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.