher conference. This was a fascinating exercise in uselessness. The week prior, we received an email with an attached schedule. Now, it is important to note that were not to actually fill in the schedule. No, we were merely to admire the spacing, the font, etcetera. On a separate piece of paper, we were to write down the names of the teachers we wanted to see as well as the times (anywhere from 5:30 to 9 pm). Then, the children were to take this paper, along with the blank schedule, to each teacher and hold it up like an empty porridge bowl in Oliver, while the teacher decided whether the child/parent was worthy of a conference. If and when worthiness was established, the teacher would select a time for the conference. Stay with me here, because this gets a bit complicated. The time for the conference is established based on the following criteria, in order of importance.
1. It must not coincide with any of the times requested by the parent;
2. It must be as far from the time requested by the parent as possible; and
3. If other teachers have already filled in an appointment, this appointment must either conflict directly with that one or, failing that, this appointment must take place as far from all other appointments (and, of course, the times requested by the parent) as possible.
Imagine my delight when the Claire came home with the following schedule (I have translated the time for your reading pleasure):
5:30-5:35: Mme. Granjean. Mme. Barbier
5:35-5:45_______________________
5:45-5:50________________________
5:50-5:55__________________________
5:55-6:00__________________________
6:00-6:05_________________________
6:05-6:10___________________________
and so on until:
8:55-9:00: M. Radford
Upon receipt of this schedule, I reached two important conclusions.
1. Mme. Barbier hates Mme. Grandjean
2. M. Radford is passive aggressive
Megan has the same teachers, so the thinking was I could discuss both girls during the appointments.
The astute readers among you will have noted that these appointments were 5 minutes long. Five minutes! Two days after we received these schedules, the school issued the following email.
"Dear EaB Victor Hugo Parents,
The Parent Association would like to say a few words about the Parent-Teacher Meetings you’ve just signed up for.
Many of you may be expecting to have a “meeting” with these teachers. Many of you may wish or need to have a “meeting” with some of these teachers.
But 5-minute slots don’t really allow for “meetings”. So please keep this in mind, if only out of courtesy for the parents who may be waiting in the hall...
We recommend that you make a point of asking teachers for their contact information, and for advice about how to schedule real “meetings” with them in the future.
We sincerely hope that you’ll find the time to participate in this important academic event."
I'll admit it. I am one of those idiotic parents who was expecting a "meeting." I wished and needed a "meeting." Now, I'm told that I need to show up at school (half an hour by metro away from home) and spend three and a half hours there in the evening for the purpose of scheduling a " real meeting." And call me oversensitive, but I get the distinct impression that I'd better damn well show up for this "important academic event." I'm feeling the urge to go rent a car.
So, off I go. I meet Mme. Barbier first, but only because I'm five minutes early and she is lurking in the hallway. Picture, if you will, Mme. Barbier. She looks exactly like Barbara Eden (I Dream of Jeannie). Bleached blond hair pulled back in a high pony tail, fake eyelashes, bright blue eyeshadow, black eyeliner. Fortunately, she's opted out of the silk balloon pants, halter, and pointy slippers and replaced them with black leather pants and black suede boots with 4-inch heels. I'd put her at about 60 (She could also be the model for "Mature French Barbie". Note the name). She jumps out in front of me.
"English? Mme. Barbier?" she barks. I am too frightened to tell her I have actually scheduled an appointment first with Mme. Grandjean. Plus, I realize, she already knows this and has scheduled ours accordingly (see requirement #3 above). Finally, I am deeply afraid that if I cross her in any way she will fold her arms, blink, and freeze me into place for the rest of the evening. So, I follow her obediently into the classroom.
"Claireworksveryhardshelacksconfidencesheneedstopayattentiontoneatness." She ushers me out of the classroom and searches for her next victim.
I look at my watch. 5:32!! There's still time for Mme. Grandjean. By some miracle, I find Mme. Grandjean's room. I introduce myself. She snorts. I'm not kidding, the woman actually snorts at me!
"ClairejoinedtheschoolLATE! ThenshewasSICK!She'sstillcatchingUP!SheneedstobeNEATER!"
Another snort. And I'm back in the hallway. It's 5:34.
Three hours and twenty minutes later (and let me tell you, there's not a lot to do in a French school at night. I am reduced to practicing my snorting.) I'm waiting outside M. Radford's room with several other parents. Another teacher walks by.
I don't know how she makes the time, but she says:
"Why are you here? Mr. Radford has been sick for three days. He will not be here tonight. I wish you a pleasant evening."
Of course we never got to Megan. For all I know she's not really going to school but slinging beer in the bar down the street. I'm thinking seriously about skipping the "real meeting." I don't think I can handle any more important academic events.
The girls are on a 10-day break; all of next week and through Wednesday of the following week. No one seems to know why. We will head to Amsterdam for a long weekend next week.
Prior to the break, parents were treated to the Euro version of a parent-teacher conference. This was a fascinating exercise in uselessness. The week prior, we received an email with an attached schedule. Now, it is important to note that were not to actually fill in the schedule. No, we were merely to admire the spacing, the font, etcetera. On a separate piece of paper, we were to write down the names of the teachers we wanted to see as well as the times (anywhere from 5:30 to 9 pm). Then, the children were to take this paper, along with the blank schedule, to each teacher and hold it up like an empty porridge bowl in Oliver, while the teacher decided whether the child/parent was worthy of a conference. If and when worthiness was established, the teacher would select a time for the conference. Stay with me here, because this gets a bit complicated. The time for the conference is established based on the following criteria, in order of importance.
1. It must not coincide with any of the times requested by the parent;
2. It must be as far from the time requested by the parent as possible; and
3. If other teachers have already filled in an appointment, this appointment must either conflict directly with that one or, failing that, this appointment must take place as far from all other appointments (and, of course, the times requested by the parent) as possible.
Imagine my delight when the Claire came home with the following schedule (I have translated the time for your reading pleasure):
5:30-5:35: Mme. Granjean. Mme. Barbier
5:35-5:45_______________________
5:45-5:50________________________
5:50-5:55__________________________
5:55-6:00__________________________
6:00-6:05_________________________
6:05-6:10___________________________
and so on until:
8:55-9:00: M. Radford
Upon receipt of this schedule, I reached two important conclusions.
1. Mme. Barbier hates Mme. Grandjean
2. M. Radford is passive aggressive
Megan has the same teachers, so the thinking was I could discuss both girls during the appointments.
The astute readers among you will have noted that these appointments were 5 minutes long. Five minutes! Two days after we received these schedules, the school issued the following email.
"Dear EaB Victor Hugo Parents,
The Parent Association would like to say a few words about the Parent-Teacher Meetings you’ve just signed up for.
Many of you may be expecting to have a “meeting” with these teachers. Many of you may wish or need to have a “meeting” with some of these teachers.
But 5-minute slots don’t really allow for “meetings”. So please keep this in mind, if only out of courtesy for the parents who may be waiting in the hall...
We recommend that you make a point of asking teachers for their contact information, and for advice about how to schedule real “meetings” with them in the future.
We sincerely hope that you’ll find the time to participate in this important academic event."
