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.