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.