I'll admit it. I am one of those idiotic parents who was expecting a "meeting." I wished and needed a "meeting." Now, I'm told that I need to show up at school (half an hour by metro away from home) and spend three and a half hours there in the evening for the purpose of scheduling a " real meeting." And call me oversensitive, but I get the distinct impression that I'd better damn well show up for this "important academic event." I'm feeling the urge to go rent a car.
So, off I go. I meet Mme. Barbier first, but only because I'm five minutes early and she is lurking in the hallway. Picture, if you will, Mme. Barbier. She looks exactly like Barbara Eden (I Dream of Jeannie). Bleached blond hair pulled back in a high pony tail, fake eyelashes, bright blue eyeshadow, black eyeliner. Fortunately, she's opted out of the silk balloon pants, halter, and pointy slippers and replaced them with black leather pants and black suede boots with 4-inch heels. I'd put her at about 60 (She could also be the model for "Mature French Barbie". Note the name). She jumps out in front of me.
"English? Mme. Barbier?" she barks. I am too frightened to tell her I have actually scheduled an appointment first with Mme. Grandjean. Plus, I realize, she already knows this and has scheduled ours accordingly (see requirement #3 above). Finally, I am deeply afraid that if I cross her in any way she will fold her arms, blink, and freeze me into place for the rest of the evening. So, I follow her obediently into the classroom.
"Claireworksveryhardshelacksconfidencesheneedstopayattentiontoneatness." She ushers me out of the classroom and searches for her next victim.
I look at my watch. 5:32!! There's still time for Mme. Grandjean. By some miracle, I find Mme. Grandjean's room. I introduce myself. She snorts. I'm not kidding, the woman actually snorts at me!
"ClairejoinedtheschoolLATE! ThenshewasSICK!She'sstillcatchingUP!SheneedstobeNEATER!"
Another snort. And I'm back in the hallway. It's 5:34.
Three hours and twenty minutes later (and let me tell you, there's not a lot to do in a French school at night. I am reduced to practicing my snorting.) I'm waiting outside M. Radford's room with several other parents. Another teacher walks by.
I don't know how she makes the time, but she says:
"Why are you here? Mr. Radford has been sick for three days. He will not be here tonight. I wish you a pleasant evening."
Of course we never got to Megan. For all I know she's not really going to school but slinging beer in the bar down the street. I'm thinking seriously about skipping the "real meeting." I don't think I can handle any more important academic events.
lundi 19 octobre 2009
October 19, 2009
We are all doing fine. The girls are enjoying school, although they don't like having to wear uniforms. I LOVE uniforms; no more deciding what to wear each morning and much less laundry. I do, however, have to iron.
Mom arrived Saturday morning. She is staying in a studio apartment in our neighborhood that is really beautiful. She'll be here for three weeks; we're planning to do a lot of stuff in Paris and then will head to Amsterdam and (maybe) Brugges (sp?) for a long weekend.
The agent that welcomed us to Mom's apartment was incredibly nice. He was very glad to know that the kids and I are here for a whole year. He told me that he sees people who just come for a week try to do it all and get exhausted and frustrated in the process.
"It simply can't be done," he said. "There's so much to see and do in Paris. Paris is, is - a banquet."
"A moveable feast," I offered, congratulating myself on my literary prowess.
He looked at me blankly. "No," he corrected me. "A banquet."
All righty then.
The girls, Mom and I went to the Orangerie yesterday. This is the museum where Monet's Water Lilies are housed, as well as a lot of Renoirs, Cezannes, Modiglianis, etc.
Claire was incredibly unimpressed with Monet. "I expected much more," she told us. "These are just not extravagant enough." She brought me over to one of them. "I like the tree," she said. "He should've painted more of them." Two months in France and she's an art critic!
Those of you that know me well know that I hate museums. I'd much rather take the girls to the dentist, where I can sit and read magazines while I wait for them. At a museum, I actually have to walk around with them. We were on the lower floor of the Orangerie and there were some abstract paintings of women. I said to Erin, "those women are really oddly shaped."
"Mom," she said patiently. "You're not supposed to look at the figures themselves, you're supposed to think about the personalities. You're supposed to feel the movement."
At 8 years old, she appreciates and understands art more than I ever will. I did what any self-respecting mother would do at that point. I left her with her grandmother and headed for the gift shop. Megan was right behind me.
Claire was a huge fan of the Modiglianis. When I hear Modigliani, I think of the life cycle consumption hypothesis. Who knew the guy was doing lithos in his spare time? Talk about a Renaissance man!
The weather is spectacular right now. Very crisp autumn days and lots of sunshine. I know it won't last, but we're enjoying it while we can.
Mom arrived Saturday morning. She is staying in a studio apartment in our neighborhood that is really beautiful. She'll be here for three weeks; we're planning to do a lot of stuff in Paris and then will head to Amsterdam and (maybe) Brugges (sp?) for a long weekend.
The agent that welcomed us to Mom's apartment was incredibly nice. He was very glad to know that the kids and I are here for a whole year. He told me that he sees people who just come for a week try to do it all and get exhausted and frustrated in the process.
"It simply can't be done," he said. "There's so much to see and do in Paris. Paris is, is - a banquet."
"A moveable feast," I offered, congratulating myself on my literary prowess.
He looked at me blankly. "No," he corrected me. "A banquet."
All righty then.
The girls, Mom and I went to the Orangerie yesterday. This is the museum where Monet's Water Lilies are housed, as well as a lot of Renoirs, Cezannes, Modiglianis, etc.
Claire was incredibly unimpressed with Monet. "I expected much more," she told us. "These are just not extravagant enough." She brought me over to one of them. "I like the tree," she said. "He should've painted more of them." Two months in France and she's an art critic!
Those of you that know me well know that I hate museums. I'd much rather take the girls to the dentist, where I can sit and read magazines while I wait for them. At a museum, I actually have to walk around with them. We were on the lower floor of the Orangerie and there were some abstract paintings of women. I said to Erin, "those women are really oddly shaped."
"Mom," she said patiently. "You're not supposed to look at the figures themselves, you're supposed to think about the personalities. You're supposed to feel the movement."
At 8 years old, she appreciates and understands art more than I ever will. I did what any self-respecting mother would do at that point. I left her with her grandmother and headed for the gift shop. Megan was right behind me.
Claire was a huge fan of the Modiglianis. When I hear Modigliani, I think of the life cycle consumption hypothesis. Who knew the guy was doing lithos in his spare time? Talk about a Renaissance man!
The weather is spectacular right now. Very crisp autumn days and lots of sunshine. I know it won't last, but we're enjoying it while we can.
dimanche 11 octobre 2009
October 11, 2009
Erin, aka "The Thinker"
Good news! I think I figured out how you can comment on my rants. Some of you have emailed and said you couldn't comment on the site. Go to the bottom of the new post and type in the "enregistrer un commentaire" box. Then press on "publiere un commentaire".
It's October already! Gheesh. I was supposed to have finished my novel by now and have started work on my Nobel Prize-winning economics research. I'm a teensy bit behind.
Megan and Claire just returned from their week-long school trip to Brittany. Megan had a blast and came back very hoarse - hopefully not from learning to smoke Gauloises. Claire did not have a great time. Apparently the food was awful, meaning they served something besides cheese pizza. She did mention that she was chastized for taking a croissant and a piece of baguette (they were only permitted to take one at a time) and denied any other food for the rest of the meal. I still haven't figured out what they learned on the trip (besides how to ration bread), but I'm sure it was educational.
