July 18, 2010

La Rentree

We are packing up this week, but managed to see the Bastille Day fireworks at the Eiffel Tower (see picture above, taken by Megan). Truly spectacular, each series matched perfectly to music and a huge, but congenial crowd.

The weather is absolutely perfect; high 70's, sunshine, no humidity. The girls are spending time with their friends and looking forward to coming back.

Things I Will Miss About Paris

1. Walking everywhere

2. Hearing men ask their wives/girlfriends "do these jeans make me look fat?"

3. Bakeries

4. Watching women explain patiently to their husbands that, while they do already own 6 black purses, this particular one has stitching that matches the new pair of shoes they just bought and therefore must be purchased.

5. The gym; the old men in pajamas, the old women in phenomenal shape, the young men so enamored of their reflections in the mirror that they forget to work out.

6. The man in the corner store, the pharmacist, and our neighbors, all of whom have been incredibly kind to us.

7. The elderly woman who dresses in stilettos, skin tight jeans, and a shirt that says "Swinger."

8. The Sunday market, where the poultry guys sing chicken songs, and women complain loudly if the radishes they buy have any white spots on them.

9. Speaking French.

10. Cafes. Sitting at cafes. Drinking at cafes. People watching at cafes.

Things I Will Not Miss about Paris:

1. Appliances designed for Thumbelina.

2. Real-time American sports.

3. Buying groceries every day.

4. Grocery stores that stock pig's feet removers, but don't have bandaids (I'm not kidding). What if you cut yourself removing the pig's feet? It's a very tricky piece of equipment.

5. Scowling. The incidence of scowling is roughly five times what it is in the US. And these people live in Paris! What's to scowl about? It's not as if they live in Wichita!

6. Smokers.

7. The cost of living.

8. Crowded metros.

9. Man purses.

10. Apartment living.

Favorite recent conversations:

Megan: "Mom, can I hang out at the Eiffel Tower with my friends today?"

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Me, to rental car agent: "Do you need to see my driver's license?"

Rental car agent (giving me a very odd look): "No, Madame."

Me: "Are you sure?"

Agent (exasperated): "Of course I'm sure!"

Turns out, I had offered to show him my license to cook. So much for being fluent.

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Erin: "Mom, my friend Abit (Indonesian) only gets one hour a day to do her homework and play. Then, she has to help her mom with all of the chores. But, she's really happy!"

Claire: "Mom, on your next sabbatical, promise me we'll go somewhere where they speak English."

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Rob: "I need to go back to the rental car agency."

Me: "But you already returned the rental car."

Rob: "Yeah, but I thought I might rent another one, just for the day. To drive around Paris. Or just to park out in front of the building."

Apparently the agent was quite stunning. The only upside of the fender bender we experienced in Croatia was her pout when he told her about it. He was sorely tempted to crash again, just to see her pout. I was sorely tempted to run him over.

See you back soon!

June 12, 2010

Pics: John and Rob in Verona, Claire in Geneva, Me with My New Gladiator, Rob and Erin in Croatia, the girls on the Ferry from Split, Erin driving the monster (what? Rob was tired!).

We are back from our European road trip.

And, by the way, here's the difference between men and women, with respect to trip planning:

Me: About 6 months ahead of departure date, reserve the apartment, flights, train, rental car, ferry, check into what to do at the destination and by associated tickets. Two weeks ahead, pack four suitcases (1 for the girls, 3 for me), purchase all manner of overpriced containers for makeup, dirty laundry, sunscreen, underwear etc. A week before departure, get haircut, mani-pedi, massage (the planning has been very stressful), buy four new pairs of shoes, go out to a series of dinners with girlfriends since I won't see them for two whole weeks.

Results: flight is overbooked, charged the equivalent of an extra plane ticket for excess baggage, stub toe on said excess baggage trying to get it off carousel at airport (ruining pedicure), rental car is unavailable (see blog from last summer), overpriced beauty product containers leak sending unidentified toxic, sticky gels all over clean clothes. Arrive at rental to find it is a quarter of the size advertised, has bugs and no air-conditioning. At least one child comes down with stomach flu.

Rob/my brother: About 6 days before departure date, start looking for apartments. Find perfect apartment one hour later. Morning of flight: stuff two pairs of shorts, two polo shirts, 2 T-shirts, a swimsuit, toothbrush, underwear and flipflops into a backpack. Get on flight.

Result: Arrive at destination without incident and walk off airplane with carry-on luggage only. Find that you have reserved too small a car to fit the group, but are able to smile and wink your way to a massive upgrade which just happens to be available. Arrive at rental to find it is larger than advertised, has air conditioning and is spitting distance from a private beach. Children are healthy and ecstatic.

Rob/John to Kara: "Why do you get so stressed out about vacation planning? Everything works out fine."

Kara to Rob/John: "Bite me."

A brief summary of our trip:

Munich: Drive-by. We were there long enough to go to a beer garden for dinner, eat wienerschnitzel, drink beer, drive around the city and head out for...

Croatia: Long day. GPS put us on some side roads in Slovenia and we had to race to make the last ferry out of Split for the island of Brac, where we were staying. Made it (of course, since men were in charge) and had a great week in Croatia. Highlights included:

Erin discovering sea glass. She and I hunted the beach every day for new pieces. The locals looked at us, scratching their heads and wondering why we flew across the world to clean up their beaches.

Scooter rental. Three adults, three kids. No problem, right? I took a brief test drive to make sure I'd be able to ride safely with Erin on the back. Good thing. I gave it some gas, then had to swerve to avoid crashing into a couple of pedestrians. Unfortunately, I forgot to take my hand off the accelerator. I veered left, straight for the harbor. To avoid flying into the water I laid the thing down. On the pavement. On my leg. Small scrape on my leg. Large gash on my self-esteem. Croatian scooter owner: "You will now give me back my scooter. You are too dangerous." Well, we knew that already, didn't we? Luckily Claire had not been terribly excited by the prospect of zipping around the island on two wheels and offered to stay home to babysit me.

Overheard in Split: American Dad to his family: "Do the math. Two bucks for a postcard. Two bucks to mail it. Not gonna happen."

Verona: Arrived the evening of the World Cup match between Spain and Germany. Walked all over the city the next day. Fantastic.

Geneva: Took Rob and the girls to the house we lived in when I was a wee child, to the school I attended, and to the house we lived in until I finished 8th grade. Had a fabulous lunch on the lake. Saw the Jet D'Eau, the Clock of Flowers (all natural now, to celebrate the year of biodiversity. It may be biodiverse, but it's pretty ugly). Walked through the old city, window-shopped and back in the van headed for...Paris.

Overheard in a Geneva parking garage (large American to his wife): "If this garage costs more than fifty bucks I am NOT going to be happy."

Rob and John left this morning for the US. My sister arrives tomorrow. We return to the US on July 22nd. I hope to post once more before we leave.

Hope you're enjoying summer!

June 26, 2010

The girls finished school on Wednesday. Quite a few tears as they said goodbye. They're feeling very sentimental about Paris; they've each made some really great friends and are sad to leave.

Megan had her eighth grade graduation, which I'm guessing was a wee bit different from the one at home. It featured the requisite slide show, plus a flute and violin duet of "Yesterday," a break dance by three eighth grade boys and a rousing rendition of I'm-not-sure-what by two electric guitarists and a guy with a lot of hair and a microphone (also 8th graders). The headmistress of the school then gave an inspirational speech about how, after 8th grade, life heads pretty much straight downhill. She then handed out diplomas and, apparently unaware that her microphone was on, hissed at a kid behind her to "tais-toi" (shut up).

Who can blame her? The French are very unhappy at the moment. First, Les Bleus (the French national soccer team) got embarrassed at the World Cup and left after losses to South Africa and Mexico (and a tie with Uruguay) in the first round. If you're having trouble processing the impact, imagine the US putting together a national football dream team and losing to, I don't know, Belize (with requisite apologies to all NFL Pro Bowlers from Belize).

