[Hmmm.. why is it an American but a Unitarian?]
The Unitarian-Universalist Fellowship of Paris is a hardy group. Boasting a core membership of permanent residents (or close to it), the Fellowship welcomes those who, like us, find themselves here for a shorter stay, or one of indeterminate length.
Virtually everyone is an expat. There are some French spouses of American expats, to be sure, but from undergraduates studying abroad to faculty families and others here on business of one kind or another, it’s mostly a question of “Where are you from?” with the answer of “Somewhere in the States.” A nice geographical mix, however – there are people from the Northeast, the South, the Midwest, the Pacific Northwest, California, really all over. Just all over America.
As a Fellowship, this group relies on its membership to stay afloat and do practically everything. A guest speaker delivers the sermon at each of the monthly services, which are held in a lovely (protestant) church building not far from the Bastille. The UUs take over after the “others” have finished worshipping. There are the paid staff – the organist and the baby sitter. Everything else – flower arranging, photocopying, newsletter, book group, moving of chairs and tables, etc. – is done by the congregation. There’s a charming informality about this kind of group, and the dedication of the ongoing membership is noteworthy.
The services include a chalice lighting (the Fellowship chalice, designed by one of the members, looks a bit like the Eiffel Tower), group singing of hymns, the sharing of joys and concerns, a children’s story, offering, sermon, announcements… the whole bit. There’s a bit less time for personal reflection or prayer than there might be, but the spirit of this fellowship speaks to my old UU soul. It’s good to sing together, to be invited to share a sacred time together, to associate with others who choose to associate in a faith community like this one. I’m sorry we’re only called to worship once a month!
We’ve been to all three services this fall, and have felt welcome and welcomed each time. I contributed some banana bread to the October fellowship hour (the snacks are rather substantial, since everyone is hungry at 1:30 when the service wraps up!). Sunday’s service was followed by a lovely and delicious Thanksgiving dinner – we all chipped in for the turkeys, and had a pot luck for the rest of the meal. It’s the first Thanksgiving at which I’ve enjoyed a cheese course! And of course, the wine was delicious. One diner was bemoaning the lack of gravy available, since the turkeys were cooked on a rotisserie, but that was the only complaint I heard. We had both pumpkin and pecan pie -- miam! miam! (That's French for yum! yum!)
Meredith (surprise!) loves going to church, where she can play with some different kids and do some arts and crafts, or just scribble. There are a couple of other young children, a few school-age kids, and a nice size youth group that has attracted some French teenagers as well as the aforementioned expat community.
The Paris fellowship is well connected in the UU European Union, and a good number of “us” attended the fall UUEU retreat in Germany. The reviews were uniformly positive, leading us to consider attending the spring retreat, which will be held in Belgium at the end of April.
Next month, after the service, the fellowship will sponsor a Holiday Bazaar. Perhaps we’ll do a bit of Christmas shopping there! In the mean time, we’ll reflect on the November gathering and make room in our busy calendar for the December service.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Something else I like about Paris...
25 cent Chocolate Mousse from the grocery store. Mmm, mmm, good!!
Friday, November 21, 2003
Something Nouveau
Yesterday, the 20th, was a big day in France, nearing an unofficial national holiday. It has spread internationally to a certain degree, and it has become more popular in the U.S. I speak of the annual wine harvest, harbingered by the coordinated and orchestrated rollout of the Beaujolais Nouveau, or New Wine. (There are actually new wines coming from a number of grape-growing regions of France, but Beaujolais is by far the most prominent.) Now, connoisseurs and many other French people turn up their noses at the new wine celebration, insisting that they would never touch the stuff. To them, it's pretend wine, not fit for drinking, and they will wait for the more aged and full-bodied wines that will be available in the coming months. But for those of us with a less sophisticated palate, or a natural affinity for light-tasting red wine, this is a good time. In the States, one name is synonymous with the Beaujolais Nouveau. Yep, good ole Georges Debuœf. This has more to do with pure marketing skill and power than anything else. However, I've yet to see a bottle from his vineyards here in Paris. A quick trip to the supermarket turns up 10 different brands from little vineyards you've never heard of but have been in business since the 18th century. The prices, from the supermarket to the specialty wine shops, are remarkably consistent. Nothing lower than 4€ and nothing higher than 5€.
