March 19, 2010

Whooeee! St. Mary's beat Villanova last night and is going to the NCAA Sweet 16 for the first time in team history. To be honest, that's bigger than anything happening in Paris right now.

Erin had a sleepover last weekend with her Japanese friend Mizuki. Mizuki's mom doesn't speak any English (or French) so we communicate via email, which she then translates.

Here's a summary of our email exchange prior to the big night.

Me: Erin would like Mizuki to come for a sleepover on Saturday night.

M's mom: A sleepover? What is that?

Me: It's when a friend comes to spend the night.

M's mom: Mizuki would love to come. I will feed her dinner and bring her over at bedtime.

Me: Ah, could you bring her over earlier?

M's mom: Well, she doesn't usually go to sleep until around 10 pm, so I will bring her over then.

Me: If you bring her earlier, I'll give her dinner (since she doesn't know about my cooking, I figure she might see this as a positive)?

M's mom: And then what will they do?

Me: They'll play, eat sugar and make a horrible mess in the apartment.

M's mom: And then they'll go to sleep?

Me: Well, no, they don't actually sleep. They just lie next to each other and giggle until about 4 am, keeping the rest of us awake, at which point they fall into a fitful doze. Then they wake up at about 7 am and start giggling again, making another horrible mess, and demanding breakfast and another movie, which they watch until it's time to go. Both children will spend the rest of the day and the early part of the following week cranky and exhausted.

M's Mom: I see. So you would like me to bring Mizuki over for a sleepover where she doesn't actually sleep but makes a terrible mess with Erin in your apartment and prevents anyone else from sleeping as well. Then I will pick her up the following morning and she will be irritable for several days afterwards.

Me: Exactly. How's five o'clock?

I feel pretty good about exporting this charming American custom to the rest of the world.

My other news, and this is pretty big, is that someone finally spoke to me at the gym! I've been going fairly regularly for six months; I see the same people there every time and one of them finally spoke to me. I was very excited. He tottered over to me (I'd put him at about 93) in his yellow sweat suit (Big Bird comes to mind) with a big smile.

I was on that machine that's supposed to work your obliques, which are those vague things hanging off your waist (well, maybe not your waist). I believe the layman's term is 'love handles.' I'd been whimpering and sweating as I was doing my set of 12, 10, 8 and 6 reps, increasing the weight each time, which is a clinically proven method of effective weight training. I should mention that it has not been clinically proven to do a damn thing in my case.

So Big Bird wandered over and observed my suffering for a few minutes. After the usual French pleasantries (it's not easy to exchange pleasantries in a foreign language while whimpering, mind you), he pointed at my waist and said,

"If you want to get rid of that, you're going to have to do a lot more exercise." He wished me a pleasant day and went off to give helpful advice to someone else.

Bastard. I went home and ate three croissants.

March 13, 2010

Miscellaneous things that I love about Paris and the kids' school:

1. Uncoached, Erin's friend Joseph rang the doorbell on Valentine's Day and handed her a single red rose.

2. The traffic report on the radio lasts about a half second; the French know how to drive and there are almost never any accidents on the road.

3. You don't have to tip or pay tax on what you buy, so you can completely forget all of the math you ever learned.

4. Elderly women dress beautifully. And they don't just pay attention to their own wardrobes; I have seen numerous women whose dogs wear coats that match their own.

5. I love watching Erin march through the metro system like she owns it, zooming down all the little tunnels, hopping on the train, finding us seats, pressing the button to get on and off.

6. Watching the girls scooter all over the city.

7. Perusing the class offerings at the gym. The latest: Sensual Moves, which is only open to women and is marketed as being "glamorous and relaxing." I don't know about you, but I think it sounds like a lot more fun than the elliptical.

8. The school, which is a little different from home. In Orinda, before school pictures are taken, you are asked to choose from among thirty possible combinations of wallet sized, portrait sized, billboard sized, etc. You can also order mugs, key chains, T-shirts, commemorative medals and the like. Then, you select a background according to your child's complexion, mood and/or the advice of the consultant you hired to do your his or her colors.

At EAB, you get a slip of paper that says: "We're taking pictures tomorrow, you get 5 wallets, three portrait sized and one bookmark. Do you want them or not?"

9. To mark International Women's Day , which was created to celebrate the increasing independence that women have achieved around the world, the school required all of the girls to wear skirts. Does anyone else see the irony here?

