We have a family tradition of Friday Night Dinner. This does not involve the celebration of Shabbat, per se, as our tradition is one of going out to eat on Friday nights. This dates back to Bill's childhood, and we picked it back up during our 2-year stint in Asheville. Why not keep it up in Paris?
Full disclosure: My kids love RoTel and Velveeta "queso" and Ranch Dressing, just like all red-blooded American kids, but without those options, they are expanding their palates in inspirational directions. The French tend not to dine out with their children, it seems, but the younger set are normally treated extremely well by restaurant staff.
We have been out for three such dinners. Meredith requested the first one by stating what she wanted to eat: Moules frites. Mussels and fries. I remembered a non-chain place that offered them for a reasonable price that wasn't too far away, so that was our first night out. An Orangina cost as much as a kir, so they're obviously making up for the 9 euro moules-frites deal by the drink. We shared a delicious Dame blanche (a.k.a hot fudge sundae) for dessert. Our server was a sweetheart, brought us more bread and kept the carafes of water coming.
For our second dinner out, Meredith requested the restaurant by name. Le Tambour (the Drum) is one of the few Parisian restaurants that is open 24 hours. In a row (thank you Stephen Wright). I was first taken there by the friend of a friend back in 1997 and I have been back many times, with many different people. And although there is English on the menu, the place is not a tourist trap. The prices are great, the food is fresh (traditional French, mainly), and the staff are great. The children's meal is a great deal -- main course, drink and dessert for 15 euro, if memory serves. Mine both chose the steak haché (that would be something like a hamburger sans bun), whilst I enjoyed 6 escargots (well, 5, actually, since Meredith wanted to try one) and a seafood salad with mussels, salmon, shrimp and calamari on greens. We had a slice of chocolate cake and a chocolate crème brulée for dessert. And my 2 glasses of Brouilly were only 4 euros 50!
Last Friday, I chose the restaurant. We went to Chartier, which has been in operation since the late 19th century. It is huge and bustling and the tables get turned over multiple times during the night, a rarity for a French restaurant. You can check out their menu every day online, something I enjoy doing with my French classes when we're discussing food and restaurants. There is not children's menu, but the prices are reasonable enough -- and the portions of a non-excessive size -- for us to each order our own meal. I had leeks vinaigrette, steak-frites, and a coffee, which were all great, whilst Thayer enjoyed an oeuf dur mayonnaise (hard-boiled egg with spicy mayo) followed by his first choucroute, which amounts to several kinds of meat served with boiled potatoes and sauerkraut. He ate it right up! Meredith, my gourmet in the making, had her own escargots this time, followed by a steak haché au poivre. She was loving it all until she bit into a peppercorn and about burst into flames. A few swigs of water later and she was back to her normal, happy self.
I have no doubt that we will enjoy other food-related adventures during the remaining weeks of our trip. Couscous on Friday, perhaps? I'm thinking that Thayer is still too young to handle the crazy fondue place, so that will wait another year (at least). In the mean time, Bon appétit!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Monday, June 28, 2010
I'm here to see the Ambassador.
Notbing like a little trip to the American Embassy to remind you that freedom isn't free.
As it happens, my husband and my father-in-law jointly own a piece of property. They now have a buyer for it and want to close on the sale by the end of July. As it happens, the Great State of North Carolina recognizes spouses in real estate sales (but, clearly, not in purchases!). So I need to give my father-in-law Power of Attorney so that he can complete the transaction.
American notaries in Paris are obviously a rare breed. I inquired amongst some lawyer friends who live here permanently, but none of them were able to assist me. The last time I needed such a thing (back in 1998, I believe), I was able to just show up at the American Embassy, stand in line, fork over some money, and get 'er done. Fortunately, I was tipped off by one of my bestie pals, who happens to be an expat, that Embassy practices have changed (perhaps owing to 9/11, or to technological improvements, or both); appointments for notarization must be made in advance, via internet booking.
The earliest appointment I could get was for today (I logged on at least 10 days ago!) at 13:30. I was coming from the library, just a couple of metro stops from the Embassy, but I remembered that when my pal Helene lost her passport (that was in 1987, mind you), she wasn't allowed to bring her blow-dryer into the Consulate with her, so I decided to leave my laptop at the library. Good thing, too: computers are strictly not allowed.
Neither are: cell phones, digital camera cables, lipsticks, jump drives, vials of Airborne tablets, tubes of hand cream, small refillable tubs of wet wipes, or flashlights in the shape of little pink pigs. All of these items were taken out of my tote bag and placed in a numbered, clear plastic ziploc bag; I was given a claim ticket for the contents. I was really hoping to get a smile out of the security guard when he pulled out the pig. No go.
Nearly all of the staff of the Embassy that I heard speak were French. The security guards were all French, as were the majority of the front-line counter staff members. Once inside, I had to take a number and have a seat. And here I saw a variety of small dramas playing themselves out.
The guy sitting next to me was tapping his foot. A lot. It didn't take much for me to see, from the papework he was holding onto, that his passport had gone missing. And he was number C834. Number C833 was at the window almost the entire time that I had to wait to be called (I was in a different queue, with number D907), poor C834 looked like he was going to pop a vein. "C'mon, dude," he said, under his breath. I was relieved that his number came up, so to speak, before mine did.
When mine did, the woman at the counter was obviously French, but spoke to me in English. Fine with me. I explained that North Carolina has particular regulations; she sighed. The French may have more regulation and bureaucracy than we do, but it is centralized and pertains to everyone; everyone suffers the same torture. None of this States' Rights crap. She took my document and my passport, then filled out a form that I had to take to the cashier's window. $30 for the service. What a racket.
I also had to line up a witness. I had overheard the woman in front of me at the number-getting machine say that she was there for a notary, as well, so I approached her to ask if she wouldn't mind staying another few minutes to sign as my witness. The Embassy website clearly states that their staff cannot perform this function; I could have brought my own witness if I had so desired, but really, who would I want to inflict this experience on? Fortunately, she agreed.
And then we waited some more. I overheard a French man talking about why he wants to go to the US for some extended period of time (I honestly don't know how long the French can come for as visa-less visitors). Then a couple wheeled in a pram. Who wants to take their little baby out in 90-degree, searing Paris sun? Well, someone who wants their baby to have American citizenship, of course! The dad was explaining quite a bit of his life story (where he had gone to University, where he had lived since then, his employment history -- I couldn't hear it all, but it was extensive), and I realized that if he were not married to the baby's French mother, it could be difficult to establish paternity (I will refrain here from making untoward comments about the French and infidelity, but you can fill in your own comments here: ).
After another 20 minutes, my witness was called up to Window 19. Three minutes later, so was I. Here, at last, a real American! He was just finishing up with Witness woman, who told me she was honored that I chose her. Glad I was able to make her day. We all signed and then sealed, and then I had to go to another window to get my document back because the notary wanted to affix the pages together with a big metal gromit. Sporting of him!