Whatever your feelings are about young wines, this year portends to be extraordinary across the winemaking spectrum. The late-summer heatwave here in France that resulted in more than 15,000 deaths (and that mercifully ended about 2 weeks before we arrived) was torturous according to our friends who have been living here. This is a Country Without Air-Conditioning, and is just not far enough south for the people to be accustomed to the heat. It wrecked whole crops of fruits and vegetables. But for the vintners, it was a godsend. Unlike other fruit crops, the winemakers hope for a lot of rain early on in the summer, and then hot and dry for an extended period later on. And that is exactly what they got. The heat and lack of rain late in the summer means a lower yield in terms of quantity. But the grapes that made it through will have more intense flavor and character, and will become some truly spectacular wines. They are already predicting that this will be the best year for wines in the last 50 years. So it's likely that even those maligned Nouveaus are going to be exceptionally good. Salud!
Whatever your feelings are about young wines, this year portends to be extraordinary across the winemaking spectrum. The late-summer heatwave here in France that resulted in more than 15,000 deaths (and that mercifully ended about 2 weeks before we arrived) was torturous according to our friends who have been living here. This is a Country Without Air-Conditioning, and is just not far enough south for the people to be accustomed to the heat. It wrecked whole crops of fruits and vegetables. But for the vintners, it was a godsend. Unlike other fruit crops, the winemakers hope for a lot of rain early on in the summer, and then hot and dry for an extended period later on. And that is exactly what they got. The heat and lack of rain late in the summer means a lower yield in terms of quantity. But the grapes that made it through will have more intense flavor and character, and will become some truly spectacular wines. They are already predicting that this will be the best year for wines in the last 50 years. So it's likely that even those maligned Nouveaus are going to be exceptionally good. Salud!
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
A Personal Ad
I have to admit it, Personal Shopping is a marvelous thing. Bill set me up with an appointment as a birthday present, so I showed up yesterday afternoon at the Galéries Lafayette (one of Paris’ famous grands magasins) to find out what it was all about, and hopefully find some pants that fit me in this country!
After waiting for maybe three minutes, Isabelle came over and introduced herself, then showed me to a private, heavily mirrored dressing room with lots of bars on the walls to hang clothes on. Two bright pink chairs amounted to all the furniture in the room, in which we sat, and she asked me a few questions. What colors do I like or dislike? What size am I, approximately (ugh, at a 40/42, I am at the top of “regular” women’s clothing in this country. The French really are smaller than they may appear on tv!) How am I looking to enhance my wardrobe? What is my goal? (That answer could have gone on for a while, then I realized she meant my goal for the afternoon.) And, what kind of budget are we working within? This was a key question, actually, because one item from Louis Vuitton or Chanel could have cleaned me out. So, I told her how I really like green, with pink and purple coming in after that, how I haven’t been able to find a decent pair of jeans in 2 ½ months, and that I have a lot of neutral colors and solids in my wardrobe and would really like to expand into some florals or other patterns. Living in New York, black on black on black seems to be the most common and easiest way to go. I remember being glad to have a brown winter coat that I could wear with a brown and black scarf and brown gloves, just to be a little bit creative. There’s certainly room for growth in that area!
Here in Paris, women tend to wear more colorful clothing on the whole, and they are much more interested in expressing femininity in their wardrobes. So, after bringing me a coffee, Isabelle left me alone in my dressing room for maybe 15 minutes, probably less. She returned with an armload of clothes – some separates, a bunch of blouses and tops, two jackets, and several pairs of blue jeans and black pants. I tried on the separates with a button-down – everything was gorgeous. That’s when Isabelle told me I should make an appointment with one of their beauty consultants, because I have nice skin, a beautiful mouth, and a lovely smile, but my eyebrows are much too heavy and I have to have a better haircut and to cover the grey hairs. No pussy-footing around here!!! Well, okay then, the separates were great, and I loved the scarf she selected to go with them (grey with a darker grey paisley print and small sequins on the ends).
I looked at one price tag, for a jacket, and gasped. “Vous n’êtes pas obligée du tout (You are not at all obliged),” said Isabelle. A lambswool and angora sweater coat was a much better deal, and part of the Galéries Lafayette exclusive line. Cool!
Then I tried several pairs of black pants that for a variety of reasons were no good. One pair that Isabelle really liked on me left me cold. “Non, non,” she said, watching my face, “ça ne vous plait pas (You don't like it)” and she whisked it right out of the room. Similar story with the jeans, that she thought were great but I thought seemed way out of style, between the high waist, the extended yoke, and the pegged shape.