Two of my favorite headlines in the newspaper the next day:

"Les Bleus Devores Par La Sauce Tex-Mex"

Translation: "The Blues Eaten Up by Tex-Mex Sauce"

"Les Bleus Lamines Par Mexique"

"The Blues Laminated by Mexico" (I'm getting a Flat Stanley visual with this one)

(By the way, when your team is called "The Blues," why are you surprised when they lose???)

The team flew into a tiny airport in rural France hoping to elude the press, but no such luck. It's all anyone can talk about. They are, according to one gentleman I spoke with, spoiled brats who make too much money. That about covers it, I think. Oh, except for the fact that Sarkozy got a call from the German chancellor Angela Merkel who, I'm told, said:

"Hey, Nicki! Your team sucks! Neener, neener, neener!"

Germany, of course, has made it to the Round of 16. So has the US, by the way, which I like to mention, loudly and frequently, on crowded buses and metros. And we're not even good at soccer! Or, whatever they call it.

Oh, I almost forgot. The French government has launched an inquiry into the dismal showing of the French team in South Africa. I know you think I'm kidding, but I'm not.

Second, and it truly is second in importance to the World Cup disaster, the government is pushing to raise the retirement age to 62 from 60. This has caused much disgust, consternation, fist-shaking, and aggressive driving by the average French citizen. Well, actually, he was going to drive aggressively anyway, but now he can blame it on the government.

Third, and this situation is likely to deteriorate in a very Greek way before too much longer, President Sarkozy has decided to cement his unpopularity by canceling the Bastille Day Garden Party at the Palais de l'Elysee. This is the equivalent of Obama canceling the 4th of July celebration on the Washington Mall. Only worse.

As I'm sure you know, Bastille Day is on the 14th of July, and commemorates the storming of the prison where political prisoners who annoyed the king were held without trial, bail, cigarettes, soccer balls, or beautiful, long-legged French women. The king was easily annoyed by the way, especially by concepts like "democracy," "human rights," "personal hygiene," and the like. To correct this terrible injustice, the Bastille was stormed at great personal risk by thousands, only to discover that there were maybe 7 prisoners inside and, in fact, they had plenty of soccer balls. However, once the proverbial ball got rolling, they figured they might as well have a big old fight anyway, since they had plenty of ammo and a fair amount of pent-up hostility towards the king. To be fair, the king wore a wig and tights and was suspiciously unmoved by long-legged French women which, while perhaps not enough to cause a revolution, sure as hell warranted a day of cannon-blasting, sword-fighting and collateral beheadings.

Sarkozy ostensibly took the decision to cancel the Garden Party (decisions are taken in Europe, never made) out of respect for the pan-European austerity movement. The word on la rue, however, is that he's afraid if he hosts the party, it will devolve into a giant food fight, with bellicose 60-year olds who now have to work an extra 2 years hurling petits fours at Les Bleus.

The mood is somber at the gym. No one is actually exercising, just complaining. The old men don't even have the energy to insult me, which usually cheers them right up. They're too busy polishing up their resumes.

Rob and John (my brother) arrive tomorrow. We leave on Tuesday for our last European adventure (for this year, anyway); we are driving to Croatia via Munich. We'll spend about a week in Croatia, then drive back to Paris via Verona and Geneva. Should be a great trip. I promise to submit a full report.

June 13, 2010

We are in the final stages of our Tour de France. Last weekend, Mom, Erin and I drove (very slowly so as not to trigger any flash-happy highway patrolmen) to Giverny to see Monet's house and gardens. It was a little rainy, but beautiful. Erin especially loved the gardens; they were much bigger than she thought they would be.

Monet and his wife had eight children and were, according to the guidebook, "blissfully happy." My mother and I have concluded that he must've had a whole lot of help. Either that, or he spent a lot of time in his gardens.

After wandering around oohing and aahing, we had a wonderful lunch on the patio of a local restaurant, where many of the locals spend most of their Sunday afternoons. Then, back to Paris in time for the finals of the French Open (on TV this time).

The French are blissfully happy themselves, right now, and it has nothing to do with Monet. First of all, white asparagus are in season (Clementines are gone, though). Second, in anticipation of summer, they have given up all pretense of working and spend their afternoons in bistros drinking rose and arguing about...

Le Coupe du monde!!!

Really, no one has time for anything else. And who can blame them? You wake up, shoo the kids off to school, go buy another batch of white asparagus and stop for an espresso and a cigarette. By that time, it's close to noon, so you decide you'll hit the office right after lunch. Of course, lunch takes the usual two hours, but since it's springtime you indulge in 50cl of rose, by which time you're pleasantly buzzed. You really intend to go to work, now, but you get in an argument with the man at the next table about the France-Ireland qualifying play-off game. Unfortunately, the gentleman is Irish. You can't just let him defile the French team with all that nonsense about Thierry Henry handling the ball before France's winning goal. It is, after all, a matter of national pride. Your country needs you. So, you order another 50cl of rose and stay to defend your country's honor until the Irishman passes out or the waiter brings your check, whichever comes last. When you look at your watch, it's almost 1600 heures ( 4 pm)! What's the point of going to the office now? You'd just be a distraction to the four people at your firm that hate asparagus and aren't soccer fans, and have been working diligently all day. You shrug, make a few calls, and call it a day.

This schedule goes on for several weeks, by which time it's the middle of June, the kids have gotten out of school and now it really is summer. Now, no one goes to work. Vacation doesn't officially begin until August, but planning and anticipating take time. You can't just work like a dog and then show up on a beach somewhere (like the Americans, who finally start relaxing one day before their two weeks are up, and then have to be back at work wondering why they don't feel rested). It's a process. In order to benefit fully from your meager month off, you have to start unwinding ahead of time. Usually, you 'd start at the beginning of July, but alors! C'est le coupe du monde! Which means you need to move up your slacking a full month.

The World Cup isn't just paralyzing France. All of Europe has come to a standstill. So, if you're wondering how the whole Euro Zone crisis is going...

France: I notice Portugal has asked for a conference call next Thursday. What were they thinking? We play Mexico that day.

Germany: See, this is the problem with you French. It's all about fun. When are you people going to get serious? We have a currency crisis on our hands!

France: Spoken like a country that's playing Australia and Serbia in the first round. Boy, you guys must be sweating bullets.

Germany: Yeah, we're expecting a lot of...resistance.

England: If I could just say a word...

Germany: Why should we listen to you? You tied the US yesterday! You folded like a lawn chair!

England: Now hang on. The Yanks had a bit of luck, didn't they? Our goalie went from brill to bollocks. Seemed he was having a bit of a kip between the goalposts.

France: Kind of like Tony Blair during the Iraq War?

Germany: Can we please get back to business? What are we going to do about Spain and Portugal and the rest? And why is it always the southern Europeans that screw it up for the rest of us?

France: Angela! You're like a dog with a bone. Lighten up! If Germany wins the World Cup, no one will give a damn about the Euro!

United States: Hi fellas. That includes you, Angie. You really should think about a makeover. Say, why don't you give Michelle a holler? Use the red phone; it's an emergency.

Germany: Hey! This is an EU call! Who invited the US?

United States: Hah! That' s funny. We don't wait for an invitation! We just show up and assume everyone will be happy to see us!

England: That explains a lot. Vietnam, Iraq, Somalia...

France: Actually, we invited them to Vietnam. By the way, who designed the US World Cup uniforms? Your guys look like they're in a beauty pageant with those idiotic sashes down the front.

United States: In the last administration, that would've prompted us to come over there and kick your skinny French asses. But, now we have a post-imperialist foreign policy. Thanks to me, we now make a point of pursuing a diplomatic solution first. We engage in constructive dialogue, then craft a clear, constructive message. Ready? Here it is:

We're going to come over there and kick your skinny French asses.

Germany: Is it me or are you guys in denial? Spain? Portugal? Italy? Sovereign debt? Ring any bells?

United States: Which is why I jumped on the call (although I had to skip my Sunday hoops game). We have a solution for you. A little something I like to call WMD.

France: Oh, here we go again. What's wrong with you people? Didn't your mommies let you play with guns when you were little?

Germany: I'm desperate. Let's hear him out.