After our two-week break, we are back in the school routine. In the morning, I start easy and work my way up. I whisper to Claire, who leaps out of bed and proceeds to eat breakfast, get dressed, organize her bookbag, review her investments, all within about 15 minutes. Next comes Erin; a little tougher, but definitely doable. After I clarify what day it is, and which country we are in, she shuffles out to get her breakfast. She needs a few reminders, but generally keeps it moving. Then, fully caffeinated, I prepare myself for Megan. Having consulted that great parenting manual, 'The Art of War," I tell her it's time to get up. Light ground fire only. Eyes closed and still unconscious, she says "five more minutes." I leave, make the lunches, take another hit of coffee, don my flak jacket and go back in. "Five more minutes." Back out to the kitchen, tell Erin to get dressed, discuss recent interest rate and exchange rate dynamics with Claire, and take a deep breath (I've finished the coffee). I tell Claire and Erin "I'm going in," and give them a letter I've written to Rob in case I don't make it. Heavy artillery; I throw a stuffed animal at her and take her covers off. She sits up for a second, looks around, says "five more minutes," and pulls the covers over her head. Back out to the kitchen, where I start eyeing what's left of last night's wine pretty seriously. One final offensive. Shock and awe. I call for air cover. Back in, I yell and threaten. I have to say, not one of those silly parenting books I read before I discovered The Art of War mentioned these tactics. Yelling and threatening, it turns out, work extremely well. At least if the threat involves missing the bus which has all your thirteen-year-old's friends on it. I also turn on the overhead light and do a little strafing with motherly perkiness She really hates that. She finally sits up, scowls at me and says "I'm up," in a tone that suggests that I clearly lack the powers of observation to figure this out on my own. While I know I should sit down on the bed next to her, take her hand, look in her eyes and say, "when you speak to me like that, I feel disrespected," what I actually do is scowl back and retreat exhausted into the kitchen where I start eyeing the wine in earnest.

I spend the rest of the day writing. And shopping for more wine.

March 6, 2010

Top: The girls with the happy gondolier Left: Claire on the boat to Murano Right: Piazza San Marco

We are nearing the end of the girls' 2-week vacation. As I mentioned last week, Rob took them to Dublin for a few days. This week, the girls and I headed to Venice for a few days.

First, a brief comparison of the two European discount airlines: RyanAir and EasyJet. My comments about the former are based on reports from Rob and the girls.

RyanAir. (motto: "At Ryan, we don't give a flyin' --- about customer service."). This airline makes Southwest Airlines look like First Class on Singapore Air. First, you need to take a metro, then a bus, to an airport in boohickey France that, if it weren't for the planes flying in and out, could easily be mistaken for a small farm. This trip takes approximately two hours, at which point you are so exhausted and irritated that not only have you completely lost your will to travel, you forget where exactly you were headed in the first place. If you succumb to the temptations of a taxi, it will cost you more than you save by taking RyanAir, so you will be broke and irritated. You are charged for checked bags, water, and oxygen if you require any more than the amount used by the average Martian.

EasyJet. (motto: "Sit down and shut up. We're in a hurry here."). These guys leave from real live airports and they have real live pilots who have incredibly cool accents (Dutch, French, etc.). They are nice and relaxed about all that "safety" stuff; the notion that you should be seated for takeoff is more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule. They also charge you for drinks, checked bags, and being nice, but - and this is important - you can have all of the oxygen you want. FREE!! They fly according to their national origin; we had a Dutch pilot on the way to Venice who was fairly cautious. We had a French pilot on the way back, who dispensed with all that taxiing nonsense and gunned the engines as soon as we were out of the gate, decelerating only slightly as we turned a corner onto the actual runway. Not surprisingly, we arrived home a half hour ahead of schedule.

We flew into Marco Polo airport in Venice. We figured that, in order to save money on things like radar and landing instrumentation, when the plane gets close to the airport, the pilot radios in: "Marco."

Air traffic control radios back: "Polo."

This goes on until the pilot can see the runway. Which makes night flights quite an adventure.

When you arrive at the airport, don't bother looking for a taxi. It was news to me, but apparently, Venice is only reachable by water!! You have a choice between water bus and water taxi. As their names suggest, the water bus takes approximately 4 hours and stops every 30 seconds to pick up elderly Italian women carrying live chickens and lots of salami. The water taxi costs about as much as the taxi to the Ryanair airport. However, you actually reach your destination in less than half a day.

