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.