Erin leaves tomorrow for her trip to Bordeaux to ride ponies. She's a bit nervous since she's never been away by herself before, but she's looking forward to the pony part. The parents will not be able to contact their kids, but the school is making a recorded message available every night so we can keep up with their adventures. No parents allowed on the trip.
Erin had an interesting experience last week. She came home and said she was playing with two little French girls at recess and one said to the other "Wouldn't it be funny if we poured oil on Erin and then dropped a light on her?" The other girl cracked up. Erin didn't think it was that funny, but she had no idea how "unfunny" it really was since she didn't understand what they meant by "light." Now, in the US we'd be headed straight to school (and our attorney's office), the kid would be suspended pending an extensive psychiatric evaluation and counselors would be made available for any children that were feeling traumatized.
I know better than to even say anything to the school here. The headmistress would just shake her head and chuckle. "Those wacky kids," she'd say indulgently. "They've been watching CNN International again. I'm sure it was all in good fun."
Immolation? Fun?
Here are some other fun games that kids of from all countries can enjoy:
- Suicide bomber. Since you're the new kid, you get to be the bomber!
- Earthquake. You lay down, we'll cover you with a pile of rubble and leave you for a few days. We'll wait until your cries for help are really faint and then we'll rescue you. Unless the bell rings.
- Tsunami. We'll get a firehose and turn it on you full force to see how far we can blast you! Don't forget your wellies!!
- Genocide. This one is an old favorite with kids of all ages. A group of us decides (ethnicity #1) we don't like a group of you (ethnicity #2) and we gang up on you (invade), take your lunch money (plunder the Treasury) stomp on your iPod (destroy your infrastructure), and beat you to a pulp (murder and mutiliate). This game is great because it can be played in its entirety before the playground monitor (UN) even notices!!
Dontcha miss being a kid?
The Gym
I finally broke down and joined a gym. The "oh you walk everywhere so you don't gain weight in Paris" turned out to be a cruel joke. I do walk everywhere but I also huff down a lotta croissants. I have quite the brioche-top going. So, I joined the gym down the street. I'd hate to have to walk too far to get there.
It's quite an experience, the French gym. First, it's like an AA meeting (I would imagine). People wearing trench coats and hats sneak in with their heads down. No eye contact. And absolutely no gym clothes. They arrive dressed for work! Makeup and everything! Ok, maybe the guys are just wearing a little under-eye concealer. Then, after sneaking into the locker room
they strip off everything, get into their workout clothes and head downstairs to work out.
There's no socializing. Not even pleasantries. Why? Because NO ONE wants to admit they're there! No one is willing to expose the "we French aren't fat because we walk everywhere and are able to control ourselves" myth.
I made the mistake of wearing shorts to the gym. Women sneered. Men averted their eyes. Apparently, it is only socially acceptable for men to wear shorts. Short shorts, from the 70s of course. Women must keep their legs completely covered. Having said that, the women's outfits are quite something. One 75-year old woman with a St. Tropez tan was wearing leopard skin leggings. Quite slimming, actually.
One final observation on the gym. You're not supposed to use a water bottle. You are permitted to interrupt your exercise briefly for a drink of water at the fountain. Drinking from a water bottle while exercising, however, is simply not done. I think it stems from the French aversion to multitasking. You can understand the thought process. First, drinking water on the treadmill. Next, eating lunch while driving. Before you know it, France has , has become....the US!!! So, if a few people drop dead of dehydration at the gym to preserve the French way of life, well, so be it. A small price to pay. No one knew they were there anyway.
dimanche 4 octobre 2009
4 October 2009
The girls are much happier at their new school and I am delighted to report that they will emerge at the end of the year with not one, but two foreign languages: French and British. The school is much more diverse; Claire is one of two Americans in her class.
The big news is that Rob came to visit! It was great to have him here and the girls had fun showing him all the neighborhood hot spots. Unfortunately, Megan and Claire were down with a virus much of the week, but he was still able to spend some good one-on-one time with them. Erin and Rob went to Notre Dame and the Rodin Museum. Claire and Erin have both assured me that it's small and you can "blast through it" in under twenty minutes (some of you may not know that I have an incredible aversion to museums and tend to behave badly when forced to go). Rob and Megan went to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe.
Megan and Claire are packing for their week-long school trip to Brittany, where they will study marine biology and water sports. Erin leaves the following week for Bordeaux. There, she will:
The big news is that Rob came to visit! It was great to have him here and the girls had fun showing him all the neighborhood hot spots. Unfortunately, Megan and Claire were down with a virus much of the week, but he was still able to spend some good one-on-one time with them. Erin and Rob went to Notre Dame and the Rodin Museum. Claire and Erin have both assured me that it's small and you can "blast through it" in under twenty minutes (some of you may not know that I have an incredible aversion to museums and tend to behave badly when forced to go). Rob and Megan went to the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe.
Megan and Claire are packing for their week-long school trip to Brittany, where they will study marine biology and water sports. Erin leaves the following week for Bordeaux. There, she will:
- choose a pony to care for and ride for the week,
- learn about life in a medieval village; and
- finally learn to distinguish between the aromas of black currant and licorice that characterize the full bodied Cotes de Francs, and the hints of vanilla and oak that grace the fruitier Medoc.
We are terribly worried about her lack of progress in the third area and may have to get her tested, but her teacher is hopeful that this trip will get her up to speed.
Zoning
I have done a lot of walking around our quartier and wanted to share deep thoughts with you on Parisian urban planning; specifically zoning. Now, I've lived in London, New York, Washington DC, and San Francisco and I know that city neighborhoods have restaurants and corner groceries mixed in with residential buildings. But Paris has taken the commercial/residential mix to new extremes. Here are a few examples.
- A Thai massage parlor directly across the street from a Catholic elementary school in an otherwise quiet residential neighborhood. What was the thinking here? Did some Thai entrepreneur note the high percentage of fathers who walk their children to school and think to him- or herself: "I bet what those fellas could use after drop-off in the morning is a good Thai massage!" Or, perhaps the joyful shrieks of children playing in the school courtyard provide cover for the joyful shrieks in the massage parlor. I may be overthinking this, but it could also explain why guys don't show up to work until after 10:00 am and, more importantly, why they're always so darn cheerful.
- The ultrasonic cellulite removal clinic next to the creperie. There's a certain symmetry there, but I wonder if the location is just a happy accident or if, in fact both businesses are owned by the same person.
- My personal favorite, the tattoo parlour next to the wedding dress store. Which do you do first?
A bientot.
dimanche 27 septembre 2009
September 26, 2009
The girls at Les Jardins des Tuileries, outside Louvre
Get A Grippe
The French are terribly worried about the H1N1 virus or "la grippe". There are stories every day in magazines, on TV and radio, ads on billboards, and long speeches from school administrators. We are repeatedly told how to wash our hands, how to sneeze/cough and what to avoid (basically all human contact). We all have little bottles of hand sanitizer which we use every time we've been out and especially after the Metro.