United States. Stay with me, here. "WMD" stands for Weapons of Monetary Development. The way we see it, you people are obsessed with the World Cup. No one will pay attention to anything else. So, we think (and I have to give Timmy Geithner full credit on this; in addition to having a brilliant financial mind, the guy is a soccer nut) we need to link European Central Bank decisions to World Cup match results. Are you with me?

Germany, France, England: No.

United States: Good, okay. Here's how it would work. Every time Spain, Portugal, Greece or Italy wins a game, they get a point, right? Now we know none of them is going to win the whole enchilada. Brazil is going to win (my CIA Latin American desk told me so). Doesn't matter.

At the end of the World Cup, the country with the most points out of the four of them gets a flotilla-full of cash from your central bank. The rest, well, you ignore them.

Germany: Ignore them? How do we do that?

United States: Angela, don't play coy. Not your style (what is your style, by the way? Michelle's been wondering). Ignore them, annex them (you remember how to do that, right?), whatever.

England: But that's morally bankrupt! That's like George Bush Sr. abandoning Kuwait!

France: We learned a long time ago that a word like 'moral' gets you nowhere. It just leads to other nasty words like "fraud," and "infidelity." No one wins.

Germany: You guys know I'm not one to get hung up on morals. But, seriously, how would we justify letting three countries wither and die on the grapevine?

United States: Geez, what's with the negativity? Chins up, people! The point is, the countries that get the fewest points in the World Cup aren't going to need saving. Their citizens will be so ashamed that they'll emigrate. Those countries will empty out faster than the UK at Easter. In fact, England could just take them over and turn them into a vacation spot. Build some plantations, exploit some natural resources. Good times.

England: Tenerife is getting a trifle crowded... you make an interesting point. Everyone will completely understand that, in the interest of EU pride and solidarity, you can't hang on to a country that can't make it out of the first round.

France: Portugal is playing South Korea and Brazil in the first round.

United States: Exactly! No way will Portugal survive. Which is perfect! No one wants to live in Portugal anyway. They've never been team players. I mean, what's up with the language? Why Portugese? What's wrong with Italian, or Spanish? No solidarity there.

Germany: I'm just doing the math, here. Greece has already lost. Portugal doesn't have a chance. That leaves Italy and Spain. Realistically, we're talking about saving one of those two and dumping the other three.

France: We can definitely live with that. Although, personally, I'd prefer Italy. Spanish designers use way too much color. It's vulgar.

England: I'm warming up to the idea. Seems to me, we can do bugger-all until the end of the first round of play. Which gives us roughly two weeks. I'll have time to unpack. By the way, Mr. Brown left 10 Downing Street a right mess.

United States: Just glad we could help. But now, I gotta catch a chopper down to the Redneck Riviera to watch oil spill. Anyone know how to cap a leak?

France: You're asking the wrong guy.

6 June 2010

Sorry for not posting for a few weeks. We've been zooming around the countryside trying to see and do as much as we can, since time is running short.

Two weeks ago we rented another car, got another set of directions and ventured out of Paris on another road trip, this time to the Loire Valley. We stayed in a tiny village that, probably because it’s so small, has given itself the name Le Grand Pressigny (above right). I don’t know if anyone has told the citizens that there’s nothing “grand” about the village. We might have driven through the neighboring village, Le Petit Pressigny, but blinked and missed it.

We stayed in another gite, which was just as charming as the one we stayed in while in Provence, although instead of a chateau it had a manor house, chickens, rabbits, and two little girls for the girls to play with. The owners were wonderful; we arrived very late and they had left milk, cheese, fresh bread, fresh apple juice, fresh eggs, and wine so we didn’t starve before the stores opened the next morning. They are a British couple who chucked corporate life to run their own inn in the country. They lent us their bikes and we rode all through the countryside, down to the village (above right) that sports its very own Chateau. And, the chateau has a museum!! Which, of course, means I didn’t want to go near it, but the girls insisted. Apparently the family that lived in the chateau had a great time right up until the French Revolution, when the villagers decided to throw them out on the street and turn the chateau into a police station. Le Grand Bummer.

The next day we drove to the village of La Roche Posay, home of one of the first spas. The villagers there were celebrating some sort of historic anniversary. They were dressed in peasant costumes and they danced and sang (above left). Very quaint.

Then in the car and back to Paris (I love saying that). The girls have developed an excellent system for road trips. Megan is the navigator. Her favorite phrase is “Mom, you’re going the wrong way.” (what is particularly annoying about this phrase is that it is almost always true). Erin is in charge of games: “Alphabet,” “Find the scowling French family jammed into a SmartCar,” and, my personal favorite, “See How Many Motorcyclists You Can Piss Off By Driving Too Close to the Lane Divider.” I’ just made varsity in that one. Claire provides comic relief and Rest Stop Reviews. Rest stops are ranked according to the cleanliness of the restrooms, the quality of the snacks/candy, and whether or not they sell stuffed animals with T-shirts named for the region. Claire plans to publish this must-have “Guide to French Autoroute Rest Stops” and is considering several offers for a weekly show, most notably from PBS. Siddown, Rick Steves.

After a few mishaps, during one of which we took an unplanned yet lovely tour of Paris at 2 am on Sunday morning, we’ve figured out how to get back into the 15th arrondissement from the Autoroute. The first few times, one of the girls would lean out of the window and try to figure out where the beam from the Eiffel Tower was coming from and we’d vector towards it. Awkward when there are buildings in the way.

I was congratulating myself on figuring out really inexpensive ways to race around the countryside on weekends, when our concierge (who scowls at me now whenever she sees me. Apparently I forgot to give her money for Easter – who knew???) gave me an evil smile and handed me three ominous-looking envelopes from an ominous-sounding organization. Loosely translated: “The Institute for Remote Highway Surveillance of Stupid American Tourists Who Don’t Realize That The Flash They Just Saw Was A Camera Noting Their Excessive Speed and License Plate Number.” It came as a complete shock to me that the rental car I was driving, which was only slightly larger than last summer’s wheelbarrow, was capable of reaching speeds up to seventy miles an hour. I’d like to point out, though, that as I emerged from the Lyon tunnel other drivers were whizzing by us, flashing their lights, gesturing rudely and generally letting me know that I was driving like an old lady. So, when I saw the flash, I didn’t worry. After all, everyone else was going faster. What I didn’t realize is that those cameras actually have rental car identification capabilities. And who drives rental cars? Americans!! Everyone else knows about the cameras and takes the train.

I opened the first envelope and pulled out roughly ten sheets of paper which informed me that I had been traveling 6 kilometers an hour above the speed limit outside the Lyon tunnel on such-and-such a date at 8:17 pm. Six kilometers? An escargot crawls faster than that! But, according to the French, that’s speeding. I assumed the other two envelopes were telling me the same thing. Nope. They clocked me again at 8:19 (four kilometers overt the speed limit) and at 8:25 (three kilometers). I’m not kidding. Needless to say, the trip got slightly more expensive. I don't expect any credit for slowing down.

Summer has arrived in Paris and with it the European Concert Tours of various washed-up Americans. First: Whitney Houston. Next, Michael Bolton, who has inherited David Hasselhof’s European star status. Hasselhof can currently be found lying in a gutter in what was formerly East Berlin, without a shirt but still wearing black leather pants. He’s been known to clutch at the legs of attractive young women walking by, saying “Hey, if you buy me a drink I can probably get you a guest shot on Baywatch.” Finally, Willie Nelson and Family. “And Family?” What’s the thinking? He needs family around now to make sure his hearing aid has batteries? His braids are straight? He pays his estimated taxes on time?

The tourists have also arrived in full force. Large busloads spew them out at sites of interest around the city. The Americans are easier to spot than ever. If they are over forty, they walk with pronounced limps. Which leads me to believe that Americans are suffering from the same malady that plagues Labrador Retrievers. I’m talking about hip dysplasia of course. Perhaps it’s due to overbreeding.