Around this time, Bill called. “Faîtes-le vous voir (Make him come see you)!” insisted Isabelle. “You are a new Catherine!” Isabelle disappeared for another 10 minutes, instructing me to try on some more tops in the mean time. I liked practically all of them – a sheer floral, a green and black t-shirt with scalloped sleeves, a pink, grey, and white button down with ¾ length sleeves, a turtleneck with a patented (!) design, a patchwork-type button-down with sheer fabric offset by red and blue striped trim, a black v-neck t-shirt with lace on the neck and sleeves, just a terrific variety of items.
After Bill arrived, Isabelle returned with more jeans and more black pants, saying “I think we are almost done here, Catherine.” She got me a Perrier and Bill a pot of tea, and I kept on trying things on. A pair of low-rise Calvin Kleins in a dark blue denim with a hint of stretch looked great (“look in the mirror at your bottom – it is beautiful!”), and then there were a couple of pairs of black pants that were nice, but didn’t flatter as much as Isabelle wanted them to. After I narrowed down my choices, Isabelle called in the alteration girl, who agreed with me that the sleeves on everything were just fine, I just needed some length taken off the pants. This adjustment indicates that a French woman who wears my size (about a US 8) would normally be about an inch taller than me (and I was wearing heels). See what I mean about the sizing? Anyway, one pair of pants needed to be nipped a little, too. Isabelle wanted to make sure I was very happy with the items, of course, and reminded me that I’d be happier wearing them if they fit properly.
By this time, she had already told me what a nice bosom I had, and how I should never wear jeans and sneakers, and that I needed to get some high, pointy, very feminine shoes. I’m not sure I’ll be following her advice on that, but I will admit I unbuttoned one more button than I normally would when I put on that ¾ sleeve oxford shirt this morning…
After waiting for maybe three minutes, Isabelle came over and introduced herself, then showed me to a private, heavily mirrored dressing room with lots of bars on the walls to hang clothes on. Two bright pink chairs amounted to all the furniture in the room, in which we sat, and she asked me a few questions. What colors do I like or dislike? What size am I, approximately (ugh, at a 40/42, I am at the top of “regular” women’s clothing in this country. The French really are smaller than they may appear on tv!) How am I looking to enhance my wardrobe? What is my goal? (That answer could have gone on for a while, then I realized she meant my goal for the afternoon.) And, what kind of budget are we working within? This was a key question, actually, because one item from Louis Vuitton or Chanel could have cleaned me out. So, I told her how I really like green, with pink and purple coming in after that, how I haven’t been able to find a decent pair of jeans in 2 ½ months, and that I have a lot of neutral colors and solids in my wardrobe and would really like to expand into some florals or other patterns. Living in New York, black on black on black seems to be the most common and easiest way to go. I remember being glad to have a brown winter coat that I could wear with a brown and black scarf and brown gloves, just to be a little bit creative. There’s certainly room for growth in that area!
Here in Paris, women tend to wear more colorful clothing on the whole, and they are much more interested in expressing femininity in their wardrobes. So, after bringing me a coffee, Isabelle left me alone in my dressing room for maybe 15 minutes, probably less. She returned with an armload of clothes – some separates, a bunch of blouses and tops, two jackets, and several pairs of blue jeans and black pants. I tried on the separates with a button-down – everything was gorgeous. That’s when Isabelle told me I should make an appointment with one of their beauty consultants, because I have nice skin, a beautiful mouth, and a lovely smile, but my eyebrows are much too heavy and I have to have a better haircut and to cover the grey hairs. No pussy-footing around here!!! Well, okay then, the separates were great, and I loved the scarf she selected to go with them (grey with a darker grey paisley print and small sequins on the ends).
I looked at one price tag, for a jacket, and gasped. “Vous n’êtes pas obligée du tout (You are not at all obliged),” said Isabelle. A lambswool and angora sweater coat was a much better deal, and part of the Galéries Lafayette exclusive line. Cool!
Then I tried several pairs of black pants that for a variety of reasons were no good. One pair that Isabelle really liked on me left me cold. “Non, non,” she said, watching my face, “ça ne vous plait pas (You don't like it)” and she whisked it right out of the room. Similar story with the jeans, that she thought were great but I thought seemed way out of style, between the high waist, the extended yoke, and the pegged shape.