The difference between the French and the Italians: the French take all of your money, while scowling at you and telling you how worthless you are. The Italians take all of your money, while smiling and laughing and telling you how wonderful you are. You make the call.

While Erin is the designated crepe expert in Paris, Claire has emerged as the gelato expert in Italy. She can smell the stuff from several blocks away. It is safe to say that she had an adequate sampling of the various Venetian offerings to draw defensible conclusions.

We spent one afternoon on the island of Murano, known for its glass-blowing factories (as well as its Nissan SUVs). We watched a glass-blowing demonstration; amazing.

Megan and Erin discovered gnocchi, which was too bad for me since I had ordered it and was left with their pizza margherita. Again.

All in all, a fun trip. Back to school on Monday.

February 28, 2010

Rob took the girls to Ireland. They were glad to hear English and enjoyed themselves.



We celebrated Erin's 9th birthday yesterday. She went to Aquaboulevard with Rob, which is a massive indoor water park. They had a great time, although Rob was forced to wear a Speedo. For some reason, baggy swim shorts are not allowed. Erin was traumatized but we are hopeful that, in time and with intensive therapy, she will be able to put the Speedo thing behind her.

Last week I went to see my old friend Franck (the 'c' is silent) at Blondes. For some reason, probably the long gray winter, my natural highlights have not yet appeared. Franck was not in a good mood. He was waving his arms around and shouting about the fact that the stereo system wasn't working. I offered to sing, but he just scowled at me.

I decided to try to make polite conversation. "So," I chirped, "someone told me that the French don't like blondes." In retrospect, this was a colossally stupid thing to say on my part, given the fact that Franck's professional life is devoted to turning French women into blondes.

He scowled at me. "Someone told me that Americans are all fat," he snapped. Ouch. After a few more pathetic attempts at conversation, I gave up. Franck was in no mood. His assistant showed up a few minutes later.

"You're late and the stereo doesn't work!" he shouted. "I cannot work without music." He shot a warning glance in my direction, lest I say something perky that he didn't want to hear.

His assistant was near tears. "I'm sorry, Franck, but there was an accident on the metro and we sat underground for an hour. I tried to call you."

"Did anyone die?" he asked her, as if merely being maimed by a speeding train was no reason to shut down the line. She didn't know.

"Well," he shouted, "I heard telephone ring and I did not answer it! Do you know why?"

At this moment, he was armed with his highlighter brush and palette and looked like a deranged artist.

The assistant shook her head, terrified.

"Because," Franck said, "I was thought it was Monique!"

The assistant whispered, "Monique from yesterday?"

"Monique from two weeks ago, from one week ago, from yesterday, and from last night!!" Franck said.

Apparently, Monique was not happy with her first set of highlights. She asked Franck to redo them, which he did. Then, she wasn't happy with those, so she asked Franck to do them yet again. The day before, apparently, she had appeared one more time and said there was something wrong with one of the strands of hair near her temple. He tried again. Then, the night before she had called him at 11 pm and complained yet again. It occurred to me that maybe she was one of those French people that doesn't like blondes, but I kept this to myself.

Franck lost it. He told her never to set foot in his salon again. He told her that he had long since passed the age where he could deal with such a woman. He told her that clearly, she was unhappy in general, and her dissatisfaction with her hair was just a symptom of the fact that she was crazy.

Now, I thought this story was fairly hilarious. But when Franck saw me smiling, he was furious. He started yelling at me.

"You think this is funny? You think I need to be treated in this way by crazy ladies?"

Franck was distraught. He kept pressing his middle fingers to his temples. Finally he looked at himself in the mirror.

"You see what this woman has done to me? You see my face? My skin?" he demanded. He did look a little pale and clammy, even for a French guy. At this point, I was afraid to say anything so I shut up for once.

He left and went back in the back of his salon, returning with a large fluffy makeup brush covered with powder. He took a deep breath and ran the brush expertly over his face. He put the brush away and took several deep breaths. Then, he examined himself again. I must say, he did a fabulous job. His skin tone was even, not too caky; luminous, even.

Everyone in the salon was silent. Would Franck recover? Could he get through this?

Miraculously, he composed himself. He picked up the highlight brush again and got back to work. At that moment, the sweet strains of Boy George tinkled through the salon. Franck permitted himself a small smile. The assistant had fixed the stereo!

Franck started to tap his foot as he worked. Then, he started humming "do you really want to hurt me; do you really want to make me cry..."