And that is all. Took about an hour from start to finish. I exited the building, feeling a little uneasy at the repeated signs saying that there was no re-entry without another appointment, but once I got my little pink pig flashlight back, I felt a lot better.
As it happens, my husband and my father-in-law jointly own a piece of property. They now have a buyer for it and want to close on the sale by the end of July. As it happens, the Great State of North Carolina recognizes spouses in real estate sales (but, clearly, not in purchases!). So I need to give my father-in-law Power of Attorney so that he can complete the transaction.
American notaries in Paris are obviously a rare breed. I inquired amongst some lawyer friends who live here permanently, but none of them were able to assist me. The last time I needed such a thing (back in 1998, I believe), I was able to just show up at the American Embassy, stand in line, fork over some money, and get 'er done. Fortunately, I was tipped off by one of my bestie pals, who happens to be an expat, that Embassy practices have changed (perhaps owing to 9/11, or to technological improvements, or both); appointments for notarization must be made in advance, via internet booking.
The earliest appointment I could get was for today (I logged on at least 10 days ago!) at 13:30. I was coming from the library, just a couple of metro stops from the Embassy, but I remembered that when my pal Helene lost her passport (that was in 1987, mind you), she wasn't allowed to bring her blow-dryer into the Consulate with her, so I decided to leave my laptop at the library. Good thing, too: computers are strictly not allowed.
Neither are: cell phones, digital camera cables, lipsticks, jump drives, vials of Airborne tablets, tubes of hand cream, small refillable tubs of wet wipes, or flashlights in the shape of little pink pigs. All of these items were taken out of my tote bag and placed in a numbered, clear plastic ziploc bag; I was given a claim ticket for the contents. I was really hoping to get a smile out of the security guard when he pulled out the pig. No go.
Nearly all of the staff of the Embassy that I heard speak were French. The security guards were all French, as were the majority of the front-line counter staff members. Once inside, I had to take a number and have a seat. And here I saw a variety of small dramas playing themselves out.
The guy sitting next to me was tapping his foot. A lot. It didn't take much for me to see, from the papework he was holding onto, that his passport had gone missing. And he was number C834. Number C833 was at the window almost the entire time that I had to wait to be called (I was in a different queue, with number D907), poor C834 looked like he was going to pop a vein. "C'mon, dude," he said, under his breath. I was relieved that his number came up, so to speak, before mine did.
When mine did, the woman at the counter was obviously French, but spoke to me in English. Fine with me. I explained that North Carolina has particular regulations; she sighed. The French may have more regulation and bureaucracy than we do, but it is centralized and pertains to everyone; everyone suffers the same torture. None of this States' Rights crap. She took my document and my passport, then filled out a form that I had to take to the cashier's window. $30 for the service. What a racket.
I also had to line up a witness. I had overheard the woman in front of me at the number-getting machine say that she was there for a notary, as well, so I approached her to ask if she wouldn't mind staying another few minutes to sign as my witness. The Embassy website clearly states that their staff cannot perform this function; I could have brought my own witness if I had so desired, but really, who would I want to inflict this experience on? Fortunately, she agreed.
And then we waited some more. I overheard a French man talking about why he wants to go to the US for some extended period of time (I honestly don't know how long the French can come for as visa-less visitors). Then a couple wheeled in a pram. Who wants to take their little baby out in 90-degree, searing Paris sun? Well, someone who wants their baby to have American citizenship, of course! The dad was explaining quite a bit of his life story (where he had gone to University, where he had lived since then, his employment history -- I couldn't hear it all, but it was extensive), and I realized that if he were not married to the baby's French mother, it could be difficult to establish paternity (I will refrain here from making untoward comments about the French and infidelity, but you can fill in your own comments here: ).
After another 20 minutes, my witness was called up to Window 19. Three minutes later, so was I. Here, at last, a real American! He was just finishing up with Witness woman, who told me she was honored that I chose her. Glad I was able to make her day. We all signed and then sealed, and then I had to go to another window to get my document back because the notary wanted to affix the pages together with a big metal gromit. Sporting of him!
And that is all. Took about an hour from start to finish. I exited the building, feeling a little uneasy at the repeated signs saying that there was no re-entry without another appointment, but once I got my little pink pig flashlight back, I felt a lot better.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
France's National Pastime
For generations, the French have taken to the streets to protest things. Their idea of a strike is not because the Teamsters need a better contract (although work-related strikes are not uncommon here, either); this kind of a strike is for all citizens to disrupt life as we know it to let the Government know that something they want to do is very, very bad. In 1968, a strike by a group of 100 or so University students grabbed headlines and within a few days 11 million people were on strike. For two weeks. Brought down the government, it did (de Gaulle had to go into hiding!). There were strikes before that and plenty since (my students, who have read Zazie dans le métro, will recall that a métro strike figures into the plot): some are wildcat or reactionary, others are planned and announced well in advance.
Yesterday, France went on a General Strike. And when I say France, I mean somewhere between 1 and 2 million people (can you ever get a good number?) did not work yesterday to let the Government know they they want to be able to retire at age 60. The French Government, in the face of a fiscal crisis at least as bad as the one we're dealing with the States, has proposed a roll-back of retirement benefits to age 62.
The French are not pleased about this. They take to the streets for lots of reasons, but this one is viewed as especially justified, as the right to retire is critical to the French sense of well-being. The very idea of losing two years of retirement would make my blood pressure go up -- And if two years are taken away now, who's to say that 2 more won't be up for grabs in the next 10 years?
Who was on strike yesterday? Well, depending on the union, 18-40% of workers got the day off, with the expectation that they would participate in demonstrations. Teachers, day care staff, train conductors, airline personnel, mail carriers -- you name it, some subset of the population was likely en grève yesterday. To be fair, international travel tends to be excepted from this practice, so foreigners are less likely to be terribly affected (that's not to say that it couldn't happen, though!)
My day started off well. The metro ride to the library, about 9:30 AM yesterday, did not seem particularly affected. I had a coffee at the bar of a nearby café (many of you know that if you stand at the bar, you will pay less for your crème than if you were to sit at a table), and passed through BN "security" just about 10 AM. I walked up the 2 flights of stairs to the reading room, only to find that it was closed. The reading room staff had gone on strike! Not the security guard, not the coat-check person, the library workers. Dang.
At least I hadn't planned to spend the whole day at the BN! But wait, would the Cinémathèque, where I've only been once before, be shut down as well? I needed to buy more minutes for my cell phone (I have a pay-as-you-go jobbie), so I wandered into another café to do that, then realized that I didn't have the Cinémathèque number with me. So I decided to head home and regroup at a place where I know the internet connection is reliable. I had to wait about 7 minutes for a train back, which is quite a while for a weekday. I noticed later on a video screen that, as part of the strike, 1 out of 3 trains were not running.