Around this time, Bill called. “Faîtes-le vous voir (Make him come see you)!” insisted Isabelle. “You are a new Catherine!” Isabelle disappeared for another 10 minutes, instructing me to try on some more tops in the mean time. I liked practically all of them – a sheer floral, a green and black t-shirt with scalloped sleeves, a pink, grey, and white button down with ¾ length sleeves, a turtleneck with a patented (!) design, a patchwork-type button-down with sheer fabric offset by red and blue striped trim, a black v-neck t-shirt with lace on the neck and sleeves, just a terrific variety of items.
After Bill arrived, Isabelle returned with more jeans and more black pants, saying “I think we are almost done here, Catherine.” She got me a Perrier and Bill a pot of tea, and I kept on trying things on. A pair of low-rise Calvin Kleins in a dark blue denim with a hint of stretch looked great (“look in the mirror at your bottom – it is beautiful!”), and then there were a couple of pairs of black pants that were nice, but didn’t flatter as much as Isabelle wanted them to. After I narrowed down my choices, Isabelle called in the alteration girl, who agreed with me that the sleeves on everything were just fine, I just needed some length taken off the pants. This adjustment indicates that a French woman who wears my size (about a US 8) would normally be about an inch taller than me (and I was wearing heels). See what I mean about the sizing? Anyway, one pair of pants needed to be nipped a little, too. Isabelle wanted to make sure I was very happy with the items, of course, and reminded me that I’d be happier wearing them if they fit properly.
By this time, she had already told me what a nice bosom I had, and how I should never wear jeans and sneakers, and that I needed to get some high, pointy, very feminine shoes. I’m not sure I’ll be following her advice on that, but I will admit I unbuttoned one more button than I normally would when I put on that ¾ sleeve oxford shirt this morning…
Sunday, November 9, 2003
The London Blog (Part II)
London, Day 2 -- Sarah’s Birthday!
Well, to say we slept well would be a big understatement! There’s not much morning left as we arrive at the London Zoo, which proved to be a great way to spend the day with Meredith. She’s a big fan of the Bronx Zoo, but didn’t voice any displeasure at the “old school” structure of this much older model. We spent a good amount of time with the monkeys, chimps, and an enormous gorilla, then headed to see the tigers (one of Meredith’s requests) and a new exhibit called The Web of Life that endeavours to explain the concept of an ecosystem to young and old alike. Meredith loved this, especially when we got to see some clown fish (Nemo and his dad, Marlin) and a blue tang (Dory).
She taught us a song with hand motions:
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent nagent nagent nagent
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent comme les gros*
Les gros et les petits
Il nagent bien aussi!
(*since we returned, Meredith has corrected us on this. The lyric is actually
Nagent si bien que les gros)
The Zoo was sponsoring some Halloween-oriented activities, including a make-your-own spider project that Meredith dove right into. After a wild goose chase to find the baby pandas (would that be a wild panda chase?), which did get us to the lion’s den and to see the sloth bears in their big habitat, we enjoyed some marvelous, freshly-made donuts. Delicious!
I have to say that I never heard a lion roar in person before, and something inspired one of these English lions to unleash in full voice. Truly blood-curdling!
We said hello to the flamingoes, three giraffes, and some gorgeous owls before getting back on a bus to get some lunch and a nap, and to get ready for the big soirée!
A group of Sarah’s pals arrived to help celebrate her birthday. Most of them are grad students in counseling psych, as is she. We enjoyed several hours of conversation and snacking and even managed to get Meredith to bed at fairly reasonable hour. Sarah’s former roommate, Silvia, stayed until the wee hours of the morning. She’s from Spain, but speaks excellent English, and is clearly a dear friend and a convivial personality. I’m very glad to have met her, and Sarah’s other friends, too. Can’t remember the last time we stayed up that late!
London, Day Three
Poor Sarah, she had to get up and go to work at 10 in the morning! We had the luxury of sleeping in, fatigue compounded by the dreary weather – our dose of London rain for the visit. Slowly, slowly, we got ourselves ready, stopped in to see Sarah, who was very busy at the optician’s where she works, got some breakfast at Starbucks (a US phenom that has not yet made it to France, and given the café culture here, probably never will), and took the underground to Baker Street, where we embarked on a ½ day double-decker bus tour of the city. Our guide for the majority of the trip was both knowledgeable and witty, making priceless remarks about the Morris dancers in Trafalgar Square, London bobbies, and the ongoing unofficial postal strike (“When in residence at Buckingham Palace, the Queen receives her mail by horse-drawn carriage. The rest of us, on the other hand, don’t receive our mail at all.”).