Finally, his hips started to swivel a bit. The assistant caught my eye and gave me a barely perceptible nod. Franck was going to be okay.

When he was finished with me and his assistant had dried my hair, he came over and fluffed it.

"It is perfect, no?" he said. It wasn't really a question.

"Absolutely," I gushed.

I'm thinking of waiting until I get back to the US to do any more highlighting.

February 23 ,2010

Rob and the girls left for Ireland this morning. I've been under the weather for the last few weeks and decided to stay here to try to recover. The girls are currently on a two-week break from school. Claire asked my why. Well, it's not Christmas break, which already happened, and it's not Spring break which happens in April.

Claire finally had an "Aha" moment. "It's because," she explained, "we've been in school for six weeks without a break."

There you have it.

I have informally polled the girls on how they feel about being here. Megan would like to stay another year. Claire is very glad we came, but will be ready to go back to the US this summer. Erin was ready to go back last October.

Every few days, as I waddle to the creperie, I pass this place that claims (after I looked up a few words in the French-English dictionary) to use ultrasound technology to zap your fat. There are newspaper articles everywhere about this place and it's pretty crowded. So, I decided to check it out. Free consultation!!

I made the appointment for the consultation. Inside, there are several beautiful French women with gorgeous figures and long dark hair. They are all wearing white lab coats, so you know they have received the latest training in high technology, complex, medical fat zapping. They are professional fat zappers. I liked them immediately.

One of these gorgeous women took me into her examining room and sat me down. She explained the process to me.

It goes like this. You strip down to your skivvies and lie down on an examining table, at which point gorgeous French pretend doctor runs what looks suspiciously like a vacuum cleaner hose over your fatty areas. This contraption apparently "liquifies" you fat and poof!!! Away it goes, never to return.

Pretend French doctor became very animated as she explained the process to me. She helpfully pointed out all of the areas on my physique that could benefit from this latest medical breakthrough. Let's just say she covered a lot of ground.

"You will need double sessions," she informed me. Thanks so very much.

The really great part, she continued, is that there's no diet! The ONLY thing you need to do is drink lots of water, so that the zapped liquified fat can be eliminated through "natural processes." So far so good.

To summarize, I could continue to inhale croissants and crepes, and every few weeks or so lay down and have someone run a vacuum cleaner over me to liquify any accumulated fat. At which point I could happily begin the cycle all over again.

God, I love France!!

So, I was just getting ready to sign the contract, pay the euros, and be on my way to sveltification, when she handed me a stack of papers about two inches thick.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Ah," she purred, "these are just a few simple tips for how to arrange your meals during your treatment."

No problem. I could "arrange" my meals. I could "arrange" to have the croissants first, then the crepe, then the wine. Or, if pretend French doctor suggests it, I could happily start with wine, go to croissants, and finish with the crepe. I am, after all, committed to fat zapping.

So, I glanced at the instructions. A few things jumped out at me.

No alcohol. No alcohol??? I looked at her. "Ah," she said. "Alcohol interferes with the fat liquification process, so you should eliminate it. Of course, " she continued, "if you are at a wedding, you are permitted one glass of champagne."

I bit my lip. There's a whole lot of really good red wine here, and it's cheaper than CocaCola. Plus, I think I've mentioned that I'm alone with my three children for long stretches of time. However, it would just be for a few months, and I could just imagine my new svelte physique. I could do this. I could forgo alcohol for eight weeks or so.

I went back to reading.

Absolutely no sugar. Whoa. What's this? Again, she explained that sugar interferes with the zapping of fat. So, I wouldn't be able to have any. No crepes, no patisserie, no pain au chocolat, no tarte au pomme, not even sugar in my coffee.


I went on down the list. No carbohydrates in the evening, Only non-fat yogurt and milk. No real butter.

I composed myself. Pretend French doctor was tapping a perfectly French manicured nail on her desk. What was the holdup?

"I don't mean to be difficult," I said. "But this looks like a diet."

"It is certainly NOT a diet," she huffed. "It is an ARRANGEMENT of meals."

"What happens," I asked, "if I continue to drink like a fish and huff down croissants and crepes?"

Classic Gallic shrug. "Then, Madame, we cannot guarantee the results. But, if you do follow the arrangements, you will lose centimeters off your pudgy thighs and your stomach will no longer spill over the top of your jeans like a souffle."