The kids can show up to school with a head full of lice and teachers and administrators won't blink an eye. But if they sneeze? Mon Dieu! They are sent to an isolation ward in the nurse's office, which consists of a special chair and a mask. Parents are contacted, as are "the authorities." The child must immediately be picked up from school and taken to a doctor who will administer a blood test. The test takes three days to process, during which time the child must be kept at home. If the child tests positive, the entire FAMILY is quarantined in their home for a period of 7 days. The same general rule applies to the workplace. If you feel even the slightest bit of a cold coming on, you are strongly encouraged to stay home.
In most countries, this sort of policy would put a real damper on work force productivity. But in France, I think GDP per capita is likely to rise (you were wondering when I'd get to some good economic analysis, weren't you?). Why, you ask? Kissing! Believe it or not, kissing is now discouraged in the workplace. This is a very big deal in France. People kiss all the time! One cheek, the other cheek. It's de rigeur! Well now it's interdit (forbidden).
A parent at school joined a French firm after the summer holidays and he said no one got anything done for the first week, because all anyone did was kiss each other and talk about their vacations. Men included. He is secretly thrilled about the edict (although sadly some are ignoring it) because he's not a big fan of kissing guys and he'd like to get some work done.
I estimate the time saved by those who observe the edict roughly equivalent to a Los Angeles commute. When you consider that the French workday begins at 10:30 am and ends at 7 pm with a two-hour lunch and many, many cigarette breaks in between, you realize that the productivity base is pretty low. So, if French workforce productivity spikes this year, you know why.
On a more personal note, the girls are loving their new school. Erin said she almost cried the first day because she was so happy! They have all been welcomed by their classmates and are getting used to the British system.
dimanche 20 septembre 2009
September 20, 2009
School
We have transferred the girls from the Ecole Active Bilingue Jeannine Manuel to the Ecole Active Bilingue Victor Hugo. We will forgive you if you don't quite perceive the difference. Apparently the two schools were one until the late 70's, when Jeannine Manuel realized that the children were enjoying school. They understood what the teachers were saying! They understood their homework! Quel horreur (holy #%$^#)! She immediately put a stop to it by setting up her own school and hiring sadistic spinsters who live alone, always wear black and have lots of cats.
Claire and Erin started at the new school on Friday and were delighted that their teachers speak English. They will still take French every day and will have sports, music and art with French kids. Megan starts on Monday. We are looking forward to getting settled in school and hopeful that the psychic trauma of the first school will require, at most, a year of therapy. As an alternative, I have offered the girls the option of writing a scathing expose of my parenting after they have graduated from college and are no longer financially dependent on us. I imagine them coming home in their twenties, lavishing Rob with affection and confidences and treating me like a potted plant that was left in the middle of the room by mistake.
Food
I went to the open market just up the street from our flat this morning. Amazing. Fresh fruit, vegetables, fish, poultry, socks, shoes, you name it. A handsome young poultry vendor winked at me and said something flirtatious, I thought, until I realized what he'd actually said was: "Eh, Madame, want a chicken to go with that baguette?"
Which brings me to what we've been eating. Brace yourselves. Claire has declared herself "over" pasta and is carefully researching which Parisian pizzeria prepares the best pizza margharita. Stay tuned. Megan is venturing into new pizza and pasta toppings and has a special place in her heart for lasagne. Erin is trying anything and everything, but falls back on pasta and pizza. Is it me or did we pick the wrong country to live in?
As for me, here's an example of my French and Orindan diets.
Paris
Breakfast: fresh fruit, cereal
Lunch: celery remoulade, tabouli
Snack: fruit smoothie
Dinner: roast chicken, avocado soup, SALAD
Orinda
Breakfast: Slimfast
Lunch: Slimfast
Snack: Squirt and a bag of cinnamon pita chips
Dinner: Whatever Rob's cooking. If Rob is out, Roundtable Pizza
It's like I'm an adult or something!
Speaking of food, whoever wrote that book about French women and why they stay so slim is a nitwit. Since I haven't read the book, I feel perfectly comfortable criticizing its premise, which I think goes something like this: French women walk everywhere, eat small portions and only three bites of dessert. The implication of course, is that if we American women could only control our gluttony and hop out of our gaz-guzzling SUVs once in a while perhaps we, too, could weigh 98 pounds and still look great in jeans (French women look great in jeans). Bastard. I'm here, ladies, to share the rest of the story, the dark underbelly (so to speak) of the French female diet.
Based on my careful observation (which has, I'm sorry to say, required countless hours in cafes in order to gather sufficient data for a statistically valid analysis), French women begin the day with two cups of espresso and two cigarettes. Can you say appetite suppressant?! While I'm convinced that they would dearly love to gobble down two or three croissants, they'd have to pull one of their kids out of private school to afford it.
Lunch is usually a small salad, more espresso and another three or four cigarettes (the hour and a half they get for lunch allows the extra huff and puff). Again, the portion control is about money and an appetite reduced by excessive caffeine and nicotine consumption. Think about it; have you ever seen an overweight junkie?
Stay tuned for my shocking expose of the wardrobe myth.
We have transferred the girls from the Ecole Active Bilingue Jeannine Manuel to the Ecole Active Bilingue Victor Hugo. We will forgive you if you don't quite perceive the difference. Apparently the two schools were one until the late 70's, when Jeannine Manuel realized that the children were enjoying school. They understood what the teachers were saying! They understood their homework! Quel horreur (holy #%$^#)! She immediately put a stop to it by setting up her own school and hiring sadistic spinsters who live alone, always wear black and have lots of cats.
Claire and Erin started at the new school on Friday and were delighted that their teachers speak English. They will still take French every day and will have sports, music and art with French kids. Megan starts on Monday. We are looking forward to getting settled in school and hopeful that the psychic trauma of the first school will require, at most, a year of therapy. As an alternative, I have offered the girls the option of writing a scathing expose of my parenting after they have graduated from college and are no longer financially dependent on us. I imagine them coming home in their twenties, lavishing Rob with affection and confidences and treating me like a potted plant that was left in the middle of the room by mistake.
Food
I went to the open market just up the street from our flat this morning. Amazing. Fresh fruit, vegetables, fish, poultry, socks, shoes, you name it. A handsome young poultry vendor winked at me and said something flirtatious, I thought, until I realized what he'd actually said was: "Eh, Madame, want a chicken to go with that baguette?"
Which brings me to what we've been eating. Brace yourselves. Claire has declared herself "over" pasta and is carefully researching which Parisian pizzeria prepares the best pizza margharita. Stay tuned. Megan is venturing into new pizza and pasta toppings and has a special place in her heart for lasagne. Erin is trying anything and everything, but falls back on pasta and pizza. Is it me or did we pick the wrong country to live in?
As for me, here's an example of my French and Orindan diets.
Paris
Breakfast: fresh fruit, cereal
Lunch: celery remoulade, tabouli
Snack: fruit smoothie
Dinner: roast chicken, avocado soup, SALAD
Orinda
Breakfast: Slimfast
Lunch: Slimfast
Snack: Squirt and a bag of cinnamon pita chips
Dinner: Whatever Rob's cooking. If Rob is out, Roundtable Pizza
It's like I'm an adult or something!