A bizarre occurrence prevented us from crossing the famous Tower Bridge. Apparently, a single man dressed in a Spiderman outfit selected this particular day to climb up on a crane at one end of the bridge so that he could unfurl a banner in support of fathers’ participation in joint custody cases. Why Spiderman? Why climb up a crane? Why today? Oh well.
We got off the bus and boarded a boat (cruise included in our bus tour ticket price), for an hour-long ride along the Thames. As the sun set, we got a better look at Big Ben, the Tower of London, and assorted other sights. After the tour, we got back to our original location, Picadilly Circus to pick up some souvenirs before heading back to Golder’s Green.
Tired and hungry, we were thrilled to get back to Sarah’s and find that she had made a big pot of delicious lentil soup. We ate well, packed up our stuff, and spent the evening just hanging out. Getting to bed early was a welcome treat, especially since we had to get up early to catch our 7:40 Eurostar back to Paris…
A brief visit, but filled with pleasant activities, lots of buses, and many views of Big Ben!
We sincerely hope that Sarah will come spend a weekend with us in Paris in the spring so that we can return the favor!
Well, to say we slept well would be a big understatement! There’s not much morning left as we arrive at the London Zoo, which proved to be a great way to spend the day with Meredith. She’s a big fan of the Bronx Zoo, but didn’t voice any displeasure at the “old school” structure of this much older model. We spent a good amount of time with the monkeys, chimps, and an enormous gorilla, then headed to see the tigers (one of Meredith’s requests) and a new exhibit called The Web of Life that endeavours to explain the concept of an ecosystem to young and old alike. Meredith loved this, especially when we got to see some clown fish (Nemo and his dad, Marlin) and a blue tang (Dory).
She taught us a song with hand motions:
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent nagent nagent nagent
Les petits poissons dans l’eau
Nagent nagent comme les gros*
Les gros et les petits
Il nagent bien aussi!
(*since we returned, Meredith has corrected us on this. The lyric is actually
Nagent si bien que les gros)
The Zoo was sponsoring some Halloween-oriented activities, including a make-your-own spider project that Meredith dove right into. After a wild goose chase to find the baby pandas (would that be a wild panda chase?), which did get us to the lion’s den and to see the sloth bears in their big habitat, we enjoyed some marvelous, freshly-made donuts. Delicious!
I have to say that I never heard a lion roar in person before, and something inspired one of these English lions to unleash in full voice. Truly blood-curdling!
We said hello to the flamingoes, three giraffes, and some gorgeous owls before getting back on a bus to get some lunch and a nap, and to get ready for the big soirée!
A group of Sarah’s pals arrived to help celebrate her birthday. Most of them are grad students in counseling psych, as is she. We enjoyed several hours of conversation and snacking and even managed to get Meredith to bed at fairly reasonable hour. Sarah’s former roommate, Silvia, stayed until the wee hours of the morning. She’s from Spain, but speaks excellent English, and is clearly a dear friend and a convivial personality. I’m very glad to have met her, and Sarah’s other friends, too. Can’t remember the last time we stayed up that late!
London, Day Three
Poor Sarah, she had to get up and go to work at 10 in the morning! We had the luxury of sleeping in, fatigue compounded by the dreary weather – our dose of London rain for the visit. Slowly, slowly, we got ourselves ready, stopped in to see Sarah, who was very busy at the optician’s where she works, got some breakfast at Starbucks (a US phenom that has not yet made it to France, and given the café culture here, probably never will), and took the underground to Baker Street, where we embarked on a ½ day double-decker bus tour of the city. Our guide for the majority of the trip was both knowledgeable and witty, making priceless remarks about the Morris dancers in Trafalgar Square, London bobbies, and the ongoing unofficial postal strike (“When in residence at Buckingham Palace, the Queen receives her mail by horse-drawn carriage. The rest of us, on the other hand, don’t receive our mail at all.”).
A bizarre occurrence prevented us from crossing the famous Tower Bridge. Apparently, a single man dressed in a Spiderman outfit selected this particular day to climb up on a crane at one end of the bridge so that he could unfurl a banner in support of fathers’ participation in joint custody cases. Why Spiderman? Why climb up a crane? Why today? Oh well.
We got off the bus and boarded a boat (cruise included in our bus tour ticket price), for an hour-long ride along the Thames. As the sun set, we got a better look at Big Ben, the Tower of London, and assorted other sights. After the tour, we got back to our original location, Picadilly Circus to pick up some souvenirs before heading back to Golder’s Green.