My BFF (Best French Friend) Nicole got me on the list for the Lanvin Braderie (clearance sale). Quite the happening. It was in an out of the way building and I was sure I was lost until I saw two French men holding hands, giggling and skipping along with large shopping bags. I was in the right place. Lots of security and lots of women stripping off their clothes in a giant warehouse to try on Lanvin designs. The shoe section was the best; women kicking and shoving, trying to get the last pair in their size. My low center of gravity and knowledge of NFL running routes came in very handy. I emerged, bruised but triumphant with not one, but two pairs of flats. For you ladies out there, plum and electric blue.

Then came the line, which took about one and a half hours. I had ample time to observe the French in their natural habitat. A middle-aged couple making out. A woman of about sixty-five with what I thought was her son; she’d bought him a few suits and was very fond of him. Really fond. Extremely fond. Stroking his hair, and hand on his derriere kind of fond. I think, just maybe, she’s paying for more than the suits.

Mom arrived on the last Tuesday in May and we’ve been zooming all over the place. First, the Yves St. Laurent retrospective at the Petit Palais, which is incredible. All of his designs from his shows, plus videos, interviews. Amazing.

Next, the French Open. We watched the women’s and men’s quarterfinals. A few rain delays, but it was warm and we had a blast. Although, it was a bit difficult to tell whether Francesca Schiavone actually belonged in the women’s or the men’s draw. A little gender confusion going on there, in my view.

When you enter Roland Garros (fyi no one calls it the French Open here, it’s Roland Garros), it’s as if you’ve been transported to an American complex. The staff is young and…friendly, and…helpful. I think they probably trained at Disneyland (not EuroDisney – those people are just plain mean. And they hate children).

The highlight was watching Roger Federer in action. The French love Roger Federer. I think maybe they’ve forgotten that he’s Swiss. Anyway, they couldn’t contain themselves.

“Go Rotcher!! Yew can doo eet! You must deestroy thees Robeen, thees eediot from Sweedeen.”

Actually, Roger couldn’t do it. He swung at a few serves and whiffed. He lost to Robin Soderling, and by the time you read this you’ll know that Soderling lost in the finals against Nadal. Roger's wife was in the VIP box and was none too happy with the results of the men's quarterfinals.

Later that evening:

Roger: “I’m kind of down about the match.”

Wife: “You're down! I had to sit in the pouring rain for three hours with a supportive, wifely smile frozen on my face. And what did I get for my trouble?? You lost! To a Swede! I heard they have to de-ice their tennis courts up there. And that’s in August, when the snow finally melts. He probably practiced a total of half an hour before he showed up in Paris.”

Roger (pouting): “But you got to stay in Paris for a week. That’s way better than the Swiss Alps.

”Wife: “You have a point there (which is more than you got against Soderling in Game 4 of the second set, by the way). I did love (sorry, does that remind you of the match?) shopping at Chanel and Yves St. Laurent, and Lanvin, too! They have so many fabulous outfits for overweight breastfeeding mothers of twins who live on a mountain-top! Such a selection! Thanks so much for that.

Roger (starting to whine). “You know I have a hard time on clay.”

Wife: “That’s not the only place you have a hard time. Not that I'm surprised. You’re Swiss. You’re like a German, without the sense of humor. Nadal, on the other hand is a Spaniard. From Mallorca. Even saying the word "Mallorca" makes me go all dreamy. Did you see that ad with him on the sailboat, with his shirt open? Damn. I bet he’s great…on clay.”

Roger (near tears): “I looked good, though, didn’t I? My outfit, I mean. Teal is very flattering on me and my legs are way better than Soderling’s. He’s got chicken legs. All the guys say so.

Wife: You looked great, honey. For a loser. I should have married Nadal. He also looks great in teal, he’s got a killer bod and, what am I forgetting?? Oh, yeah, he’s a winner. He’s in the finals!!!.

Between tennis and fashion, Mom and I have had some fabulous dinners, wandered around St. Germain de Pres, lunched at outdoor cafes and generally had a great time.

Hope your end-of-school-weeks go well.

May 15, 2010

Top: The cottage where we stayed.

Middle: The girls browsing in Loumarin, where Camus lived and is buried.

Bottom: The chateau outside of Aix-en-Provence.

Dude, Where's My Chateau?

The girls and I looked at the calendar and said OMD!!! (Oh Mon Dieu!). We only have about two months left in Europe; we gotta travel, baby! So, because the French are celebrating the Ascension and the girls had Thursday and Friday off, we traveled to Provence for the weekend. We stayed in a cottage on the grounds of a beautiful chateau outside Aix-en-Provence (see picture above).

We spent one afternoon in Aix, soaking up the sights in a southern French city. Very different atmosphere than Paris (think San Francisco versus New York City). It's a big university town, so lots of young'uns. The next day we spent enjoying the chateau; we played tennis and the girls swam in the pool and jumped on the trampoline. The owners are British and bought the place, in ruins, 8 years ago, spent the first year remodeling the three cottages on the grounds and are now working on the chateau itself. This story led to much dreaming (Erin: "Mommy, can we buy a chateau?), (Megan: Mom, think about it, it's an investment, we could rent it out when we're not using it!!). Claire ran the numbers on her financial calculator and realized it doesn't make financial sense. Yet.

Thursday evening, we decided to venture back into Aix for dinner. But, we were low on gas, so first we looked for a gas station. You would think by now I would have learned. It was Ascension Thursday, after all. You guessed it. We had a better chance of being hit by a meteorite than finding a gas station open. So, having learned from my husband (Rob "Intrepid" Pulkownik), we drove towards the autoroute thinking we'd have better luck there. One teensy little problem; I got on the autoroute going the wrong way. ("Told ya," said Megan, without raising her eyes from her book). And, of course, once you get on the autoroute, it's almost impossible to get off. Oh, and no gas station in sight. By this time, our little rental car was on empty. We finally spotted a sign telling us that the next gas station was 20 kilometers away. I told the girls we didn't have 20 kilometers worth of gas.

So, we decided to get off at the next exit and head into the village in search of gasoline. There were gas stations, but none of them were open. In fact, there was nothing open except one tiny little bar. I parked and went in to ask the locals where I could find a gas station. A brief summary of my conversation.

Me: Hi, can you tell me where the nearest gas station is located?

Drunk local (pointing): Yes, it is right down that street. However, it is not open.

Me: Ok, can you tell me where I can find a gas station that is open?

Another drunk local (coming over to help): Madame, are you aware that today is Ascension Thursday? In France, this is a very holy day. A holy day of obligation. It is today that we celebrate the ascension of Jesus Christ into heaven, forty days after Easter.

Me: Yes, I know, but I am almost out of gas.

First drunk local: We have many charming customs to celebrate this most holy of days. I like to pretend I am ascending as well by drinking vins de pays until I can no longer stand. It is as if I am flying.

Second drunk local: At any rate, Madame, you will have to go the neighboring village to find a gas station. It will not be open but there is an automatic machine into which you can put your carte bleu.

Me: This is excellent news! I have a carte bleu! (And a carte de sejours which no one ever wants to see). I will now drive to the neighboring village to find the gas station that is closed but has an automatic machine. Thank you very much for your help!

First drunk local: If you do not find the gas station or you run out of gas along the way, you are most welcome to come back here and drink yourself into ascension with us.

At this point, all of the patrons of the bar (which means the whole village, because it was the only place open on Ascension Thursday) either poured into the street or ran to the window to watch this silly American woman and her three giggling children turn around and head to the next village.

By this time, I was really nervous. We were below empty in boohickey Provence and the nearest gas station was in a village 9 kilometers away. We got there, and after a few turns, found the gas station with the automatic machine. There was much cheering! We pulled in ...

and the automatic machine was broken. A car pulled in right behind us with a handsome young French couple. Turns out they were in the same fix. The young man's parents live in the village, and he was so desperate he was about to call them to bring him some gasoline. But, he reminded me, this was Ascension Thursday. He was unwilling to disturb them. Together, after a lengthy conference (during which I glanced longingly at what were clearly full tanks of gasoline locked up in a cage and thought about what I could find to break the lock and steal a tank), we decided to convoy back into the village in search of an open gas station. I knew this was futile (Jesus Christ himself apparently couldn't buy gas today), but we had company! French company! No one could make fun of us for being stupid Americans, because we were right behind a stupid French couple!! We drove back into the village and into the first gas station we saw. It was closed of course. Then Claire spotted a parked tow truck with a phone number. Brilliant!