Speaking of food, whoever wrote that book about French women and why they stay so slim is a nitwit. Since I haven't read the book, I feel perfectly comfortable criticizing its premise, which I think goes something like this: French women walk everywhere, eat small portions and only three bites of dessert. The implication of course, is that if we American women could only control our gluttony and hop out of our gaz-guzzling SUVs once in a while perhaps we, too, could weigh 98 pounds and still look great in jeans (French women look great in jeans). Bastard. I'm here, ladies, to share the rest of the story, the dark underbelly (so to speak) of the French female diet.
Based on my careful observation (which has, I'm sorry to say, required countless hours in cafes in order to gather sufficient data for a statistically valid analysis), French women begin the day with two cups of espresso and two cigarettes. Can you say appetite suppressant?! While I'm convinced that they would dearly love to gobble down two or three croissants, they'd have to pull one of their kids out of private school to afford it.
Lunch is usually a small salad, more espresso and another three or four cigarettes (the hour and a half they get for lunch allows the extra huff and puff). Again, the portion control is about money and an appetite reduced by excessive caffeine and nicotine consumption. Think about it; have you ever seen an overweight junkie?
Stay tuned for my shocking expose of the wardrobe myth.
dimanche 13 septembre 2009
September 13, 2009
Les Miserables
The girls have been in school one full week now. Plenty of orientation, really nice kids, lots of paperwork, etc. Imagine my surprise when, during the first orientation, the Headmistress put up a slide that said:
Adaptation = Immersion.
That's funny, because I thought adaptation meant, well, adaptation. My bad. Each of my trusting children has been tossed into a class where the teacher speaks only French. That might not be so bad if the French were said slowly and consisted of phrases like, "Hello, my name is Mme. So and So. This is a book. This is an orange. This is a blackboard."
No. Their teachers are saying things like:
"AttheheightofitspowertheOttomanEmpirespannedthreecontinentsnowitstimefororganicchemistrywhycan'tyou keepup?"
And that's just Erin's third grade teacher.
About halfway through last week, Erin was writing in her journal and she asked how to spell "miserable." That about covers it. Looking for options.
The Exchange Rate
A friend gave me some excellent advice before we arrived in Paris, which was to pretend that the dollar-euro exchange rate is 1:1. In other words, if you think about how much everything costs in dollars, you'll drive yourself crazy. Just a little sampler of prices:
Curling iron: 40 Euros (about $57)
Blowdryer: 60 Euros (about $86)
Pair of Gap Jeans: 49 Euros (about $70)
Pair of French jeans: 60 Euros ($86)
Iron: 40 Euros
Kids shoes: I can't even tell you since Rob is reading this.
We had to figure out what to do about allowance. I decided to absorb the impact of the US trade deficit on the dollar and give the kids the same allowance in Euros as they were getting in dollars. One of the downsides of being an economist. Of course, each child reacts differently to the news.
Since a very early age, Megan has lived by the motto: "if you have it, spend it. If you don't have it, borrow it and spend it." Boesky, Milliken, Megan. Her creditworthiness is now roughly equivalent to that of a sub-prime mortgage lender specializing in Stockton real estate. When she learned about the exchange rate decision, she asked if she could start to borrow in Euros, put the money in a local bank and use the interest she earns, as well as any exchange rate gains, to pay back her earlier debt. A creative variant on the US Treasury Department approach.
Claire has the financial behavior of a child of the Great Depression. Since she began receiving allowance (5 years ago), she's spent a total of $2.35. She's been looking into buying a small island off the coast of Belize. When she was told about the allowance arrangement, she looked at me suspiciously. "Sounds too good to be true. I'll need a full accounting to run by my team. Of course, I assume you'll absorb the financial impact of any adverse tax effects."
Erin has the financial curiosity of P.Diddy. Surrounded at all times by an adoring posse, she is blissfully unaware of how much money she has. When the check comes, she goes to the lady's room while someone else pays the bills. Luckily, her people can be trusted.
The girls have been in school one full week now. Plenty of orientation, really nice kids, lots of paperwork, etc. Imagine my surprise when, during the first orientation, the Headmistress put up a slide that said:
Adaptation = Immersion.
That's funny, because I thought adaptation meant, well, adaptation. My bad. Each of my trusting children has been tossed into a class where the teacher speaks only French. That might not be so bad if the French were said slowly and consisted of phrases like, "Hello, my name is Mme. So and So. This is a book. This is an orange. This is a blackboard."
No. Their teachers are saying things like:
"AttheheightofitspowertheOttomanEmpirespannedthreecontinentsnowitstimefororganicchemistrywhycan'tyou keepup?"
And that's just Erin's third grade teacher.
About halfway through last week, Erin was writing in her journal and she asked how to spell "miserable." That about covers it. Looking for options.
The Exchange Rate
A friend gave me some excellent advice before we arrived in Paris, which was to pretend that the dollar-euro exchange rate is 1:1. In other words, if you think about how much everything costs in dollars, you'll drive yourself crazy. Just a little sampler of prices:
Curling iron: 40 Euros (about $57)
Blowdryer: 60 Euros (about $86)
Pair of Gap Jeans: 49 Euros (about $70)
Pair of French jeans: 60 Euros ($86)
Iron: 40 Euros
Kids shoes: I can't even tell you since Rob is reading this.
We had to figure out what to do about allowance. I decided to absorb the impact of the US trade deficit on the dollar and give the kids the same allowance in Euros as they were getting in dollars. One of the downsides of being an economist. Of course, each child reacts differently to the news.
Since a very early age, Megan has lived by the motto: "if you have it, spend it. If you don't have it, borrow it and spend it." Boesky, Milliken, Megan. Her creditworthiness is now roughly equivalent to that of a sub-prime mortgage lender specializing in Stockton real estate. When she learned about the exchange rate decision, she asked if she could start to borrow in Euros, put the money in a local bank and use the interest she earns, as well as any exchange rate gains, to pay back her earlier debt. A creative variant on the US Treasury Department approach.
Claire has the financial behavior of a child of the Great Depression. Since she began receiving allowance (5 years ago), she's spent a total of $2.35. She's been looking into buying a small island off the coast of Belize. When she was told about the allowance arrangement, she looked at me suspiciously. "Sounds too good to be true. I'll need a full accounting to run by my team. Of course, I assume you'll absorb the financial impact of any adverse tax effects."
Erin has the financial curiosity of P.Diddy. Surrounded at all times by an adoring posse, she is blissfully unaware of how much money she has. When the check comes, she goes to the lady's room while someone else pays the bills. Luckily, her people can be trusted.
dimanche 6 septembre 2009
August 23, 2009
Arrival
We’ve been in Europe just about 3 weeks and have already had our share of adventures. Our trip to Paris via Dublin was the best kind – uneventful. We arrived on a Tuesday afternoon and the kids were terribly tired. Our new landlady was waiting for us in the flat. It’s on the fifth floor and is accessible by an elevator that is roughly the size of a pre-school cubby.
The flat itself is fantastic; lots of light, corner unit, hardwood floors and tiny kitchen so I don’t have to feel guilty about not cooking. Even room for the occasional guest (futon couch in the living room)!