Tired and hungry, we were thrilled to get back to Sarah’s and find that she had made a big pot of delicious lentil soup. We ate well, packed up our stuff, and spent the evening just hanging out. Getting to bed early was a welcome treat, especially since we had to get up early to catch our 7:40 Eurostar back to Paris…
A brief visit, but filled with pleasant activities, lots of buses, and many views of Big Ben!
We sincerely hope that Sarah will come spend a weekend with us in Paris in the spring so that we can return the favor!
The London Blog (Part I)
Hallow-London Express
Friday 31 October: Wake up MUCH too early to numbly dress, get Meredith up and at ‘em and into the stroller, and make our way through pre-dawn Paris. It’s a 15-minute walk to the Gare du Nord, and we find our way to the Eurostar check-in. At 6 a.m., the place is mobbed – apparently, the Eurostar people aren’t checking anyone in yet. We dutifully find the end of the line, good Americans that we are, and before long we’re moving. Of course, just as we’re getting to the actual check-in point they allow a whole bunch of people to skip ahead of us. On the up side, a friendly staff member sees that we have a child with us and lets us move along quickly.
We’ve barely gotten settled into a group of facing seats in the center of one car when the “doors are closing” announcement is made. Meredith is a bit too excited to sleep, and especially once the sun comes up, we know a nap is out of the question. Fortunately, we had picked up some small games and toys for her at a variety store in our neighborhood, which serve as entertainment for much of the journey. Breakfast helps, too. Bill goes to the dining car and gets us croissants, yogurt, and beverages. Remarkably good croissants, actually!
One of the activities we got for Meredith is a puzzle map of France. She has a similar one of the USA that we left back home, but of course we are much less familiar with the outlines of the regions of France than we are of the 50 states, and there are no dividing lines underneath the pieces to guide us, so we all learned some more about our foster home en route to London. Actually, Bill and Meredith learned a good deal more; I got to doze a bit!
We arrive in London just about on time, make sure to get our passports stamped, and wend our way into the Underground (or Tube) here at Waterloo station. Rather ironic that the trains from France should come to Waterloo, but whatever. Convenient vending machines and good directions from Sarah, coupled with a friendly (English-speaking, of course!) London transit worker get us onto the Northern Line in the right direction. Due to track work (there was a derailment a few days prior), we are forced to change trains anyway, but we get to Golder’s Green with few problems.
The London Underground is clean and quiet. The train platforms themselves seem much smaller than those in NYC and Paris, and the trains themselves are shaped like tubes. Bill had to duck his head getting on and off the trains – they are quite curved! The seats are upholstered and they are divided by arm rests, very comfortable.
We follow Sarah’s walking directions from the bustling station (and bus depot) into a pleasant, leafy, residential neighborhood. She welcomes us warmly, of course – it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her, much more since Bill has – and helps us unload our stuff from the stroller, etc. Meredith about jumps into her arms, which makes all of us very happy. Sarah has to leave for school (she’s a grad student in counseling psych), but she gives us the lowdown on traveling and lunch options and entrusts us with the only set of keys to her place.
Sarah lives in a quite spacious studio apartment. A full bath, walk-in closet, and well-equipped kitchen are all adjacent to a comfortably-sized main room, which accommodates a desk and chair, futon, coffee table, 2 arm chairs, a dining table with three chairs, an armoir, bookcases, and other assorted stuff. The beauty part, we realize, is that Meredith is the perfect size to sleep in the walk-in closet, which even has a little window. In some respects, this layout is preferable to what we have in Paris. Who would have thought?
After Sarah’s departure, we spend some time deciding where to go. I suggest Picadilly Circus, since it’s central and always hopping, sort of like Times Square. We discuss the fact that there’s no such location in Paris. For all of its beautiful buildings, parks, theaters, and museums, there’s just no “downtown” Paris. Anyway, we get back on the tube and emerge into the crowds, drift around Leicester Square and are treated to a “performance” by the Swiss Bank glockenspiel, which is quite elaborate and plays such favorites as “In Dublin’s Fair City” and “Michelle, ma belle.” (I’m not kidding.) We decided we’re hungry and want to eat fish and chips. We find none. We buy a map. We wander around some more. We end up in Chinatown. There’s a place with a buffet that looks reasonable and good, but the seating is a flight up from the food, which seems like a bad configuration for a 3-year-old. No problem, they say, we have another restaurant.