I called the number.

Woman: Allo?

Me: Hi, I'm at your gas station and I'm out of gas.

Woman: So? We are closed.

Me: Yes, I know. Can you direct me to the nearest gas station that is open?

Woman: Madame, it is 7:45 in the evening. It is Ascension Thursday!! There are no gas stations open at this time on this most holy of days!

Me (now heartily sick of hearing about Ascension Thursday): Please will you speak to my new best friend?

I put the young French dude on and he prevailed upon them to come to the gas station and open it up. Something about his parents owning the land upon which the gas station was located.

Then, the young Frenchman said to me. You are very smart. I would never have thought to call the number on the tow truck.

I nodded smugly and said, Yep. Good 'ole American ingenuity. You might recall we fired up a few tanks of the stuff during WW II. Saved your bacon then, too. Ascension Thursday notwithstanding.

I've decided it would ruin the moment if I mentioned that it was my 11-year-old that actually saved the day.

I am not kidding when I tell you that 30 seconds later, a very disgruntled gentleman appeared, and angrily pumped gas, first for the young and handsome French couple, then for us. Turns out he lives across the street.

I apologized profusely for disturbing his dinner, and thanked him for rescuing us.

He wagged his finger at me. Be careful Madame, he said. It is, after all Ascension Thursday.

May 7, 2010

We returned last Sunday from an amazing trip to Spain. We started in Sevilla, which was warm and beautiful, made a quick stop in Cordoba and then drove on to Granada. Our apartment in Sevilla was right in the center of the city, and decorated with posters of Bo Derrek, Harry Potter and Audrey Hepburn. If there was a unifying theme, it eluded me. We visited the cathedral, the palace, and Rob and Megan went to the bullfighting ring. Claire, Erin and I refused, on principle (plus we were pretty tired).


We had a few glitches along the way; for example, no one mentioned that you can't drive into the center of Granada after eight o'clock in the evening. Which can make it a bit difficult to get to your rental apartment. We used GPS, but apparently the satellites weren't told about this charming custom either. We found ourselves driving up the mountain, only to find that the road the GPS had directed us to was closed off. We stopped to ask a waiter at a restaurant who was very helpful. He said "there's no way to get there from here." But he said it in a really charming way and smiled the whole time. He told us to go back down the mountain and ask someone in the lowlands. Which we did. The man at the gas station sighed and said, "it's very difficult. I'm not sure it's possible right now." Where were we, France? We were in regular contact with our landlady who apparently either didn't drive or hadn't been out of her neighborhood in fifteen years. After about two hours (I'm not kidding), by which time Rob was banging his head against the steering wheel and I was growling at the children (Claire was quiet, but Megan and Erin were giggling hysterically at our incompetence), the landlady agreed to meet us outside the walls of the city near her neighborhood. So, at ten pm, we were hauling our luggage through narrow alleys, on cobblestone streets, past outdoor restaurants and up numerous steps. Finally, we made it to the apartment. Luckily, it was perfect. It was located in an old building with a spectacular view, and it was completely redone and very Mediterranean. Lots of tile, ceramics and dark wood beams. It was also located a short distance from the International Institute for the Interpretation of Water. Who knew there was such a place? But, aren't you glad there is? I've always felt we take the stuff for granted. Now, I can rest easy knowing someone else is taking care of the heavy lifting.

By midnight, we were fully recovered and being entertained by a multilingual restaurateur who got Megan and Erin hooked on filet mignon (Rob was sort of hoping for sirloin).

It turns out that Granada is the Berkeley of Spain. Lots of hippies in dreadlocks, buskers singing and playing guitar (badly), and dogs. Lots of dogs. At night, they would gather on the square just outside our flat, smoking interesting herbal substances and spinning and dancing.

On our third night, we were eating outside in the village square and Rob and I were enjoying a really nice bottle of Spanish wine, when Erin asked, "So what is the meaning of life, anyway?"
Clearly, she'd been spending too much time with the hippies.

Three ways to tell you're in Spain, not France.

1. People wear colorful clothes. In France, grey is the new fuchsia.

2. People are tan. In France, my kids look Spanish. The average French citizen looks like they just got out of a casting call for the Twilight series.

3. People are friendly. They smile a lot. Let's just leave it at that.

4. You can buy food for less than a night in a four star hotel.

When we got back to Paris, Claire discovered that she'd left her bag (with her computer and wallet inside) in the taxi we took from the airport. I called the taxi company and the woman informed me that, without the number of the cab, we were out of luck. She directed me to the Parisian lost and found, then hung up on me. We knew there was no chance we'd get it back but, since Claire was hysterical (she's been writing a book on her computer and it wasn't backed up), I tried anyway.

If only all of France worked like the lost and found (or, as it is formally known, the Office of Found Objects). You fill out a form, with the date the object was lost, as well as a detailed description. Your form is inspected carefully by someone who, if everything is in order, gives you a number. When your number is called, the person behind the counter looks at your form and enters the key words to see if there's a match. When I got there on Monday, they informed me that it was "too soon," and I should return on Wednesday. I returned on Wednesday and...
voila! Not only had the taxi driver returned the bag, with the computer and wallet safely inside, but the Office had opened the computer and emailed Claire to let her know they'd found it. Of course, she didn't get the email because she didn't have a computer, but the point was, they tried. They went the extra kilometer. Amazing. I was almost weeping with joy.

I told the man at the counter: "This would never happen in the US."

He shrugged and said, "You have a lot of thieves there."

Here, I think, is another advantage of socialism. Since a taxi driver earns about as much as a doctor (and gets at least as much vacation time), he doesn't need to keep what's left in his taxi. He's happy to return it.

Either that or we got really lucky.

April 24, 2010

We are waiting for Rob to arrive. He is arriving today and we will leave tomorrow for Southern Spain. About dang time. The girls have been off for a week and I am desperately trying to pry them loose from their computers to walk around Paris and see the sights, now that the weather is so nice. I have been moderately successful. On Monday, we went for a bike ride in the Bois de Boulogne, which is the big park in Paris. We felt like we were in the country. Lots of lakes, wooded trails, and some much-needed exercise. Erin continues to enjoy taking off on her own (I know, I know) and scootering around our neighborhood.

I have started some walking tours around the city. Taking the metro is great, but it's very hard to get your bearings when you pop up, gopher-like, from underground. I have walked from our flat to various arrondissements, and finally feel that I know my way around.

Yet another service story. Claire and I went shopping for some spring clothes this week in a store that has both children's and women's clothes. We were upstairs and couldn't find any shorts for her in the kids department so we walked across to the women's department on the same floor. We found some shorts and headed into the dressing room.

We were stopped by a surly young woman who said "This is the children's dressing room and those are women's shorts. You'll have to go downstairs to try them on."

I explained that Claire is 11, and an American, which means she doesn't fit into French children's clothes, which are designed to drape the emaciated bodies of Kate Moss's little sisters.

"I don't care that she is a child. The clothes are for women. Go downstairs!"

"That," I said, shouting back for the first time since I've been in Paris, "is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!!"

A hush fell over the store. Claire was busy looking for a scarf to bury herself in.

"Well," said the gal, "I don't make the decisions."

Actually, I think you do.

So, we trooped downstairs, where I engaged in an elaborate exercise of identifying Claire as a child and the shorts as adult and I begged the woman's indulgence while Claire tried them on.

"Go on in," she said pleasantly.

So, into the dressing room we went, only to be stopped at checkpoint #2 by the surlier twin sister of the girl upstairs.

"Hello, Hello, HELLO!!!!!" she shouted.

Claire and I stopped dead in our tracks. You can never be sure they're not armed, or that they haven't littered the floor with glass shards.

"You can't just walk into these dressing rooms! I am in charge of these dressing rooms!"