Our landlady went through the apartment with me, showing me all of its features. It has a shower! A dishwasher! A DRYER (more on this later)!!! Apparently the toilets are particularly sensitive and must be treated with the utmost respect. Because it’s been a while since I’ve lived in an apartment and since the kids have never lived in one, I was concerned about the lack of a fire escape. So, in my best French, I asked what “one should do” in case of fire. She looked at me (LIPS!!!) for several seconds and replied (in French): “I would suggest you leave the apartment and call the fire department.” Good thinking. I later learned that there is a back concrete staircase.
The landlady had very kindly stocked the fridge with bottled water which the children immediately pronounced undrinkable and begged for something “real” to drink. Luckily, there’s a small (as in closet-sized; only slightly bigger than the elevator) market across the street, so we all set out on our first French expedition. As I grabbed one of the twelve sets of keys and started to walk out the door, Megan said, “Mom, those are the wrong keys.” I speak French, I’ve lived in Europe for 9 years and I think I know the right set of keys when I see it. When we returned to the flat, I spent 45 minutes trying to open the door, before finally giving in and knocking on a neighbor’s door. She looked at my keys and said (in French, thank God, so Megan couldn’t understand and break into her “I told you so” song), “These are the wrong keys. These are the keys to the storage room.” By now, the girls were splayed on the staircase, in front of the door and by the elevator, dead to the world. It looked like a scene from a mob movie, sans the blood. The neighbor offered to try to track down the landlady, which we eventually did.
The landlady arrived with her husband about half an hour later. Although she had brought a correct set of keys with her, in my desperate attempt to prove my daughter wrong I had jammed the lock and now none of us could get in. Which is how I learned about the back staircase. So, eight short hours after landing in Paris, my children and I were finally in our flat for the night.
On the Road Again
We spent Wednesday and Thursday getting groceries, finding the school (one half block from the flat), and buying school supplies (roughly a US mortgage payment). The children discovered what a real croissant tastes like and I was reintroduced to real coffee.
On Friday, it was time to go to the train station and pick up our rental car which, being the hyper-organized person I am, I had reserved in March. We took a cab from the flat to the station and went into the adjacent building where all of the rental car agencies are housed: Avis, Hertz, National, EuropeCar, all the rental car agencies you can name, plus a few you’ve never heard of. There was unfortunately, no sign of our rental car agency – Dollar. I re-checked the address on the Travelocity printout (which, did I mention, I had kept in my green “travel” folder since March?) So we started at Avis and asked where Dollar is located. No idea. Tried Hertz – no idea. Finally, Claire spotted a dachshund-height sign that said “Thrifty Dollar.” It was affixed to an ADA sign. ADA is a French rental car company. Whoeee!! Who says we can’t find our rental car agency?! The glass door to the ADA office was locked but we saw someone inside, so we knocked. She came to the door and I showed her my rental car contract that read “Dollar Rent–A–Car.” She perused it carefully and then jabbed a finger at the words “Rent –A –Car.” “You need to go to EuropeCar,” she told me. When I pointed out that her company, ADA, apparently handled Dollar and Thrifty reservations, she shook her head vehemently and pointed at the EuropeCar office down the hall.
So, off we went to EuropeCar, which had two agents working and a line of five people. A five-person line in France is roughly equivalent to a fifty-person line in the US (a fixed exchange rate of ten to one). Here’s why. Inevitably, one of the people in the line is not French. He has made a request that seems completely reasonable to him but, to the French agent, the request is so absurd as to not even be worth consideration. I have provided a sample of such requests and responses below:
1. May I please have the rental car that I reserved?
Answer: The rental car you reserved is not here. We have only one rental car left. It is the size of a wheelbarrow, which in France means it seats five comfortably.
2. Can I pay the rate that was advertised and that I agreed to when I made the reservation?
Answer: You are very fortunate, sir, that we have a rental car available at all. Please refer to my answer to your first ridiculous question. You see behind you several other people who, I am sure, would be happy to pay any amount of Euros for this car. Would you like to ask this question again? In that case, I will refer you to my manager. She is at lunch, so it will be several hours before she can attend to your petty whims. By that time I will surely have rented this car, this very last car, to one of the very nice and patient people behind you.
3. Is it possible to get a rental car that has some gas in it?
Answer: Sir, I am trying very hard to be helpful to you. First, I give you a rental car. Now, you want gas? Let me explain to you how it works in France. We give you the car. The car has just enough gas in it that you can drive to the gas station which is just one kilometer from here. This is a very good gas station and the only one that is close enough that you can reach it without running out of gas (although, sadly, it is in exactly the opposite direction from where you would like to go).
The other issue with lines is that, as many observers have previously noted, people only stand in them until the bus arrives, an agent finishes with a customer, the elevator doors open…you get the idea. At that point there is a violent scrum, wherein the person who was last in line often emerges victorious at the front, without casting so much as a glance at the 90-year-old woman lying bleeding at his feet. So, after forty or so minutes, when I began to approach the front of the line, I stationed each of the children in a defensive position. It’s not unlike coaching peewee soccer, where you have to make sure a kid is covering each of the sides instead of bunching up in the middle. The only difference is that the enemy (ok, admittedly not an appropriate coaching term) is approaching from behind.
As my turn came, sure enough, an unshaven mousse-haired twenty-something - wearing pink capris, an Izod with the collar turned up, and carrying a man-purse – darted from the very back of the line down the left side and tried to vector in to the available agent. I am pleased and not a little proud to report that my youngest daughter saw the play unfold and executed some wicked man-to-man coverage. He never saw her coming. She blocked him and created a perfect alley for me to approach the agent. SCORE!!!! To his credit, the guy acknowledged her outstanding defense with a little smirk and retreated to the back of the line. I would imagine that if you’re secure enough to wear pink capris and a man-purse, you can handle being outmaneuvered by an eight-year-old.
Where was I? Ah, yes, at the front of the line! With an agent!! I handed him the paperwork, which he perused with a dark scowl on his face, only to burst into a huge smile.
“Madame,” he said. “You are at the wrong place!” This was the happiest he’d been all day, I’m sure, since it meant he had solved a problem and shortened the line considerably without actually having to do anything. He proved, however, to be extremely helpful, since he had figured out where we needed to go. And, here’s the amazing part, he got up from behind the counter and led us down the hallway… back to ADA!!! He showed the woman our paperwork, the very same paperwork I had shown her an hour earlier, and she nodded and smiled. I thanked him profusely and off he trotted back to his own line of miserable foreigners. The woman looked at me nonchalantly and I said in my best French, “So our rental car is reserved here, after all.” “Yes, “ she responded smiling. “Unfortunately, now is the beginning of my lunchtime, so you will have to wait until I return in two hours.”
The Bank
Opening a bank account in France is sort of like trying to get a Screen Actors Guild card in the US. You can’t open a French bank account without a French residence and you can’t get a French apartment without a French bank account. Once we navigated this obstacle, I was the proud owner of two French bank cards which, with the exception of their color, looked pretty much the same to me. The bank sent me approximately two inches of documents to accompany these cards that, although I can read some French, I had absolutely no idea what to do with.