Once home, I located the number for the Cinémathèque was assured by a nameless person who answered the phone that the Research Area (Espace Chercheurs) would be open. I got some lunch and headed down there. Fortunately, the nameless person was mostly correct; I got in right on time (the EC opens at 1 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays), but there were signs posted that there would be an "exceptional" early closing "due to disruptions relating to the strike" -- This made me wonder if they wanted to make sure that staff would get home in a timely way, or what. In any event, I was planning on leaving the library around 5 as it was, so that was fine.
The trains were very crowded on the way home. Business not quite as usual, but not as bad as it could have been. Today, everything was back to normal, with (to me) surprisingly little mention of the Strike at all. Unlikely that anything else will be scheduled until September. Who wants to go on strike when you're already enjoying your 5 weeks of paid vacation?
Yesterday, France went on a General Strike. And when I say France, I mean somewhere between 1 and 2 million people (can you ever get a good number?) did not work yesterday to let the Government know they they want to be able to retire at age 60. The French Government, in the face of a fiscal crisis at least as bad as the one we're dealing with the States, has proposed a roll-back of retirement benefits to age 62.
The French are not pleased about this. They take to the streets for lots of reasons, but this one is viewed as especially justified, as the right to retire is critical to the French sense of well-being. The very idea of losing two years of retirement would make my blood pressure go up -- And if two years are taken away now, who's to say that 2 more won't be up for grabs in the next 10 years? Who was on strike yesterday? Well, depending on the union, 18-40% of workers got the day off, with the expectation that they would participate in demonstrations. Teachers, day care staff, train conductors, airline personnel, mail carriers -- you name it, some subset of the population was likely en grève yesterday. To be fair, international travel tends to be excepted from this practice, so foreigners are less likely to be terribly affected (that's not to say that it couldn't happen, though!)
My day started off well. The metro ride to the library, about 9:30 AM yesterday, did not seem particularly affected. I had a coffee at the bar of a nearby café (many of you know that if you stand at the bar, you will pay less for your crème than if you were to sit at a table), and passed through BN "security" just about 10 AM. I walked up the 2 flights of stairs to the reading room, only to find that it was closed. The reading room staff had gone on strike! Not the security guard, not the coat-check person, the library workers. Dang.
At least I hadn't planned to spend the whole day at the BN! But wait, would the Cinémathèque, where I've only been once before, be shut down as well? I needed to buy more minutes for my cell phone (I have a pay-as-you-go jobbie), so I wandered into another café to do that, then realized that I didn't have the Cinémathèque number with me. So I decided to head home and regroup at a place where I know the internet connection is reliable. I had to wait about 7 minutes for a train back, which is quite a while for a weekday. I noticed later on a video screen that, as part of the strike, 1 out of 3 trains were not running.
Once home, I located the number for the Cinémathèque was assured by a nameless person who answered the phone that the Research Area (Espace Chercheurs) would be open. I got some lunch and headed down there. Fortunately, the nameless person was mostly correct; I got in right on time (the EC opens at 1 PM on Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays), but there were signs posted that there would be an "exceptional" early closing "due to disruptions relating to the strike" -- This made me wonder if they wanted to make sure that staff would get home in a timely way, or what. In any event, I was planning on leaving the library around 5 as it was, so that was fine.
The trains were very crowded on the way home. Business not quite as usual, but not as bad as it could have been. Today, everything was back to normal, with (to me) surprisingly little mention of the Strike at all. Unlikely that anything else will be scheduled until September. Who wants to go on strike when you're already enjoying your 5 weeks of paid vacation?
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
The Waiting, the waiting, the waiting, the waiting, the WAYYYYYYY-TING!
This is actually a line from Shrek: The Musical, which I saw on Broadway last summer. It was great.
We needed some waiting humor today, since we spent the day at Disneyland Paris. We all had a wonderful time (you can read some initial reflections about DLRP from our original blog), and the kids behaved beautifully for 98% of the day.
I will be the first to admit that I didn't plan our day extremely well, but I did a couple of things right.
The Parks were scheduled to open at 10 and I got us there by 9:15 -- we were in Disney Studios by 9:45, freshly purchased Annual Passes in hand. Took a whirl on Aladdin's Flying Carpets (which turned out to be a great decision because Dumbo is undergoing serious refurbishment), and called in a lunch reservation at the Café des Stars.
Then, the waiting began. The sign said 60 minutes for Crush's Coaster; do we dare? The kids were motivated. We waiting *only* 45 minutes for a 4-minute (?) ride. Great theming, great coaster. Both of them loved it (though Thayer finds Bruce the Shark scary). Then, a potty break and one of my favorite attractions, Cinémagique, a tribute to the history of the movies featuring Martin Short and Julie Delpy, lots of classic film clips, and some great special effects. We were hungry afterwards, and it was time for lunch.
Café des Stars is not a great venue; it was supposed to be modeled on the Hollywood backlot cafeteria, but there's not a lot to it, physically speaking. In the past couple of years, it was re-themed for Ratatouille, a great idea for a restaurant that happens to be in France (there is a shocking dearth of local culture; Disneyland is a little American outpost, really!). The kids got to meet Remy, the hero of the film, who is the size of a small rat and circulates around the restaurant on a platter; he interacts with you table-side, along with a human escort who pushes him around on a dining cart. Just like in the movie, Remy cannot speak to humans, but he can communicate with them. I have no earthly idea how this effect was pulled off, but we all loved meeting him! Plus, the food was great -- a huge variety of salads and cold entrées (paté, grilled veggies, dolmades, carottes rapées), main courses (tiny drumsticks, roasted chicken, short ribs, zucchini gratinée, boeuf bourgignon, plus pizza, penne, meatballs and sauce for the highly unadventuresome), and desserts (fresh fruit, yogurt, pudding, fruit tarts, brownies, tiramisu, passion fruit cheesecake, baba au rhum, crêpes...). My 2 glasses of wine were less than 6 euros. And coffee came with.
The kids were most excited about the vegetable soup and the ratatouille, since both dishes figure into the movie's plot. They both loved the soup; Thayer didn't care for the ratatouille, which is not a surprise given his normal reaction to tomatoes in forms other than sauce or ketchup. But he tried it.
We finished up lunch in time to catch Stitch Live in French. This is an amazing motion-capture attraction; animated Stitch interacts with the audience to everyon's delight. I had forgotten how well-executed it was. Really entertaining.
We then left the Studios (around 2 pm, now) in favor of the Disneyland Park proper (what we Americans would think of as the Magic Kingdom). Picked up FastPasses for Peter Pan, which provided us with a window of time for later in the day when we could essentially jump the line, hen headed over for nearly an hour of waiting for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. That was the worst wait of the day, I'd say. Meredith really wanted to ride, and the FastPass time was coming up as during the parade, which posed a problem. Anyway, we did it, puting in about an hour of wait time. It is a great roller coaster, actually. Headed from there to the Phantom Manor (that's French for Haunted Mansion), and then, before staking out our seats for the parade, we rode the Storybook Boat. The kids love this; to me, it's completely missable. However, there is never any line to speak of, so it was easy to fit in. I got us some cold drinks and we sat in a shady spot to wait (about 40 minutes) for the parade to start.