Oh, boy. I launched into a detailed narrative of the week we'd spent at this store trying to find a flipping pair of shorts. I was sure to let her know that I had gone through all of the proper channels, including the henchwoman standing just outside her precious dressing room.

"Here," I said, whipping out my residence card, "take a look at this."

Without so much as looking at my card, she sneered and gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Okay, go ahead."

"No," I said, "please look at my residence card. It took me eight months to get it (as well as hundreds of euros) and no one has asked for it. "

She refused.

By the way, the shorts were way too big.

April 18, 2010

We are sulking. Rob was supposed to arrive this morning for two weeks and, tomorrow, we were headed for Spain for 10 days. Instead, he's sitting in California and we are sitting in Paris. The volcano (and does anyone else find it odd, geologically, that there's a volcano erupting from under a glacier?) is standing between us. Metaphorical. Meteorological. Infuriating.

The problem here is that everyone is stuck in the wrong country. The British are mainly stuck in Spain, but there are a few sitting in Normandy looking mournfully across the channel. There have been reports that a few of them have stooped to knocking little old ladies off their bicycles, stealing the bikes and gaining passage on ferries as cyclists. The people that run Eurostar are giggling to themselves. Sure, they stranded people for nine hours in the Chunnel over Christmas, but three days? The Dutch are livid (probably because there are lots of Germans stuck in Holland) and they keep sending "test flights" up into Dutch air space, and then landing and saying: "See? No ash, no crash." They're flying planes to Dusseldorf next and, I'm guessing, stowing at least a few Germans on board.

The UK government estimates that 1 million Brits are stuck outside their home country. Their stiff upper lips are sagging, ever so slightly. Meanwhile, the Russians are keeping their airports open, since they can fly directly over the North Pole and skip the whole Icelandic mess.

The Spanish, who are desperate to get rid of the British so they can welcome the French and then complain about them, have demanded a pan-European videoconference call so they can discuss what to do next.

Spain: "Look, our southern airports are open. Please, please, open your airspace so we can send the British home. Some of them have actually developed tans; they have been here far too long. We are running out of Sangria."

UK: "Steady on, old chaps. It's a bit difficult here as well, you know. We have many disgruntled Americans who keep asking who's in charge, so they can scream at them."

France: "Speaking of which, who is in charge?"

Netherlands: "We thought you were."

France: "Are you kidding? Sarkozy and Carla are bickering. We don't have time to pay attention to some volcano in Greenland."

UK: "Just a few points. First, the volcano is in Iceland. Second, you've closed your airspace. Clearly you think there's some danger from the volcanic ash."

France: "The only volcanic ash we're worried about is what happens if Mt. Saint Carla blows. If Sarkozy so much as looks at another woman again, it won't be pretty. And, by the way, we closed our airspace because the UK did. Solidarity."

Spain: "By the way, France, nice touch that your railway workers decided to strike just now, removing yet another transportation alternative."

France: "At least you can tell there's a strike here. Your rail system is so pathetic, it's hard to tell the difference."

Italy: "Here's a thought. Let's send all stranded EU citizens to Greece. It's south, so their airspace hasn't been affected, and they owe us big time after we had to bail their ashes out last week. Let everyone park there for a few weeks, drink ouzo, trash hotel rooms, party like it's 2001. On the Greeks of course."

Germany: "That works for us. Bastards are going to cost Merkel the election."

France: "There's one other small problem. What about the Americans?"

Netherlands: "What about them?"

France: "Well, we've got a bunch here and we'll take the Brits over those idiots any day. They keep looking up at the sky to see if they can see any volcanic ash. We tell them to stay in their hotels, but they just show up at the airport every day, scanning the horizon for a United 777. Yesterday, they set up a volleyball net on the tarmac. And boy can they eat."

Italy: "Just thinking out loud, here, but what works for us whenever we have too many Americans is we bus them someplace. You put a bus in front of those people and they'll let you take them damn near anywhere."

France: "Thanks for the tip. We'll bus 'em down to Toulouse. Those traitors went against Sarkozy's party in the regional elections last month. This'll teach 'em to mess with us."

Spain: "What about the airspace issue? The Press is going to want to know what we accomplished here today. The airlines have been complaining that we're overly cautious."

UK: "It's just never enough for them, is it?"

Netherlands: "That's on us. We flew those planes up just get some good photos and the airlines seized on it."

Germany: "Let's say we'll each open our air spaces when the CEOs of our respective major airlines agree to be passengers on the first planes up."

UK: "You've been watching Obama work the Republicans again on C-Span, haven't you?"

Here's hoping you get to where you're going this week.

1. Proof that Rob and Kara occasionally find themselves on the same continent

2. Megan, Erin and Kara hanging out at the Champs de Mars

3. The Ortiz Family on the Seine (April, 2010)

April 11, 2010

Sorry I didn't post last week. Friends in town and we were running around. Boat trip down the Seine, the Marais, retail therapy, Ile St. Louis, all lots of fun.

Spring has arrived and the outdoor cafes are full of people taking in the sights and sunshine. A few people have warned me that it might get cold again, but the worst is over.

I have been part of a few restaurant faux pas in the past week. The first was at a very hip restaurant in the 2nd arondissement. My friend (who shall remain nameless to protect her hitherto spotless reputation) asked me to ask the waiter if a particular dish was good. I dutifully translated her question. He paused and he asked me to repeat it. Like an idiot, I did.

He looked at me and then at her. "No," he said, rolling his eyes. "It is absolutely terrible."

We laughed nervously. Then he put a hand on his hip.

"Everysing is wonderful!" he shouted.

Oops.

The next day, we were trying to find a restaurant from a list of recommendations. I called on Wednesday.

"I'm sorry we are full."

I called back on Thursday. "Sorry, we are full."

I called back on Friday. "We are full, Madame."

An hour later, I called back to see if we could get reservations for the following night. Before I could even get the words out, he said, "We are closed on Saturday and Sunday!"

The subtext: "I do not like your voice and therefore I do not like you. You have a very strange accent and you are too aggressive. I suspect you are an American. Whenever you want to eat here, we will be full. If you call a few days ahead, we will be closed. We will re-open after you return to whatever large, obnoxious country you come from. You will never eat at this establishment. Please stop harassing us. I would, however, like to wish you a very pleasant rest of the day."

I am now on a mission to get a reservation at that restaurant before we return to the US. Stay tuned.

Which brings us to last night. We were a group of five Americans trying to find a place for dinner. We went down our list. Full, full, full, along with several scoldings as to why we would wait until the last minute to ask for dinner reservations. Finally, we came to a restaurant on my friends' friend's list that said "Clinton's favorite." After reassuring ourselves that Clinton's taste in food is probably superior to his taste in young women, I called.

"Yes, Madame, we have a place for you, in spite of your strange accent (Clinton's is probably worse), at 8:30 pm."

Quel miracle!!

Two metro transfers, seven turns and an alleyway later, we found ourselves at an incredibly old, beautiful, tiny little restaurant.

We were seated and the waiter took our coats and literally threw them up onto a rack above the table. He then handed us our menus and a wine list.

A member of our party, who had received the wine list, said "Whoa! There's a bottle of wine on here for a thousand euros!"

A few minutes later, he said, "Whoa! There isn't a bottle of wine on here for less than 200 euros!"

By that time, I had looked at my menu and noted an appetizer, green asparagus, at 66 euros (about $95). Now I like asparagus as much as the next gal, but $95???? At French portions, that's about 11 euros per asparagus. And that was the cheapest appetizer.

A stunned silence had descended over the table. Finally one of us spoke.

"Kinda expensive," someone commented.

"We're not getting out of here for under a thousand," someone else said. But, picture the sneering waiters in white tuxedo jackets, the two other tables of suave, incredibly wealthy, French corporate titans. We were facing a lot of pressure. We couldn't just leave.

Or...could we?

A delicate political situation indeed. Fraught with danger. Franco-American relations hung in the balance.

Finally, out of desperation, I pulled out my cell phone and pretended to answer it.

"Oh my God!" I shouted. "I'll be right there!"

