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.

April 18, 2010

We are sulking. Rob was supposed to arrive this morning for two weeks and, tomorrow, we were headed for Spain for 10 days. Instead, he's sitting in California and we are sitting in Paris. The volcano (and does anyone else find it odd, geologically, that there's a volcano erupting from under a glacier?) is standing between us. Metaphorical. Meteorological. Infuriating.

The problem here is that everyone is stuck in the wrong country. The British are mainly stuck in Spain, but there are a few sitting in Normandy looking mournfully across the channel. There have been reports that a few of them have stooped to knocking little old ladies off their bicycles, stealing the bikes and gaining passage on ferries as cyclists. The people that run Eurostar are giggling to themselves. Sure, they stranded people for nine hours in the Chunnel over Christmas, but three days? The Dutch are livid (probably because there are lots of Germans stuck in Holland) and they keep sending "test flights" up into Dutch air space, and then landing and saying: "See? No ash, no crash." They're flying planes to Dusseldorf next and, I'm guessing, stowing at least a few Germans on board.

The UK government estimates that 1 million Brits are stuck outside their home country. Their stiff upper lips are sagging, ever so slightly. Meanwhile, the Russians are keeping their airports open, since they can fly directly over the North Pole and skip the whole Icelandic mess.

The Spanish, who are desperate to get rid of the British so they can welcome the French and then complain about them, have demanded a pan-European videoconference call so they can discuss what to do next.

Spain: "Look, our southern airports are open. Please, please, open your airspace so we can send the British home. Some of them have actually developed tans; they have been here far too long. We are running out of Sangria."

UK: "Steady on, old chaps. It's a bit difficult here as well, you know. We have many disgruntled Americans who keep asking who's in charge, so they can scream at them."

France: "Speaking of which, who is in charge?"

Netherlands: "We thought you were."

France: "Are you kidding? Sarkozy and Carla are bickering. We don't have time to pay attention to some volcano in Greenland."

UK: "Just a few points. First, the volcano is in Iceland. Second, you've closed your airspace. Clearly you think there's some danger from the volcanic ash."

France: "The only volcanic ash we're worried about is what happens if Mt. Saint Carla blows. If Sarkozy so much as looks at another woman again, it won't be pretty. And, by the way, we closed our airspace because the UK did. Solidarity."

Spain: "By the way, France, nice touch that your railway workers decided to strike just now, removing yet another transportation alternative."

France: "At least you can tell there's a strike here. Your rail system is so pathetic, it's hard to tell the difference."

Italy: "Here's a thought. Let's send all stranded EU citizens to Greece. It's south, so their airspace hasn't been affected, and they owe us big time after we had to bail their ashes out last week. Let everyone park there for a few weeks, drink ouzo, trash hotel rooms, party like it's 2001. On the Greeks of course."

Germany: "That works for us. Bastards are going to cost Merkel the election."

France: "There's one other small problem. What about the Americans?"

Netherlands: "What about them?"

France: "Well, we've got a bunch here and we'll take the Brits over those idiots any day. They keep looking up at the sky to see if they can see any volcanic ash. We tell them to stay in their hotels, but they just show up at the airport every day, scanning the horizon for a United 777. Yesterday, they set up a volleyball net on the tarmac. And boy can they eat."

Italy: "Just thinking out loud, here, but what works for us whenever we have too many Americans is we bus them someplace. You put a bus in front of those people and they'll let you take them damn near anywhere."

France: "Thanks for the tip. We'll bus 'em down to Toulouse. Those traitors went against Sarkozy's party in the regional elections last month. This'll teach 'em to mess with us."

Spain: "What about the airspace issue? The Press is going to want to know what we accomplished here today. The airlines have been complaining that we're overly cautious."

UK: "It's just never enough for them, is it?"

Netherlands: "That's on us. We flew those planes up just get some good photos and the airlines seized on it."

Germany: "Let's say we'll each open our air spaces when the CEOs of our respective major airlines agree to be passengers on the first planes up."

UK: "You've been watching Obama work the Republicans again on C-Span, haven't you?"

Here's hoping you get to where you're going this week.

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.

March 27, 2010

We are licking our wounds at St. Mary's stomping by Baylor last night. I let the girls stay up to watch but by the end of the first half it was obviously not our night. Oh well, the sweet sixteen was sweet indeed.

A few more favorite things about living in Paris:

1. You can rent a motorcycle. You can also rent the guy who drives the thing. It's called rent-a-moto and the guy literally shows up in full leathers, and zooms you to wherever you want to go. Beats the hell out of a taxi.

2. Everyone loves Obama; the pharmacist wouldn't let me leave until she was sure I understood how gorgeous she thinks he is and what a great dancer he is. Two very important qualities in a President from the French point of view.

3. Seasons for food. Coming from California, the kids were completely unaware that things don't grow year-round. When the red oranges and melons appeared last week at the market they were very excited.

4. The announcement in French on the metro that Claire didn't understand. Erin translated ... into British! "They're telling you to mind the gap," she said.

5. The advertisement that pops up when you go on the Internet in France, offering you a chance at a US green card if you can identify the current US President. The choices are: Hillary Clinton, George Bush and Barack Obama. My question is, why don't they do the same thing in the US and exile anyone who doesn't answer correctly (there would be a whole lot of Americans leaving the country)? That would solve the unemployment problem in about 5 minutes. I'm just saying.

I do have some bad news. The new styles are in the stores and shoulder pads appear to be back in fashion. Also, puffy sleeves and cowl necks. What's next, leg warmers and headbands? Let me tell you, the only person that can still pull of the headband look is Roger Federer. And, as if that weren't bad enough, women are starting to appear in public wearing leggings without anything on top of them. I almost told someone she'd forgotten to put on her skirt until I realized that's the look she had intended. And it wasn't a good one, let me tell you. My new rule is, if you were an adult last time that stuff was in fashion, you probably shouldn't attempt it this time around.

Latest gym sighting: A middle-aged man in those shorts that women volleyball players wear (a large part of the reason they get good attendance at their games, I fear) getting ready to get on the chin lift machine. Beforehand, though, he decided to do a little dance. The sound system was blaring wrap (white rap); P Didier or someone was on. Anyway, the guy launches into a little dance that looked suspiciously like an Irish River Dance. There he was on his tippy-toes executing his intricate footwork before lifting weights. A mystery. I escaped to the upper floor where two women who had to be in their late eighties were doing full splits. I feel so alone.

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.