Disney does some great parades! This Once Upon A Dream Parade has been in place for a while, but now includes Tiana, from The Princess and the Frog, who has her own little float and who did her dance routine (with her prince) right in front of us. We had great character luck today, actually. Got to say hi, hug, and get photos with Mickey, Minny, Remy, and Stitch at various times during the morning without much hassle at all. I also had a brief exchange with The Mad Hatter as he worked the ropes during the parade. That was all good.
Post-parade, we zipped over to Casey Jr., which is one of my favorite rides but has seriously slow loading and seats very few people at once. We waited about 20 minutes for that, then rode It's a Small World before our FastPass time for Peter Pan. That was great -- we had virtually no wait at all for the Park's single most popular ride. Then we rode Pinocchio (20 minutes more in line) and Buzz Lightyear's Star Command (another 20 minutes, but the theming during the wait is wonderful and therefore less enervating).
Could it be 8 already? We stopped for a hot dog to eat on the way home. And to pick up a jigsaw puzzle that will keep us entertained at home for a while. Thayer fell sound asleep on the train back into the city (about 40 minutes) while Meredith and I dozed a bit. They are already coming up with a list of things to do next time! I was proud of my babes today: They did not clamor for purchases, or complain of fatigue, the whole day long. This time. Still, I'll take it!
We needed some waiting humor today, since we spent the day at Disneyland Paris. We all had a wonderful time (you can read some initial reflections about DLRP from our original blog), and the kids behaved beautifully for 98% of the day.
I will be the first to admit that I didn't plan our day extremely well, but I did a couple of things right.
The Parks were scheduled to open at 10 and I got us there by 9:15 -- we were in Disney Studios by 9:45, freshly purchased Annual Passes in hand. Took a whirl on Aladdin's Flying Carpets (which turned out to be a great decision because Dumbo is undergoing serious refurbishment), and called in a lunch reservation at the Café des Stars.
Then, the waiting began. The sign said 60 minutes for Crush's Coaster; do we dare? The kids were motivated. We waiting *only* 45 minutes for a 4-minute (?) ride. Great theming, great coaster. Both of them loved it (though Thayer finds Bruce the Shark scary). Then, a potty break and one of my favorite attractions, Cinémagique, a tribute to the history of the movies featuring Martin Short and Julie Delpy, lots of classic film clips, and some great special effects. We were hungry afterwards, and it was time for lunch.
Café des Stars is not a great venue; it was supposed to be modeled on the Hollywood backlot cafeteria, but there's not a lot to it, physically speaking. In the past couple of years, it was re-themed for Ratatouille, a great idea for a restaurant that happens to be in France (there is a shocking dearth of local culture; Disneyland is a little American outpost, really!). The kids got to meet Remy, the hero of the film, who is the size of a small rat and circulates around the restaurant on a platter; he interacts with you table-side, along with a human escort who pushes him around on a dining cart. Just like in the movie, Remy cannot speak to humans, but he can communicate with them. I have no earthly idea how this effect was pulled off, but we all loved meeting him! Plus, the food was great -- a huge variety of salads and cold entrées (paté, grilled veggies, dolmades, carottes rapées), main courses (tiny drumsticks, roasted chicken, short ribs, zucchini gratinée, boeuf bourgignon, plus pizza, penne, meatballs and sauce for the highly unadventuresome), and desserts (fresh fruit, yogurt, pudding, fruit tarts, brownies, tiramisu, passion fruit cheesecake, baba au rhum, crêpes...). My 2 glasses of wine were less than 6 euros. And coffee came with.
The kids were most excited about the vegetable soup and the ratatouille, since both dishes figure into the movie's plot. They both loved the soup; Thayer didn't care for the ratatouille, which is not a surprise given his normal reaction to tomatoes in forms other than sauce or ketchup. But he tried it.
We finished up lunch in time to catch Stitch Live in French. This is an amazing motion-capture attraction; animated Stitch interacts with the audience to everyon's delight. I had forgotten how well-executed it was. Really entertaining.
We then left the Studios (around 2 pm, now) in favor of the Disneyland Park proper (what we Americans would think of as the Magic Kingdom). Picked up FastPasses for Peter Pan, which provided us with a window of time for later in the day when we could essentially jump the line, hen headed over for nearly an hour of waiting for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. That was the worst wait of the day, I'd say. Meredith really wanted to ride, and the FastPass time was coming up as during the parade, which posed a problem. Anyway, we did it, puting in about an hour of wait time. It is a great roller coaster, actually. Headed from there to the Phantom Manor (that's French for Haunted Mansion), and then, before staking out our seats for the parade, we rode the Storybook Boat. The kids love this; to me, it's completely missable. However, there is never any line to speak of, so it was easy to fit in. I got us some cold drinks and we sat in a shady spot to wait (about 40 minutes) for the parade to start.
Disney does some great parades! This Once Upon A Dream Parade has been in place for a while, but now includes Tiana, from The Princess and the Frog, who has her own little float and who did her dance routine (with her prince) right in front of us. We had great character luck today, actually. Got to say hi, hug, and get photos with Mickey, Minny, Remy, and Stitch at various times during the morning without much hassle at all. I also had a brief exchange with The Mad Hatter as he worked the ropes during the parade. That was all good.
Post-parade, we zipped over to Casey Jr., which is one of my favorite rides but has seriously slow loading and seats very few people at once. We waited about 20 minutes for that, then rode It's a Small World before our FastPass time for Peter Pan. That was great -- we had virtually no wait at all for the Park's single most popular ride. Then we rode Pinocchio (20 minutes more in line) and Buzz Lightyear's Star Command (another 20 minutes, but the theming during the wait is wonderful and therefore less enervating).
Could it be 8 already? We stopped for a hot dog to eat on the way home. And to pick up a jigsaw puzzle that will keep us entertained at home for a while. Thayer fell sound asleep on the train back into the city (about 40 minutes) while Meredith and I dozed a bit. They are already coming up with a list of things to do next time! I was proud of my babes today: They did not clamor for purchases, or complain of fatigue, the whole day long. This time. Still, I'll take it!
Monday, June 21, 2010
I've been adopted!
I have an adoptive grandfather, as of today, and I'm pretty happy about it.
Two years ago, thanks to connections with UCO, I was introduced to Dr. H., an Egyptian national who has lived in Paris for many years. He and I hit it off from the start and over the course of the summer of 2008, he met my mom, my kids, and my husband. He even came to see us at a restaurant on the eve of our departure, just to wish us a bon retour! We have had some phone and email contact since then, but he travels frequently and as we were only available in Paris for just over a week last year, we failed to get together.