The French bankcard, fondly nicknamed “carte bleu” (“blue card”) by those in the know, is the key to France. With a card you can zoom effortlessly through tollbooths, shops, restaurants and the like while you are smiled upon by all manner of important French officials and service providers. You can rent a bike anywhere in Paris, stick a baguette in its charming front basket and sing as you weave untouched through traffic on the Champs Elysees. Without it, you are doomed to drag a shopping cart down tiny streets clogged with old widows who curse at you for blocking their way, or worse wait in long lines staffed by cranks who heartily resent having to deal with people who are too stupid, too poor, too foreign, or otherwise morally undeserving of the carte bleu. When I rented the car, I was asked for the carte bleu by the agent and told that with one, I could merrily smash the car to smithereens and it would be no problem. Everywhere we went in France, it seemed, I was asked for my carte bleu and, when I couldn’t produce one, instantly my day got worse. I wanted a carte bleu. I looked at my two bankcards. One was black with orange lettering and the other was gold. Nothing blue. I tried using them anyway. The ATM machine spit them back with a message that loosely translated, meant “Nice try. This card is not a carte bleu. This card is nothing. You are nothing. Go away.”
It was time to visit the bank. You can’t just walk in to a bank in Paris. You must be buzzed in the outer door, wait in a tiny vestibule while you are examined by video camera while the person on the other end decides if you are worthy of entering the bank and accessing your money. I was lucky enough to gain admittance, and I approached the counter, where I was greeted by the top of a teller’s head. “Oui, madame,” he said in a voice that suggested he couldn’t believe I had the audacity to interrupt him while he was painstakingly entering tiny numbers into tiny boxes on a tiny form. What the hell was so important?
I presented him with my two cards and my two inches of paperwork.
“Unfortunately, my cards don’t seem to work,” I opened.
“Of course they do,” he countered.
“No, I’m sorry they don’t,” I raised.
“I can assure you they do,” he called.
We were at an impasse. I asked him to look at my paperwork. He wouldn’t. “Go outside,” he ordered. “Turn left, and find the machine. Put your card in the machine.”
“But I’ve tried to do this twice already,” I said. “It didn’t work.”
The poor man had reached his limit. How much of this nonsense was he expected to suffer? He stood up and placed both hands flat on the counter. He stared at me. Hard. “Madame, go outside,” he barked. “Turn left, and find the machine. Put your card in the machine. It will work.”
I dutifully did as I was told. The machine ate my card.
I went through the same entry process (who knows, maybe in the minute I was outside the building I had been recruited, trained, armed and deployed by a terrorist organization). Of course my helpful friend had gone back to the important task of entering tiny numbers and was surprised and not a little annoyed to see me back.
“It worked, yes?” he said, without raising his head.
“The machine ate my card,” I told him, feeling a bit triumphant, in spite of the circumstances.
He looked up, surprised. He stood up. He looked down at my paperwork. He looked at me.
“Madame, he said. “You have, I think, used the wrong pincode.” He shuffled down the paperwork an inch or so and pointed to a tiny string of numbers. His specialty, of course. “This is the pincode you must use.”
“Could you retrieve my card?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” He disappeared for a few moments and returned holding my card.
As I gathered up my papers and prepared to leave, he said, in passing, “Of course, you will not be able to use your card for eight business days.”
Arrival
We’ve been in Europe just about 3 weeks and have already had our share of adventures. Our trip to Paris via Dublin was the best kind – uneventful. We arrived on a Tuesday afternoon and the kids were terribly tired. Our new landlady was waiting for us in the flat. It’s on the fifth floor and is accessible by an elevator that is roughly the size of a pre-school cubby.
The flat itself is fantastic; lots of light, corner unit, hardwood floors and tiny kitchen so I don’t have to feel guilty about not cooking. Even room for the occasional guest (futon couch in the living room)!
Our landlady went through the apartment with me, showing me all of its features. It has a shower! A dishwasher! A DRYER (more on this later)!!! Apparently the toilets are particularly sensitive and must be treated with the utmost respect. Because it’s been a while since I’ve lived in an apartment and since the kids have never lived in one, I was concerned about the lack of a fire escape. So, in my best French, I asked what “one should do” in case of fire. She looked at me (LIPS!!!) for several seconds and replied (in French): “I would suggest you leave the apartment and call the fire department.” Good thinking. I later learned that there is a back concrete staircase.
The landlady had very kindly stocked the fridge with bottled water which the children immediately pronounced undrinkable and begged for something “real” to drink. Luckily, there’s a small (as in closet-sized; only slightly bigger than the elevator) market across the street, so we all set out on our first French expedition. As I grabbed one of the twelve sets of keys and started to walk out the door, Megan said, “Mom, those are the wrong keys.” I speak French, I’ve lived in Europe for 9 years and I think I know the right set of keys when I see it. When we returned to the flat, I spent 45 minutes trying to open the door, before finally giving in and knocking on a neighbor’s door. She looked at my keys and said (in French, thank God, so Megan couldn’t understand and break into her “I told you so” song), “These are the wrong keys. These are the keys to the storage room.” By now, the girls were splayed on the staircase, in front of the door and by the elevator, dead to the world. It looked like a scene from a mob movie, sans the blood. The neighbor offered to try to track down the landlady, which we eventually did.
The landlady arrived with her husband about half an hour later. Although she had brought a correct set of keys with her, in my desperate attempt to prove my daughter wrong I had jammed the lock and now none of us could get in. Which is how I learned about the back staircase. So, eight short hours after landing in Paris, my children and I were finally in our flat for the night.
On the Road Again
We spent Wednesday and Thursday getting groceries, finding the school (one half block from the flat), and buying school supplies (roughly a US mortgage payment). The children discovered what a real croissant tastes like and I was reintroduced to real coffee.
On Friday, it was time to go to the train station and pick up our rental car which, being the hyper-organized person I am, I had reserved in March. We took a cab from the flat to the station and went into the adjacent building where all of the rental car agencies are housed: Avis, Hertz, National, EuropeCar, all the rental car agencies you can name, plus a few you’ve never heard of. There was unfortunately, no sign of our rental car agency – Dollar. I re-checked the address on the Travelocity printout (which, did I mention, I had kept in my green “travel” folder since March?) So we started at Avis and asked where Dollar is located. No idea. Tried Hertz – no idea. Finally, Claire spotted a dachshund-height sign that said “Thrifty Dollar.” It was affixed to an ADA sign. ADA is a French rental car company. Whoeee!! Who says we can’t find our rental car agency?! The glass door to the ADA office was locked but we saw someone inside, so we knocked. She came to the door and I showed her my rental car contract that read “Dollar Rent–A–Car.” She perused it carefully and then jabbed a finger at the words “Rent –A –Car.” “You need to go to EuropeCar,” she told me. When I pointed out that her company, ADA, apparently handled Dollar and Thrifty reservations, she shook her head vehemently and pointed at the EuropeCar office down the hall.
So, off we went to EuropeCar, which had two agents working and a line of five people. A five-person line in France is roughly equivalent to a fifty-person line in the US (a fixed exchange rate of ten to one). Here’s why. Inevitably, one of the people in the line is not French. He has made a request that seems completely reasonable to him but, to the French agent, the request is so absurd as to not even be worth consideration. I have provided a sample of such requests and responses below:
1. May I please have the rental car that I reserved?
Answer: The rental car you reserved is not here. We have only one rental car left. It is the size of a wheelbarrow, which in France means it seats five comfortably.