I couldn't control myself. "Yeah, but if I follow the arrangements, I'll lose the fat anyway, without your fat zapper. Plus, I won't have to pay you anything."

She sighed. Clearly I was too stupid to understand the nuances of advanced medical technology.


As I left, I held the door for a woman who was just licking the last crumbs of a flaky, buttery croissant off her fingers. She looked hopeful.

Tomorrow, I'm going to the gym.

February 13, 2010

Happy President's Day Weekend everyone! We are suffering a bit from winter colds, but otherwise fine. It turns out that Claire has had sinusitis which has gone undiagnosed, perhaps for years. We were referred to a specialist in France, which I view as an opportunity to explore a whole new neighborhood. Doctors' offices are definitely in the best areas of Paris. Anyway, this guy was a real loon.

After interviewing us at great length, he sat Claire down, donned his avatar headgear and proceeded to look up her nose. I will refrain from giving you all of the sordid details, except to say that he pronounced her nose very "curious." In spite of my best efforts, he never said why. Then he rifled around in his rows of sharp instruments and pulled out a pair of pincers that were about a foot long. He told her to sit still. Claire, sensible girl that she is, took one look at roboman with his pincers and covered her nose. I told Monsieur in French that Claire was afraid. He shrugged and replied "that's because she's a girl." Claire has been diligently studying French for 6 months now and gave him a withering look. Way to go Claire!

The upshot is that Claire is now on antibiotics, steroids, nasal spray, and stomach medicine to counter the effects of all of the other stuff. Next week, she has to have a CAT scan to see if there's any other curious stuff we haven't found yet. It's all very exciting.

While I'm sure you imagine that we spend evenings out at various bistros, wearing black berets, smoking Gauloises and drinking fine French wines, we actually spend almost every evening at home. After all, we live here. Consequently, I am watching quite a bit of US television which I download according to Megan's instructions. I did give French TV a try, but I got over it in a hurry.

As a result, I have become somewhat of an expert on crime shows, medical shows and, above all, sports. Let me now share with you a few of my startling conclusions, organized by genre and show.

Medical Shows: House.
Patient comes in, patient is very sick with mysterious symptoms, team bravely treats patient while dealing with their own interpersonal romantic issues, team really screws patient up, patient is dying, House has mundane conversation with janitor about cleaning fluid and, AHA!!, diagnoses real problem just as patient is about to expire.

Crime Shows:

CSI, CSI NY, CSI Miami: Person is murdered, forensics team, invariably showing massive amounts of cleavage and wearing stilettos and a whole lot of eyeliner wander around crime scene photographing matchsticks, chewing gum wrappers, and oil slicks and wondering why men don't take them seriously. Because they do it to sinister, yet very cool music, it seems like a glam job. Body is taken to the morgue where coroner is eccentric middle-aged man with a penchant for heavy metal, classical music, etc. Head of crime lab is either so ugly he has to wear sunglasses ALL the time, or obviously psychologically damaged which makes all of his busty minions want to give him a big hug. Obvious suspects are questioned first (motive AND opportunity AND a chainsaw in their trunk!!), then cleared, then re-suspected and nailed at the very end. More very cool music as well as many gratuitous shots of city.

Law and Order, Law and Order Criminal Intent, Law and Order SVU: Craggy DA, busty assistant DA, busty female detective and, you guessed it, psychologically damaged male partner who is damn good at interrogating those feisty suspects. I actually have a great idea for a new spinoff: Law & Order SUV. It's about the dedicated men and women that serve on an elite squad that investigates the senseless crimes committed by java-crazed stay-at-home-moms driving vehicles the size and maneuverability of amphibious assault ships and named after large, northern mountain ranges. "These are their stories."
Tell me you wouldn't tune in.

Which brings me to sports. I have to ask, WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON? Joe Buck started it during the Angels-Yankees series: He talked about the Yankees running game. Running game?? What is this, football? Then, Buck says "and the Phillies hold serve," right before they went to commercial break during a World Series game. Seriously? Tennis?

Now, I can forgive Joe. The poor guy announces more sports than Bob Costas. No wonder he's confused. But, the trend spread like H1N1 across all sports programming within about two weeks!

Acting like teenage girls, sportscasters across the nation started frantically searching for expressions to use from other sports in their sports! When they went home and their wives told them how pathetic they sounded, they pouted and said "Well, everyone else is doing it."