Dr. H. is already making up for lost time. I emailed him on Friday to let him know I was in town with the children. He called on Sunday morning. "Hello, beautiful Professor!" he says, in his charming accent, "When can we see each other? How about tomorrow?" I have a pretty full day planned, so I suggest Wednesday, instead. "I will try to stay here," he replies. The man travels a great deal To me, he is an international man of mystery. Later in the day, I find out that my dear friend M will be in Paris just for the day on Wednesday; we make lunch plans. I call Dr. H. back to let him know that tomorrow (Monday) will work out after all. He is most pleased.
He calls me around 12:30 this afternoon. "Can you please meet me at the Café de la Paix?" he asks. Can I? It's about a 5-minute walk from the library where I'm working, and a landmark in and of itself, facing the old Opera House. He calls me again, 15 minutes later, "Are you there already? I am coming. Please get us a table." So the elegantly dressed and highly professional staff get me seated at a banquette. I order some Badoit (French sparkling water) and he calls again so that he can find me (it is a big place, with lots of subdivisions). He finds me, shakes my hand, and settles in.
I remember that he loves places like this. He took me for tea at the Ritz in '08, and to the Grand Café des Capucines for lunch. The prices at this place are eye-popping (2-course prix fixe at 35 euro?!), but of course the location is paramount. He asks me if I am going to be a carnivore or a skin diver; I tell him I'd like the veal. He orders veal, as well, but a different dish. Dr. H. doesn't drink, himself (I imagine that he is Muslim, but we have not discussed religion very specifically), but he encourages me to have a glass of wine. What the hey, if I'm going to have this fabulous lunch?
And it is indeed. A beautifully prepared piece of meat in a gorgeous, light red wine sauce with a few tender, plump gnocchi and perfectly prepared spring onions. I eat every morsel. And we talk and talk. He has three cell phones on the table, all of which ring (very unobtrusively, I might add) during our time together. He is so happy for me and my grant. He wants to introduce me to his friends at the UNESCO, and I should give a talk at the American University and at the American Culture Center. About American movie heroes. And I should organize a summer school for American families that want to learn French -- with classes for children and adults, and outings and lots of discussion about French and American culture. "I want you to make important, lasting connections during your time here," he says. Who am I to disagree?
He asks about my mother, who is on Safari in Africa (she should have her own blog!); "a beautiful lady, and what a traveller!" says Dr. H. He also wants to know about the children, and my husband. "He works with the Army," Dr. H. recalls. "He is a very good person." He wants to see everyone. And we will be here for his birthday, in August, which makes him even happier.
At various times, I find him just beaming at me. "I am so very happy to see you," he says. He pulls a leather folder out of his coat pocket and says, "I want to make for you a gift." And he hands me a coin. An old coin. With Napoleon III on it! Wow! I am speechless. "I feel like I am your grandfather, " he says (I really think he's rather from my parents' generation, but my guess is that he thinks I'm a fair amount younger than I am). "I will adopt you."
Then the dessert comes. It's called "Pop Fizz" on the menu. I have no idea why. It is not fizzy or soda-pop-like in the least. It is rather like some Pop Art structure -- brightly colored rectangles of painted white chocolate layered with three kinds of mousse -- pistachio, lemon, and raspberry. It is small and light, with great bursts of intense flavor (perhaps there's the pop...) A la carte, 15 euros.
As our coffee arrives, so does a friend of Dr. H's. An Egyptian musician and actor also based in Paris, he bears a slight resemblance to Howard Stern (lots of hair!). He's doing a cabaret concert at the end of July. He would love for me to attend. I don't see why not, actually. And while we're chatting, Dr. H gets up and pays the bill. And would like to see me tomorrow, so we can make our plans for the UNESCO and the American Culture Center. But, alas, I cannot. And he will, in fact, be travelling on Wednesday. But he has a catalog of film and media information that he wants me to have right away. "I will make sure that you receive it," he says. I have no doubt.
His friend asks me if I've ever been to Egypt. "I am planning her trip," says Dr. H., "to the library in Alexandria." We all leave together. "We are your bodyguards," says Dr. H, "Now, go back to work." It is now 3 p.m. I kiss him on both cheeks and wish him safe travels. And go back to work.
Two years ago, thanks to connections with UCO, I was introduced to Dr. H., an Egyptian national who has lived in Paris for many years. He and I hit it off from the start and over the course of the summer of 2008, he met my mom, my kids, and my husband. He even came to see us at a restaurant on the eve of our departure, just to wish us a bon retour! We have had some phone and email contact since then, but he travels frequently and as we were only available in Paris for just over a week last year, we failed to get together.
Dr. H. is already making up for lost time. I emailed him on Friday to let him know I was in town with the children. He called on Sunday morning. "Hello, beautiful Professor!" he says, in his charming accent, "When can we see each other? How about tomorrow?" I have a pretty full day planned, so I suggest Wednesday, instead. "I will try to stay here," he replies. The man travels a great deal To me, he is an international man of mystery. Later in the day, I find out that my dear friend M will be in Paris just for the day on Wednesday; we make lunch plans. I call Dr. H. back to let him know that tomorrow (Monday) will work out after all. He is most pleased.
He calls me around 12:30 this afternoon. "Can you please meet me at the Café de la Paix?" he asks. Can I? It's about a 5-minute walk from the library where I'm working, and a landmark in and of itself, facing the old Opera House. He calls me again, 15 minutes later, "Are you there already? I am coming. Please get us a table." So the elegantly dressed and highly professional staff get me seated at a banquette. I order some Badoit (French sparkling water) and he calls again so that he can find me (it is a big place, with lots of subdivisions). He finds me, shakes my hand, and settles in.
I remember that he loves places like this. He took me for tea at the Ritz in '08, and to the Grand Café des Capucines for lunch. The prices at this place are eye-popping (2-course prix fixe at 35 euro?!), but of course the location is paramount. He asks me if I am going to be a carnivore or a skin diver; I tell him I'd like the veal. He orders veal, as well, but a different dish. Dr. H. doesn't drink, himself (I imagine that he is Muslim, but we have not discussed religion very specifically), but he encourages me to have a glass of wine. What the hey, if I'm going to have this fabulous lunch?
And it is indeed. A beautifully prepared piece of meat in a gorgeous, light red wine sauce with a few tender, plump gnocchi and perfectly prepared spring onions. I eat every morsel. And we talk and talk. He has three cell phones on the table, all of which ring (very unobtrusively, I might add) during our time together. He is so happy for me and my grant. He wants to introduce me to his friends at the UNESCO, and I should give a talk at the American University and at the American Culture Center. About American movie heroes. And I should organize a summer school for American families that want to learn French -- with classes for children and adults, and outings and lots of discussion about French and American culture. "I want you to make important, lasting connections during your time here," he says. Who am I to disagree?
He asks about my mother, who is on Safari in Africa (she should have her own blog!); "a beautiful lady, and what a traveller!" says Dr. H. He also wants to know about the children, and my husband. "He works with the Army," Dr. H. recalls. "He is a very good person." He wants to see everyone. And we will be here for his birthday, in August, which makes him even happier.