Don’t know the address, says the proprietor, but it’s right by the Odeon. Can’t miss it.
Thirty minutes later, we finally come across the sister restaurant. We are cranky. There are no seats inside on the main level, says the host, but I can put you downstairs. Same shit, different restaurant. How about if we sit outside? I think, desperate to eat. “If you could just wipe off the chairs, they’re wet…” I say to the host. “Cool down,” he says. “We’ve been trying to find your restaurant for a half-hour,” I say. He waves me off. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. We eat at a tiny Chinese place next door where the staff is very friendly and lovely with Meredith. C’est la guerre, I suppose.
Meredith has been promised ice cream for dessert, and Sarah mentioned the Baskin-Robbins on the main strip near her house, so we tube it back to Golder’s Green for a cone (Mer) and two cups (Mom and Dad) at good ol’ BR. Then it’s back to Sarah’s for a nap. We are sound asleep when she gets back from work, but rise to the occasion, get dressed, put Meredith in her bear outfit, and get ready for Halloween in London!
We take a series of city buses all around town. Sarah knows the bus routes extremely well, and we have by that time purchased all-day transit passes that more than pay for themselves. We see the Thames, its banks alit. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye (a big ferris-wheel contraption that British Airways put in for the millennium), Picadilly Circus (again), and downtown shopping with the earliest signs of Christmas decoration (Wedgewood’s window features enormous ornaments made from dishes and cutlery – quite beautiful and cleverly done!). We walk across the Golden Jubilee bridge, where Meredith encounters another little girl in costume. This girl wriggles out of her coat to show us that not only is she dressed as a fairy, she also has wings! We are much appreciative. That’s about it as far as costumed people go, apart from the drunk collecting money for the homeless who had vampire teeth and ghost stickers on his cheeks. He approaches us as we’re waiting for one of the buses involved in our tour, and Meredith is initially afraid, but she’s all right once he takes the fake teeth out.
We return to Golder’s Green around 10 p.m., tired and hungry and ready to get those fish and chips. Bill stays to take them away (in London, you take away rather than take out), while Sarah, Meredith and I go home to get into our pyjamas, or to get Meredith into hers, anyway. The fish is extraordinarily good – very fresh, very crispy, very tasty. The chips – England’s answer to frites – are a pale comparison to the French version, but decent nonetheless. After dinner, we get Meredith’s teeth brushed and Aunt Sarah tells her a very long and entertaining bedtime story. We’re bushed, but it’s been a fun day.
Friday 31 October: Wake up MUCH too early to numbly dress, get Meredith up and at ‘em and into the stroller, and make our way through pre-dawn Paris. It’s a 15-minute walk to the Gare du Nord, and we find our way to the Eurostar check-in. At 6 a.m., the place is mobbed – apparently, the Eurostar people aren’t checking anyone in yet. We dutifully find the end of the line, good Americans that we are, and before long we’re moving. Of course, just as we’re getting to the actual check-in point they allow a whole bunch of people to skip ahead of us. On the up side, a friendly staff member sees that we have a child with us and lets us move along quickly.
We’ve barely gotten settled into a group of facing seats in the center of one car when the “doors are closing” announcement is made. Meredith is a bit too excited to sleep, and especially once the sun comes up, we know a nap is out of the question. Fortunately, we had picked up some small games and toys for her at a variety store in our neighborhood, which serve as entertainment for much of the journey. Breakfast helps, too. Bill goes to the dining car and gets us croissants, yogurt, and beverages. Remarkably good croissants, actually!
One of the activities we got for Meredith is a puzzle map of France. She has a similar one of the USA that we left back home, but of course we are much less familiar with the outlines of the regions of France than we are of the 50 states, and there are no dividing lines underneath the pieces to guide us, so we all learned some more about our foster home en route to London. Actually, Bill and Meredith learned a good deal more; I got to doze a bit!
We arrive in London just about on time, make sure to get our passports stamped, and wend our way into the Underground (or Tube) here at Waterloo station. Rather ironic that the trains from France should come to Waterloo, but whatever. Convenient vending machines and good directions from Sarah, coupled with a friendly (English-speaking, of course!) London transit worker get us onto the Northern Line in the right direction. Due to track work (there was a derailment a few days prior), we are forced to change trains anyway, but we get to Golder’s Green with few problems.
The London Underground is clean and quiet. The train platforms themselves seem much smaller than those in NYC and Paris, and the trains themselves are shaped like tubes. Bill had to duck his head getting on and off the trains – they are quite curved! The seats are upholstered and they are divided by arm rests, very comfortable.