We all jumped up, grabbed our coats and I went over to our waiter. I told him one of my children had just called and was ill. We had to leave. In other words, I lied.

I would like to tell you that the waiter was very worried for the child and wished us Godspeed. What he really did was sneer.

I'm sure he was thinking, "If I had a euro for every time a bunch of Americans have come in here, looked at our prices and pretended to get a call from a sick kid, I'd be living in a villa on the Riviera."

I'll bet Clinton never had to deal with this.

March 27, 2010

We are licking our wounds at St. Mary's stomping by Baylor last night. I let the girls stay up to watch but by the end of the first half it was obviously not our night. Oh well, the sweet sixteen was sweet indeed.

A few more favorite things about living in Paris:

1. You can rent a motorcycle. You can also rent the guy who drives the thing. It's called rent-a-moto and the guy literally shows up in full leathers, and zooms you to wherever you want to go. Beats the hell out of a taxi.

2. Everyone loves Obama; the pharmacist wouldn't let me leave until she was sure I understood how gorgeous she thinks he is and what a great dancer he is. Two very important qualities in a President from the French point of view.

3. Seasons for food. Coming from California, the kids were completely unaware that things don't grow year-round. When the red oranges and melons appeared last week at the market they were very excited.

4. The announcement in French on the metro that Claire didn't understand. Erin translated ... into British! "They're telling you to mind the gap," she said.

5. The advertisement that pops up when you go on the Internet in France, offering you a chance at a US green card if you can identify the current US President. The choices are: Hillary Clinton, George Bush and Barack Obama. My question is, why don't they do the same thing in the US and exile anyone who doesn't answer correctly (there would be a whole lot of Americans leaving the country)? That would solve the unemployment problem in about 5 minutes. I'm just saying.

I do have some bad news. The new styles are in the stores and shoulder pads appear to be back in fashion. Also, puffy sleeves and cowl necks. What's next, leg warmers and headbands? Let me tell you, the only person that can still pull of the headband look is Roger Federer. And, as if that weren't bad enough, women are starting to appear in public wearing leggings without anything on top of them. I almost told someone she'd forgotten to put on her skirt until I realized that's the look she had intended. And it wasn't a good one, let me tell you. My new rule is, if you were an adult last time that stuff was in fashion, you probably shouldn't attempt it this time around.

Latest gym sighting: A middle-aged man in those shorts that women volleyball players wear (a large part of the reason they get good attendance at their games, I fear) getting ready to get on the chin lift machine. Beforehand, though, he decided to do a little dance. The sound system was blaring wrap (white rap); P Didier or someone was on. Anyway, the guy launches into a little dance that looked suspiciously like an Irish River Dance. There he was on his tippy-toes executing his intricate footwork before lifting weights. A mystery. I escaped to the upper floor where two women who had to be in their late eighties were doing full splits. I feel so alone.

March 19, 2010

Whooeee! St. Mary's beat Villanova last night and is going to the NCAA Sweet 16 for the first time in team history. To be honest, that's bigger than anything happening in Paris right now.

Erin had a sleepover last weekend with her Japanese friend Mizuki. Mizuki's mom doesn't speak any English (or French) so we communicate via email, which she then translates.

Here's a summary of our email exchange prior to the big night.

Me: Erin would like Mizuki to come for a sleepover on Saturday night.

M's mom: A sleepover? What is that?

Me: It's when a friend comes to spend the night.

M's mom: Mizuki would love to come. I will feed her dinner and bring her over at bedtime.

Me: Ah, could you bring her over earlier?

M's mom: Well, she doesn't usually go to sleep until around 10 pm, so I will bring her over then.

Me: If you bring her earlier, I'll give her dinner (since she doesn't know about my cooking, I figure she might see this as a positive)?

M's mom: And then what will they do?

Me: They'll play, eat sugar and make a horrible mess in the apartment.

M's mom: And then they'll go to sleep?

Me: Well, no, they don't actually sleep. They just lie next to each other and giggle until about 4 am, keeping the rest of us awake, at which point they fall into a fitful doze. Then they wake up at about 7 am and start giggling again, making another horrible mess, and demanding breakfast and another movie, which they watch until it's time to go. Both children will spend the rest of the day and the early part of the following week cranky and exhausted.

M's Mom: I see. So you would like me to bring Mizuki over for a sleepover where she doesn't actually sleep but makes a terrible mess with Erin in your apartment and prevents anyone else from sleeping as well. Then I will pick her up the following morning and she will be irritable for several days afterwards.

Me: Exactly. How's five o'clock?

I feel pretty good about exporting this charming American custom to the rest of the world.

My other news, and this is pretty big, is that someone finally spoke to me at the gym! I've been going fairly regularly for six months; I see the same people there every time and one of them finally spoke to me. I was very excited. He tottered over to me (I'd put him at about 93) in his yellow sweat suit (Big Bird comes to mind) with a big smile.

I was on that machine that's supposed to work your obliques, which are those vague things hanging off your waist (well, maybe not your waist). I believe the layman's term is 'love handles.' I'd been whimpering and sweating as I was doing my set of 12, 10, 8 and 6 reps, increasing the weight each time, which is a clinically proven method of effective weight training. I should mention that it has not been clinically proven to do a damn thing in my case.

So Big Bird wandered over and observed my suffering for a few minutes. After the usual French pleasantries (it's not easy to exchange pleasantries in a foreign language while whimpering, mind you), he pointed at my waist and said,

"If you want to get rid of that, you're going to have to do a lot more exercise." He wished me a pleasant day and went off to give helpful advice to someone else.

Bastard. I went home and ate three croissants.

March 13, 2010

Miscellaneous things that I love about Paris and the kids' school:

1. Uncoached, Erin's friend Joseph rang the doorbell on Valentine's Day and handed her a single red rose.

2. The traffic report on the radio lasts about a half second; the French know how to drive and there are almost never any accidents on the road.

3. You don't have to tip or pay tax on what you buy, so you can completely forget all of the math you ever learned.

4. Elderly women dress beautifully. And they don't just pay attention to their own wardrobes; I have seen numerous women whose dogs wear coats that match their own.

5. I love watching Erin march through the metro system like she owns it, zooming down all the little tunnels, hopping on the train, finding us seats, pressing the button to get on and off.

6. Watching the girls scooter all over the city.

7. Perusing the class offerings at the gym. The latest: Sensual Moves, which is only open to women and is marketed as being "glamorous and relaxing." I don't know about you, but I think it sounds like a lot more fun than the elliptical.

8. The school, which is a little different from home. In Orinda, before school pictures are taken, you are asked to choose from among thirty possible combinations of wallet sized, portrait sized, billboard sized, etc. You can also order mugs, key chains, T-shirts, commemorative medals and the like. Then, you select a background according to your child's complexion, mood and/or the advice of the consultant you hired to do your his or her colors.

At EAB, you get a slip of paper that says: "We're taking pictures tomorrow, you get 5 wallets, three portrait sized and one bookmark. Do you want them or not?"

9. To mark International Women's Day , which was created to celebrate the increasing independence that women have achieved around the world, the school required all of the girls to wear skirts. Does anyone else see the irony here?

After our two-week break, we are back in the school routine. In the morning, I start easy and work my way up. I whisper to Claire, who leaps out of bed and proceeds to eat breakfast, get dressed, organize her bookbag, review her investments, all within about 15 minutes. Next comes Erin; a little tougher, but definitely doable. After I clarify what day it is, and which country we are in, she shuffles out to get her breakfast. She needs a few reminders, but generally keeps it moving. Then, fully caffeinated, I prepare myself for Megan. Having consulted that great parenting manual, 'The Art of War," I tell her it's time to get up. Light ground fire only. Eyes closed and still unconscious, she says "five more minutes." I leave, make the lunches, take another hit of coffee, don my flak jacket and go back in. "Five more minutes." Back out to the kitchen, tell Erin to get dressed, discuss recent interest rate and exchange rate dynamics with Claire, and take a deep breath (I've finished the coffee). I tell Claire and Erin "I'm going in," and give them a letter I've written to Rob in case I don't make it. Heavy artillery; I throw a stuffed animal at her and take her covers off. She sits up for a second, looks around, says "five more minutes," and pulls the covers over her head. Back out to the kitchen, where I start eyeing what's left of last night's wine pretty seriously. One final offensive. Shock and awe. I call for air cover. Back in, I yell and threaten. I have to say, not one of those silly parenting books I read before I discovered The Art of War mentioned these tactics. Yelling and threatening, it turns out, work extremely well. At least if the threat involves missing the bus which has all your thirteen-year-old's friends on it. I also turn on the overhead light and do a little strafing with motherly perkiness She really hates that. She finally sits up, scowls at me and says "I'm up," in a tone that suggests that I clearly lack the powers of observation to figure this out on my own. While I know I should sit down on the bed next to her, take her hand, look in her eyes and say, "when you speak to me like that, I feel disrespected," what I actually do is scowl back and retreat exhausted into the kitchen where I start eyeing the wine in earnest.