At various times, I find him just beaming at me. "I am so very happy to see you," he says. He pulls a leather folder out of his coat pocket and says, "I want to make for you a gift." And he hands me a coin. An old coin. With Napoleon III on it! Wow! I am speechless. "I feel like I am your grandfather, " he says (I really think he's rather from my parents' generation, but my guess is that he thinks I'm a fair amount younger than I am). "I will adopt you."
Then the dessert comes. It's called "Pop Fizz" on the menu. I have no idea why. It is not fizzy or soda-pop-like in the least. It is rather like some Pop Art structure -- brightly colored rectangles of painted white chocolate layered with three kinds of mousse -- pistachio, lemon, and raspberry. It is small and light, with great bursts of intense flavor (perhaps there's the pop...) A la carte, 15 euros.
As our coffee arrives, so does a friend of Dr. H's. An Egyptian musician and actor also based in Paris, he bears a slight resemblance to Howard Stern (lots of hair!). He's doing a cabaret concert at the end of July. He would love for me to attend. I don't see why not, actually. And while we're chatting, Dr. H gets up and pays the bill. And would like to see me tomorrow, so we can make our plans for the UNESCO and the American Culture Center. But, alas, I cannot. And he will, in fact, be travelling on Wednesday. But he has a catalog of film and media information that he wants me to have right away. "I will make sure that you receive it," he says. I have no doubt.
His friend asks me if I've ever been to Egypt. "I am planning her trip," says Dr. H., "to the library in Alexandria." We all leave together. "We are your bodyguards," says Dr. H, "Now, go back to work." It is now 3 p.m. I kiss him on both cheeks and wish him safe travels. And go back to work.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Perfectly fine for Sunday, the day off.
That's a line from Stephen Sondheim's Sunday in the Park with George, which remains (25 year later!) one of my favorite Broadway shows.
France has a tradition-laden culture, and by tradition, I mean hundreds of years of it. No matter how secularized the mainstream Republic might be, Sunday is the day off, the day of rest. The vast majority of shops are closed, from the boulangérie downstairs to the grands magasins like Printemps and Galéries Lafayette. Not that the French don't enjoy Sunday shopping -- there are a limited number of Sundays that the stores are permitted to be open, and they are mobbed on these days! Supermarkets are closed; small convenience stores -- known officially as Alimentations Générales but more commonly as "arabes" (because they are run by people of Arab heritage, like the "Korean markets" found all over New York City) -- are open, but buyer beware! The prices are high!
Not that Parisians are going to church -- they are hardly practicing, these nominal Catholics. They are, however, worshiping in their own way. More often than not, the French spend Sunday with their families, often outside of the city, for a relaxing day together. So, not having any family in Paris, what do we do? Well, we eat. Last Sunday, our friend J joined us for some amazingly delicious felafel in the old Jewish district (and by old, I mean Medieval). There are lots of Chasids or other ultra-orthodox here in the Marais, black hats and long coats worn by young men and old men (last year, Meredith asked her dad if they were Pilgrims, who were ultra-orthodox in their own way, actually!). Most of the businesses in this area are closed on Saturday, for Shabbat, but open on Sunday, so it's a great destination. And the felafel? Delicious.
From there, we went to a museum -- most of the museums are open on Sunday, which could constitute worship of another sort. We headed up to the Cité des Sciences (Sciene City), especially to take in an exhibit called "Bon appétit" that teaches kids about the biology of eating, as well as the development of regional diets, the impact of television and advertising on food consumption, and other tidbits. We all took turns at the recipe station, which chooses a recipe for you based o your responses to a series of questions. We spent a good deal of time there, but also checked out some of the Universe exhibit -- very extensive! -- and another on vehicles, which included a Smart Car. We bid farewell to J on the metro home, a Sunday well spent.
Today was also a fun Sunday. We slept late, which was a treat for all, then ate a light breakfast (fruit, mostly) and enjoyed Sunday morning cartoons (which really deserve a post of their own!), then got dressed and took the metro to meet our friends E and M for brunch. E is French, M is American; they are both attorneys and moved to Paris from Oklahoma about 2 years ago now (wow! hard to believe!).
E found this restaurant on a Paris destination website, and it was quite charming. The kids' menu involved hot chocolate and pancakes, mostly, plus dessert; grownups could choose from "bio" (organic), English, or the house breakfast -- all of which included 1/2 a bagel, eggs of some kind, veggies (I had a small baked potato and a green salad), plus coffee, juice, and dessert. Chocolate mousse, panna cotta, or fromage blanc with citrus sauce (they were all great). A tasty and lovely 2 hours whiled away while we caught up some and tried to keep the kids entertained between courses.
It was quite cool when we left, se we walked back to the metro and said our goodbyes (we will certainly see them again soon!). Back at home, we watched some World Cup soccer and I considered taking us out for a movie, but literally nothing appropriate for the kids was showing later than 3 PM. Instead, we enjoyed the DVD of "Le Soldat Rose" -- a French musical comedy for children that featured catchy tunes and lyrics. Our Franco-American pals loaned it to us and we will be looking for our own copy! We also called Daddy and Gramps wot wish them a happy Father's Day. Soup and salad for dinner and then to bed, although it's 10:45 and they are still whispering together.
The idea of an imposed day of rest does not come easily to me, but I will be the first to admit that I feel happier and more relaxed for having spent these days at a relaxed pace, in the company of friends. I also had time to do some planning for the busy week ahead, which I felt badly in need of throughout all of last week, so this effort has improved my outlook, as well. I hope the rest of our Sundays are equally enjoyable!
France has a tradition-laden culture, and by tradition, I mean hundreds of years of it. No matter how secularized the mainstream Republic might be, Sunday is the day off, the day of rest. The vast majority of shops are closed, from the boulangérie downstairs to the grands magasins like Printemps and Galéries Lafayette. Not that the French don't enjoy Sunday shopping -- there are a limited number of Sundays that the stores are permitted to be open, and they are mobbed on these days! Supermarkets are closed; small convenience stores -- known officially as Alimentations Générales but more commonly as "arabes" (because they are run by people of Arab heritage, like the "Korean markets" found all over New York City) -- are open, but buyer beware! The prices are high!
Not that Parisians are going to church -- they are hardly practicing, these nominal Catholics. They are, however, worshiping in their own way. More often than not, the French spend Sunday with their families, often outside of the city, for a relaxing day together. So, not having any family in Paris, what do we do? Well, we eat. Last Sunday, our friend J joined us for some amazingly delicious felafel in the old Jewish district (and by old, I mean Medieval). There are lots of Chasids or other ultra-orthodox here in the Marais, black hats and long coats worn by young men and old men (last year, Meredith asked her dad if they were Pilgrims, who were ultra-orthodox in their own way, actually!). Most of the businesses in this area are closed on Saturday, for Shabbat, but open on Sunday, so it's a great destination. And the felafel? Delicious.