We follow Sarah’s walking directions from the bustling station (and bus depot) into a pleasant, leafy, residential neighborhood. She welcomes us warmly, of course – it’s been more than a year since I’ve seen her, much more since Bill has – and helps us unload our stuff from the stroller, etc. Meredith about jumps into her arms, which makes all of us very happy. Sarah has to leave for school (she’s a grad student in counseling psych), but she gives us the lowdown on traveling and lunch options and entrusts us with the only set of keys to her place.
Sarah lives in a quite spacious studio apartment. A full bath, walk-in closet, and well-equipped kitchen are all adjacent to a comfortably-sized main room, which accommodates a desk and chair, futon, coffee table, 2 arm chairs, a dining table with three chairs, an armoir, bookcases, and other assorted stuff. The beauty part, we realize, is that Meredith is the perfect size to sleep in the walk-in closet, which even has a little window. In some respects, this layout is preferable to what we have in Paris. Who would have thought?
After Sarah’s departure, we spend some time deciding where to go. I suggest Picadilly Circus, since it’s central and always hopping, sort of like Times Square. We discuss the fact that there’s no such location in Paris. For all of its beautiful buildings, parks, theaters, and museums, there’s just no “downtown” Paris. Anyway, we get back on the tube and emerge into the crowds, drift around Leicester Square and are treated to a “performance” by the Swiss Bank glockenspiel, which is quite elaborate and plays such favorites as “In Dublin’s Fair City” and “Michelle, ma belle.” (I’m not kidding.) We decided we’re hungry and want to eat fish and chips. We find none. We buy a map. We wander around some more. We end up in Chinatown. There’s a place with a buffet that looks reasonable and good, but the seating is a flight up from the food, which seems like a bad configuration for a 3-year-old. No problem, they say, we have another restaurant.
Don’t know the address, says the proprietor, but it’s right by the Odeon. Can’t miss it.
Thirty minutes later, we finally come across the sister restaurant. We are cranky. There are no seats inside on the main level, says the host, but I can put you downstairs. Same shit, different restaurant. How about if we sit outside? I think, desperate to eat. “If you could just wipe off the chairs, they’re wet…” I say to the host. “Cool down,” he says. “We’ve been trying to find your restaurant for a half-hour,” I say. He waves me off. I cannot for the life of me figure out why. We eat at a tiny Chinese place next door where the staff is very friendly and lovely with Meredith. C’est la guerre, I suppose.
Meredith has been promised ice cream for dessert, and Sarah mentioned the Baskin-Robbins on the main strip near her house, so we tube it back to Golder’s Green for a cone (Mer) and two cups (Mom and Dad) at good ol’ BR. Then it’s back to Sarah’s for a nap. We are sound asleep when she gets back from work, but rise to the occasion, get dressed, put Meredith in her bear outfit, and get ready for Halloween in London!
We take a series of city buses all around town. Sarah knows the bus routes extremely well, and we have by that time purchased all-day transit passes that more than pay for themselves. We see the Thames, its banks alit. Big Ben, the Houses of Parliament, the London Eye (a big ferris-wheel contraption that British Airways put in for the millennium), Picadilly Circus (again), and downtown shopping with the earliest signs of Christmas decoration (Wedgewood’s window features enormous ornaments made from dishes and cutlery – quite beautiful and cleverly done!). We walk across the Golden Jubilee bridge, where Meredith encounters another little girl in costume. This girl wriggles out of her coat to show us that not only is she dressed as a fairy, she also has wings! We are much appreciative. That’s about it as far as costumed people go, apart from the drunk collecting money for the homeless who had vampire teeth and ghost stickers on his cheeks. He approaches us as we’re waiting for one of the buses involved in our tour, and Meredith is initially afraid, but she’s all right once he takes the fake teeth out.
We return to Golder’s Green around 10 p.m., tired and hungry and ready to get those fish and chips. Bill stays to take them away (in London, you take away rather than take out), while Sarah, Meredith and I go home to get into our pyjamas, or to get Meredith into hers, anyway. The fish is extraordinarily good – very fresh, very crispy, very tasty. The chips – England’s answer to frites – are a pale comparison to the French version, but decent nonetheless. After dinner, we get Meredith’s teeth brushed and Aunt Sarah tells her a very long and entertaining bedtime story. We’re bushed, but it’s been a fun day.
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