Dan Dierdorff, perhaps one of the stupidest people on television today (which is saying something) credited Braylon Edwards with an "assist" during the Jets-Raiders game. The only bright side is that this slightly reduced the amount of time he spent trashing the Raiders. By the way, I have found after years of research, that a football announcer's IQ is inversely proportional to the number of times he says "National Football League" instead of NFL.

Next, Brian Billick talked repeatedly about Michael Crabtree's "pitch count" during the 49ers-Texans game.

Even Chris Collingsworth, who's a pretty decent sportscaster, jumped on the sportocross bike during the playoffs. To his credit, Phil Simms completely ignored Collingsworth's lame tennis references.

But the worst, to date, is Len Elmore. During the Georgetown-Villanova basketball game last week, he said "Georgetown has to hold home court serve. WHAT??? There's not even a dedicated offense and defense in basketball. WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT??

I think I better go to a bistro and order a bottle of fine French wine.

February 6, 2010

On Language (With Thanks to the Late Great William Safire)


The French language is beautiful and complex, not unlike the French themselves. If you try to translate directly from English, you can get yourself into deep trouble. For example, the word for lawyer is "avocat." Unfortunately, this is also the word for avocado.

The word for new is "neuf," yet this can also mean "nine."

So, if you find yourself in prison because, say, your old school refused to refund your tuition and threatened to sue you for libel if you told anyone how your children were treated, prompting you to toss the school's lawyer through a plate glass window (all of this is hypothetical, of course, I'm just saying "if") and if your court-appointed lawyer has a head shaped like a bullet, and is wearing a suit that is two sizes too small, revealing exceptionally hairy wrists, and if you ask for a new lawyer, you could very well end up with nine avocados. Not that this would ever happen. I'm just saying.

More interesting still is the appropriate translation of the verb "to wait." There are two common translations of this verb: "attendre" and "patienter." The verb "attendre" means to anticipate, to expect, or both: to wait with the expectation that something will happen. "Patienter" means, simply, to wait; the implication is that you will wait patiently without expecting any results. So, which one should you use? Well, your overwhelming temptation will probably be to use "attendre," as in "I'm waiting for a table," or "I'm waiting for my money." After all, you do expect your request to be met. However, if you use this translation you will probably be unsuccessful obtaining either. You have, you see, committed the fatal mistake of suggesting that you expect your wish to be fulfilled. Service people in France invariably use "patienter" when asking you to wait. What they are saying, in essence, is that you need to wait without any expectations and they will decide whether to grant you a table, your money, etc. Even the ATM machines ask you to "patienter" instead of "attendre." Once you accept this, and expunge the verb "attendre" from your conversations with anyone but small children or recalcitrant dogs, you will be treated with much greater respect.

Which brings me to conversations with shopkeepers. You may think you can walk into a store, ask for 2 croissants, pay for them, and leave. You can do this, but you will surely get the very worst croissants, be scowled at, and generally treated like the crass foreigner you are. Every transaction is part of a larger conversation. Let me demonstrate.

"Good morning, Madame."

"Good morning, Madame."

"How are you today? I trust all is well?"

"Yes, I am doing very well, thank you."

"It is quite cold, today, is it not?"

"Yes, but in any case, it is winter."

"Ah, yes, you are right, it is indeed winter."

"So, naturally it is cold."

"Because it is winter."

"Yes, that is right,"

"Is there anything I can help you with today?"

"Yes, thank you, I would like four croissants."

"You would like four croissants?"

"Yes, four croissants."

"Well, let me see, ah, yes, four croissants. One, two, three, four. Here you are. Four croissants, Madame. Please take them."

"Thank you very much. How much?"

"For four croissants?"

"Yes, how much for four croissants?"

"Let me see, four croissants. Eighty, one-sixty, two-forty, three-twenty. Three-twenty for four croissants, Madame."

"Here you are."

"Three-twenty for four croissants. That is correct. Thank you Madame. Have a good rest of the day. But be careful, it is quite cold."

"Because it is winter."

"Exactly. Because it is winter."


As you can imagine, if you don't know what you want, the simple act of acquiring fresh breads for breakfast could stretch well into lunchtime.

Now, you might try to get around this conversation inflation by ordering ten or twelve croissants at a time. In economics terms, spread the conversation fixed cost over more croissants (variable cost), thereby increasing the efficiency of the process. Nice try, genius. Now you look like a gluttonous cretin who doesn't appreciate fresh bread. You'll never be served.