From there, we went to a museum -- most of the museums are open on Sunday, which could constitute worship of another sort. We headed up to the Cité des Sciences (Sciene City), especially to take in an exhibit called "Bon appétit" that teaches kids about the biology of eating, as well as the development of regional diets, the impact of television and advertising on food consumption, and other tidbits. We all took turns at the recipe station, which chooses a recipe for you based o your responses to a series of questions. We spent a good deal of time there, but also checked out some of the Universe exhibit -- very extensive! -- and another on vehicles, which included a Smart Car. We bid farewell to J on the metro home, a Sunday well spent.
Today was also a fun Sunday. We slept late, which was a treat for all, then ate a light breakfast (fruit, mostly) and enjoyed Sunday morning cartoons (which really deserve a post of their own!), then got dressed and took the metro to meet our friends E and M for brunch. E is French, M is American; they are both attorneys and moved to Paris from Oklahoma about 2 years ago now (wow! hard to believe!).
E found this restaurant on a Paris destination website, and it was quite charming. The kids' menu involved hot chocolate and pancakes, mostly, plus dessert; grownups could choose from "bio" (organic), English, or the house breakfast -- all of which included 1/2 a bagel, eggs of some kind, veggies (I had a small baked potato and a green salad), plus coffee, juice, and dessert. Chocolate mousse, panna cotta, or fromage blanc with citrus sauce (they were all great). A tasty and lovely 2 hours whiled away while we caught up some and tried to keep the kids entertained between courses.
It was quite cool when we left, se we walked back to the metro and said our goodbyes (we will certainly see them again soon!). Back at home, we watched some World Cup soccer and I considered taking us out for a movie, but literally nothing appropriate for the kids was showing later than 3 PM. Instead, we enjoyed the DVD of "Le Soldat Rose" -- a French musical comedy for children that featured catchy tunes and lyrics. Our Franco-American pals loaned it to us and we will be looking for our own copy! We also called Daddy and Gramps wot wish them a happy Father's Day. Soup and salad for dinner and then to bed, although it's 10:45 and they are still whispering together.
The idea of an imposed day of rest does not come easily to me, but I will be the first to admit that I feel happier and more relaxed for having spent these days at a relaxed pace, in the company of friends. I also had time to do some planning for the busy week ahead, which I felt badly in need of throughout all of last week, so this effort has improved my outlook, as well. I hope the rest of our Sundays are equally enjoyable!
Oh centre, my centre! Part Deux
So, it’s Saturday night and I haven’t yet posted about the children’s experience on Wednesday. Things have been a bit hectic around here, with the World Cup taking over our lives, dinner out last night (all material for upcoming posts!). Where were we?
Right, it’s now 5:30 Wednesday evening and I am waiting at the door to pick up Thayer (early pick-up is not allowed). I walk through the foyer, remembering to drop off the preferred dates for the summer, then through the windows of the main indoor space, I see Thayer running around and looking happy. He yells when he sees me, runs to give me a hug, ans I ask him how his day was. Très bien, Maman! He responds. I ask Karima, one of the staff members, if this is true. Oui, Madame, she confirms. I am pleased. We track down his backpack, teddy bear, and change of clothes (for some reason , they have been pulled from their plastic bag, but all right), and then Karima asks if Thayer had gone to school there last year. Apparently, his name came up in the Centre database. I explain that we have come and gone a few times. She seems cool with that.
Thayer tells me that he ran out of the building and into the street to look for me after I’d left. This does not please me. Then he tells me that he won a bon-bon because he played telephone so well. What was the sentence, I ask him? “Mon papa a une voiture rouge,” he replies, in French. I am amazed. With 20 minutes left to pick up Meredith, we head to the post office to buy stamps. He tells me that he had salad and fish and couscous for lunch, “mais pas d’olives. I said it in French, Mommy!” And he had a raspberry cake and applesauce for snack. And he played with Tristan and Isabelle. It all sounds good. And did he mention there was a parade thet went right in front of our apartment and he showed everyone where we live? Encore mieux! (even better!)
The doors to Meredith’s centre are open when we arrive. The front-desk guy is putting away his computer. He mentions that Meredith had a great day, but asked if we could pick her up right at 5:30. I mention that I cannot be in 2 places at once. He says I should enroll Thayer at a centre for young children that is even closer than Paradix (hee!). I think I will not be bothered.
Then Meredith appears, face painted like a cat. She shares that she has had a wonderful day – her group went on an outing to La Villette, which is a huge and fun-filled park just a few metro stops from us. Evidently, she became one of the main face painters and did a bunch of the other children. Another girl had loaned her a pretty hair elastic to keep it all off of her face. They had a picnic lunch with tuna salad and oranges, she reported. She also participated in a parade “of Romans” she said. I will need to verify.
As we’re leaving, one of the women staff members asks Meredith if she’ll be back next week. Meredith says no. I say yes. Meredith looks very pleased! On the street, we saw another girl with face paint. Meredith runs over to her and gives her bisous (that’s French for little kisses on both cheeks) and explains that she, Meredith, painted this girl’s face. My girl seems so proud and happy!
It would seem that the day was an unqualified success. And the pizza was delicious, as well! Next stop: paperwork, paperwork, paperwork.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Oh centre, my centre! Part I
Today was a big day.
Last night, I got the kids to bed early (for us, here, by 9 is early...) and we picked out clothes to wear so that those decisions did not have to be made in the morning. We had gone out earlier and purchased special breakfast foods as well, so that there would be extra incentive to get up out of bed, dressed, and downstairs.
Then I got all of the paperwork that I could think of ready and sorted: passports, birth certificates, vaccination records, my phone numbers (home and cell), and the quittance de loyer for June. A quittance is like a rent receipt; it shows that you are paid up for living at a specific address. I also filled out the forms that indicate which dates I want them to attend their centres de loisirs during the summer vacation (which starts July 5 and continues through August 31).
Before I go any further, I should explain what exactly a centre is. It's rather like a public day care, but with a dose of summer camp thrown in. During the academic year, centres operate on Wednesdays, when there is no school (that's right, no school on Wednesdays in France; there are 1/2 days on Saturday starting in middle school, I believe, but younger kids only go to school 4 days each week). Many parents work, and not all of them have Wednesday baby sitters, so these "leisure centers" are held in the school buildings (but not in the classrooms) and families are billed by the city for each day attended. I will talk about the billing in a bit.
The city has established a fee scale that involves 8 categories. While we might have a free/redueced/full pay lunch program at our schools, in Paris there are 7 categories of "reduction" that you can establish by bringing your financials to your local school district office. By the way, the top rate is under 11 euros a day, for a full day (9-5:30) that includes lunch and a snack (more on that later).
The after-care program at my kids' elementary school is $15 for three hours, including a snack, but you can see how reasonable this program is!
Okay, so centre activities are not that different from school at the Pre-K level: songs and games, arts and crafts, playground time, some outings. It's definitely less structured than French school, but works the same skills for the younger kids. For Elementary age kids, it's a lot of recess-type activities and camp crafts, some board games. No television. And lunch and a snack, of course!
