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.

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.

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.

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:

• 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.