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.