I spend the rest of the day writing. And shopping for more wine.

March 6, 2010

Top: The girls with the happy gondolier Left: Claire on the boat to Murano Right: Piazza San Marco

We are nearing the end of the girls' 2-week vacation. As I mentioned last week, Rob took them to Dublin for a few days. This week, the girls and I headed to Venice for a few days.

First, a brief comparison of the two European discount airlines: RyanAir and EasyJet. My comments about the former are based on reports from Rob and the girls.

RyanAir. (motto: "At Ryan, we don't give a flyin' --- about customer service."). This airline makes Southwest Airlines look like First Class on Singapore Air. First, you need to take a metro, then a bus, to an airport in boohickey France that, if it weren't for the planes flying in and out, could easily be mistaken for a small farm. This trip takes approximately two hours, at which point you are so exhausted and irritated that not only have you completely lost your will to travel, you forget where exactly you were headed in the first place. If you succumb to the temptations of a taxi, it will cost you more than you save by taking RyanAir, so you will be broke and irritated. You are charged for checked bags, water, and oxygen if you require any more than the amount used by the average Martian.

EasyJet. (motto: "Sit down and shut up. We're in a hurry here."). These guys leave from real live airports and they have real live pilots who have incredibly cool accents (Dutch, French, etc.). They are nice and relaxed about all that "safety" stuff; the notion that you should be seated for takeoff is more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. They also charge you for drinks, checked bags, and being nice, but - and this is important - you can have all of the oxygen you want. FREE!! They fly according to their national origin; we had a Dutch pilot on the way to Venice who was fairly cautious. We had a French pilot on the way back, who dispensed with all that taxiing nonsense and gunned the engines as soon as we were out of the gate, decelerating only slightly as we turned a corner onto the actual runway. Not surprisingly, we arrived home a half hour ahead of schedule.

We flew into Marco Polo airport in Venice. We figured that, in order to save money on things like radar and landing instrumentation, when the plane gets close to the airport, the pilot radios in: "Marco."

Air traffic control radios back: "Polo."

This goes on until the pilot can see the runway. Which makes night flights quite an adventure.

When you arrive at the airport, don't bother looking for a taxi. It was news to me, but apparently, Venice is only reachable by water!! You have a choice between water bus and water taxi. As their names suggest, the water bus takes approximately 4 hours and stops every 30 seconds to pick up elderly Italian women carrying live chickens and lots of salami. The water taxi costs about as much as the taxi to the Ryanair airport. However, you actually reach your destination in less than half a day.

The difference between the French and the Italians: the French take all of your money, while scowling at you and telling you how worthless you are. The Italians take all of your money, while smiling and laughing and telling you how wonderful you are. You make the call.

While Erin is the designated crepe expert in Paris, Claire has emerged as the gelato expert in Italy. She can smell the stuff from several blocks away. It is safe to say that she had an adequate sampling of the various Venetian offerings to draw defensible conclusions.

We spent one afternoon on the island of Murano, known for its glass-blowing factories (as well as its Nissan SUVs). We watched a glass-blowing demonstration; amazing.

Megan and Erin discovered gnocchi, which was too bad for me since I had ordered it and was left with their pizza margherita. Again.

All in all, a fun trip. Back to school on Monday.

February 28, 2010

Rob took the girls to Ireland. They were glad to hear English and enjoyed themselves.



We celebrated Erin's 9th birthday yesterday. She went to Aquaboulevard with Rob, which is a massive indoor water park. They had a great time, although Rob was forced to wear a Speedo. For some reason, baggy swim shorts are not allowed. Erin was traumatized but we are hopeful that, in time and with intensive therapy, she will be able to put the Speedo thing behind her.

Last week I went to see my old friend Franck (the 'c' is silent) at Blondes. For some reason, probably the long gray winter, my natural highlights have not yet appeared. Franck was not in a good mood. He was waving his arms around and shouting about the fact that the stereo system wasn't working. I offered to sing, but he just scowled at me.

I decided to try to make polite conversation. "So," I chirped, "someone told me that the French don't like blondes." In retrospect, this was a colossally stupid thing to say on my part, given the fact that Franck's professional life is devoted to turning French women into blondes.

He scowled at me. "Someone told me that Americans are all fat," he snapped. Ouch. After a few more pathetic attempts at conversation, I gave up. Franck was in no mood. His assistant showed up a few minutes later.

"You're late and the stereo doesn't work!" he shouted. "I cannot work without music." He shot a warning glance in my direction, lest I say something perky that he didn't want to hear.

His assistant was near tears. "I'm sorry, Franck, but there was an accident on the metro and we sat underground for an hour. I tried to call you."

"Did anyone die?" he asked her, as if merely being maimed by a speeding train was no reason to shut down the line. She didn't know.

"Well," he shouted, "I heard telephone ring and I did not answer it! Do you know why?"

At this moment, he was armed with his highlighter brush and palette and looked like a deranged artist.

The assistant shook her head, terrified.

"Because," Franck said, "I was thought it was Monique!"

The assistant whispered, "Monique from yesterday?"

"Monique from two weeks ago, from one week ago, from yesterday, and from last night!!" Franck said.

Apparently, Monique was not happy with her first set of highlights. She asked Franck to redo them, which he did. Then, she wasn't happy with those, so she asked Franck to do them yet again. The day before, apparently, she had appeared one more time and said there was something wrong with one of the strands of hair near her temple. He tried again. Then, the night before she had called him at 11 pm and complained yet again. It occurred to me that maybe she was one of those French people that doesn't like blondes, but I kept this to myself.

Franck lost it. He told her never to set foot in his salon again. He told her that he had long since passed the age where he could deal with such a woman. He told her that clearly, she was unhappy in general, and her dissatisfaction with her hair was just a symptom of the fact that she was crazy.

Now, I thought this story was fairly hilarious. But when Franck saw me smiling, he was furious. He started yelling at me.

"You think this is funny? You think I need to be treated in this way by crazy ladies?"

Franck was distraught. He kept pressing his middle fingers to his temples. Finally he looked at himself in the mirror.

"You see what this woman has done to me? You see my face? My skin?" he demanded. He did look a little pale and clammy, even for a French guy. At this point, I was afraid to say anything so I shut up for once.

He left and went back in the back of his salon, returning with a large fluffy makeup brush covered with powder. He took a deep breath and ran the brush expertly over his face. He put the brush away and took several deep breaths. Then, he examined himself again. I must say, he did a fabulous job. His skin tone was even, not too caky; luminous, even.

Everyone in the salon was silent. Would Franck recover? Could he get through this?

Miraculously, he composed himself. He picked up the highlight brush again and got back to work. At that moment, the sweet strains of Boy George tinkled through the salon. Franck permitted himself a small smile. The assistant had fixed the stereo!

Franck started to tap his foot as he worked. Then, he started humming "do you really want to hurt me; do you really want to make me cry..."

Finally, his hips started to swivel a bit. The assistant caught my eye and gave me a barely perceptible nod. Franck was going to be okay.

When he was finished with me and his assistant had dried my hair, he came over and fluffed it.

"It is perfect, no?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

"Absolutely," I gushed.

I'm thinking of waiting until I get back to the US to do any more highlighting.