2. Can I pay the rate that was advertised and that I agreed to when I made the reservation?
Answer: You are very fortunate, sir, that we have a rental car available at all. Please refer to my answer to your first ridiculous question. You see behind you several other people who, I am sure, would be happy to pay any amount of Euros for this car. Would you like to ask this question again? In that case, I will refer you to my manager. She is at lunch, so it will be several hours before she can attend to your petty whims. By that time I will surely have rented this car, this very last car, to one of the very nice and patient people behind you.
3. Is it possible to get a rental car that has some gas in it?
Answer: Sir, I am trying very hard to be helpful to you. First, I give you a rental car. Now, you want gas? Let me explain to you how it works in France. We give you the car. The car has just enough gas in it that you can drive to the gas station which is just one kilometer from here. This is a very good gas station and the only one that is close enough that you can reach it without running out of gas (although, sadly, it is in exactly the opposite direction from where you would like to go).
The other issue with lines is that, as many observers have previously noted, people only stand in them until the bus arrives, an agent finishes with a customer, the elevator doors open…you get the idea. At that point there is a violent scrum, wherein the person who was last in line often emerges victorious at the front, without casting so much as a glance at the 90-year-old woman lying bleeding at his feet. So, after forty or so minutes, when I began to approach the front of the line, I stationed each of the children in a defensive position. It’s not unlike coaching peewee soccer, where you have to make sure a kid is covering each of the sides instead of bunching up in the middle. The only difference is that the enemy (ok, admittedly not an appropriate coaching term) is approaching from behind.
As my turn came, sure enough, an unshaven mousse-haired twenty-something - wearing pink capris, an Izod with the collar turned up, and carrying a man-purse – darted from the very back of the line down the left side and tried to vector in to the available agent. I am pleased and not a little proud to report that my youngest daughter saw the play unfold and executed some wicked man-to-man coverage. He never saw her coming. She blocked him and created a perfect alley for me to approach the agent. SCORE!!!! To his credit, the guy acknowledged her outstanding defense with a little smirk and retreated to the back of the line. I would imagine that if you’re secure enough to wear pink capris and a man-purse, you can handle being outmaneuvered by an eight-year-old.
Where was I? Ah, yes, at the front of the line! With an agent!! I handed him the paperwork, which he perused with a dark scowl on his face, only to burst into a huge smile.
“Madame,” he said. “You are at the wrong place!” This was the happiest he’d been all day, I’m sure, since it meant he had solved a problem and shortened the line considerably without actually having to do anything. He proved, however, to be extremely helpful, since he had figured out where we needed to go. And, here’s the amazing part, he got up from behind the counter and led us down the hallway… back to ADA!!! He showed the woman our paperwork, the very same paperwork I had shown her an hour earlier, and she nodded and smiled. I thanked him profusely and off he trotted back to his own line of miserable foreigners. The woman looked at me nonchalantly and I said in my best French, “So our rental car is reserved here, after all.” “Yes, “ she responded smiling. “Unfortunately, now is the beginning of my lunchtime, so you will have to wait until I return in two hours.”
The Bank
Opening a bank account in France is sort of like trying to get a Screen Actors Guild card in the US. You can’t open a French bank account without a French residence and you can’t get a French apartment without a French bank account. Once we navigated this obstacle, I was the proud owner of two French bank cards which, with the exception of their color, looked pretty much the same to me. The bank sent me approximately two inches of documents to accompany these cards that, although I can read some French, I had absolutely no idea what to do with.
The French bankcard, fondly nicknamed “carte bleu” (“blue card”) by those in the know, is the key to France. With a card you can zoom effortlessly through tollbooths, shops, restaurants and the like while you are smiled upon by all manner of important French officials and service providers. You can rent a bike anywhere in Paris, stick a baguette in its charming front basket and sing as you weave untouched through traffic on the Champs Elysees. Without it, you are doomed to drag a shopping cart down tiny streets clogged with old widows who curse at you for blocking their way, or worse wait in long lines staffed by cranks who heartily resent having to deal with people who are too stupid, too poor, too foreign, or otherwise morally undeserving of the carte bleu. When I rented the car, I was asked for the carte bleu by the agent and told that with one, I could merrily smash the car to smithereens and it would be no problem. Everywhere we went in France, it seemed, I was asked for my carte bleu and, when I couldn’t produce one, instantly my day got worse. I wanted a carte bleu. I looked at my two bankcards. One was black with orange lettering and the other was gold. Nothing blue. I tried using them anyway. The ATM machine spit them back with a message that loosely translated, meant “Nice try. This card is not a carte bleu. This card is nothing. You are nothing. Go away.”
It was time to visit the bank. You can’t just walk in to a bank in Paris. You must be buzzed in the outer door, wait in a tiny vestibule while you are examined by video camera while the person on the other end decides if you are worthy of entering the bank and accessing your money. I was lucky enough to gain admittance, and I approached the counter, where I was greeted by the top of a teller’s head. “Oui, madame,” he said in a voice that suggested he couldn’t believe I had the audacity to interrupt him while he was painstakingly entering tiny numbers into tiny boxes on a tiny form. What the hell was so important?
I presented him with my two cards and my two inches of paperwork.
“Unfortunately, my cards don’t seem to work,” I opened.
“Of course they do,” he countered.
“No, I’m sorry they don’t,” I raised.
“I can assure you they do,” he called.
We were at an impasse. I asked him to look at my paperwork. He wouldn’t. “Go outside,” he ordered. “Turn left, and find the machine. Put your card in the machine.”
“But I’ve tried to do this twice already,” I said. “It didn’t work.”
The poor man had reached his limit. How much of this nonsense was he expected to suffer? He stood up and placed both hands flat on the counter. He stared at me. Hard. “Madame, go outside,” he barked. “Turn left, and find the machine. Put your card in the machine. It will work.”
I dutifully did as I was told. The machine ate my card.
I went through the same entry process (who knows, maybe in the minute I was outside the building I had been recruited, trained, armed and deployed by a terrorist organization). Of course my helpful friend had gone back to the important task of entering tiny numbers and was surprised and not a little annoyed to see me back.
“It worked, yes?” he said, without raising his head.
“The machine ate my card,” I told him, feeling a bit triumphant, in spite of the circumstances.
He looked up, surprised. He stood up. He looked down at my paperwork. He looked at me.
“Madame, he said. “You have, I think, used the wrong pincode.” He shuffled down the paperwork an inch or so and pointed to a tiny string of numbers. His specialty, of course. “This is the pincode you must use.”
“Could you retrieve my card?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” He disappeared for a few moments and returned holding my card.
As I gathered up my papers and prepared to leave, he said, in passing, “Of course, you will not be able to use your card for eight business days.”
Introduction
Hi everyone,
Welcome to my "momoblogue." I'll post summaries of our Parisian and Euro adventures, pics, ruminations, economic analysis (kidding), etc.
I'd love to hear from you; you can either post to the blog or send me an email @kara@pulkownik.com. Blog posts will, of course, be for public consumption.
Welcome to my "momoblogue." I'll post summaries of our Parisian and Euro adventures, pics, ruminations, economic analysis (kidding), etc.
I'd love to hear from you; you can either post to the blog or send me an email @kara@pulkownik.com. Blog posts will, of course, be for public consumption.
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