Back to this morning. I woke the kids up around 7:40 and hustled them into their clothes and down to breakfast. This is easily 90 minutes earlier than they are used to, now that we are on Paris Vacation time. Even if I'm working full-time, they are on summer vacation. I am trying to respect that as much as possible! So they had their special breakfasts (he, a doughnut; she, a pain au chocolat) and watched some kid-friendly t.v. (I actually don't mind their watching French cartoons), and we were off.
First to her Elementary-age centre, which is less than a block from our apartment. I wanted to be there as the doors opened, at 8:20, so that I'd have time to enroll her and then get Thayer to his location; we were a couple of minutes early. It was cooler than it has been (also a little earlier in the morning than we are used to being outside!), so we stood inside the laundromat next door until the doors opened.
The receptionist was a friendly if hapless guy who could not find a form for me to fill out. Instead, he tore off a sheet of paper and had me copy information from another child's form. Name, address, DOB, and the like. And some information about me, and our address. And a signature and a date. I handed it over to him (the kids were being VERY good, sitting quietly on a nearby sofa) and he thanked me. Told me to be back by 6 to pick her up.
And that was all. No document inspection of any kind. He did ask me to go to the mairie (the district town hall) to find out how much I'm to be paying for her per day, but that was all. Hugs to Meredith, and we were on our way.
Thayer's centre is 3 blocks further away, on Rue du Paradis (Paradise Street!). The receptionist here was rather better organized than her counterpart up the street; she handed me the proper form and I scrunched onto a bench meant for much smaller people to fill it out. When I handed it over to her, she asked me for my documents. "What would you like?" I countered. This is not a full-disclosure society; give what you must, but don't divulge anything unnecessarily! "Justificatif d'adresse," she responds. So I hand her the quittance, which she glances at and hands back to me. "Livret de famille," she requests (and here, I am a bit ashamed to admit, I had to remind myself that just because she's not smiling, it does not mean that she's unfriendly or unpleasant. She's just French). I offer up Thayer's birth certificate, which she also takes a look at. All seems well.
Then she asks for Assurance Extra-scolaire. This is insurance to cover out-of-school activities. I do not have it and I don't think we ever have. I tell her we don't have it. She asks, nicely, for us to get it for next week. Also she'd like a copy of Thayer's vaccination record and wants us to go to the mairie to get the rate worked out. That is all.
So Thayer and I check out the activities -- there are wooden puzzles and mats to roll around on and paper and markers to color with. Thayer writes me a note: "I <3 U, Mama," it says, in big blue letters. I am loving him. Then he takes it back and adds another letter, changing Mama to Maman, which is French for Mommy. I am loving him more. I write his name in big purple bubble letters for him to color, promise him pizza for dinner if he's a good boy, and have him push me out (a farewell activity that we've been using since he was 3, or maybe younger!).
It is 9 AM. Both of my kids are ensconced for the day in a safe and stimulating environment. And I am on my way!
Now how did it go, I hear you ask? Well, that will have to wait until tomorrow's blog!
Last night, I got the kids to bed early (for us, here, by 9 is early...) and we picked out clothes to wear so that those decisions did not have to be made in the morning. We had gone out earlier and purchased special breakfast foods as well, so that there would be extra incentive to get up out of bed, dressed, and downstairs.
Then I got all of the paperwork that I could think of ready and sorted: passports, birth certificates, vaccination records, my phone numbers (home and cell), and the quittance de loyer for June. A quittance is like a rent receipt; it shows that you are paid up for living at a specific address. I also filled out the forms that indicate which dates I want them to attend their centres de loisirs during the summer vacation (which starts July 5 and continues through August 31).
Before I go any further, I should explain what exactly a centre is. It's rather like a public day care, but with a dose of summer camp thrown in. During the academic year, centres operate on Wednesdays, when there is no school (that's right, no school on Wednesdays in France; there are 1/2 days on Saturday starting in middle school, I believe, but younger kids only go to school 4 days each week). Many parents work, and not all of them have Wednesday baby sitters, so these "leisure centers" are held in the school buildings (but not in the classrooms) and families are billed by the city for each day attended. I will talk about the billing in a bit.
The city has established a fee scale that involves 8 categories. While we might have a free/redueced/full pay lunch program at our schools, in Paris there are 7 categories of "reduction" that you can establish by bringing your financials to your local school district office. By the way, the top rate is under 11 euros a day, for a full day (9-5:30) that includes lunch and a snack (more on that later).
The after-care program at my kids' elementary school is $15 for three hours, including a snack, but you can see how reasonable this program is!
Okay, so centre activities are not that different from school at the Pre-K level: songs and games, arts and crafts, playground time, some outings. It's definitely less structured than French school, but works the same skills for the younger kids. For Elementary age kids, it's a lot of recess-type activities and camp crafts, some board games. No television. And lunch and a snack, of course!
Back to this morning. I woke the kids up around 7:40 and hustled them into their clothes and down to breakfast. This is easily 90 minutes earlier than they are used to, now that we are on Paris Vacation time. Even if I'm working full-time, they are on summer vacation. I am trying to respect that as much as possible! So they had their special breakfasts (he, a doughnut; she, a pain au chocolat) and watched some kid-friendly t.v. (I actually don't mind their watching French cartoons), and we were off.
First to her Elementary-age centre, which is less than a block from our apartment. I wanted to be there as the doors opened, at 8:20, so that I'd have time to enroll her and then get Thayer to his location; we were a couple of minutes early. It was cooler than it has been (also a little earlier in the morning than we are used to being outside!), so we stood inside the laundromat next door until the doors opened.
The receptionist was a friendly if hapless guy who could not find a form for me to fill out. Instead, he tore off a sheet of paper and had me copy information from another child's form. Name, address, DOB, and the like. And some information about me, and our address. And a signature and a date. I handed it over to him (the kids were being VERY good, sitting quietly on a nearby sofa) and he thanked me. Told me to be back by 6 to pick her up.
And that was all. No document inspection of any kind. He did ask me to go to the mairie (the district town hall) to find out how much I'm to be paying for her per day, but that was all. Hugs to Meredith, and we were on our way.
Thayer's centre is 3 blocks further away, on Rue du Paradis (Paradise Street!). The receptionist here was rather better organized than her counterpart up the street; she handed me the proper form and I scrunched onto a bench meant for much smaller people to fill it out. When I handed it over to her, she asked me for my documents. "What would you like?" I countered. This is not a full-disclosure society; give what you must, but don't divulge anything unnecessarily! "Justificatif d'adresse," she responds. So I hand her the quittance, which she glances at and hands back to me. "Livret de famille," she requests (and here, I am a bit ashamed to admit, I had to remind myself that just because she's not smiling, it does not mean that she's unfriendly or unpleasant. She's just French). I offer up Thayer's birth certificate, which she also takes a look at. All seems well.
Then she asks for Assurance Extra-scolaire. This is insurance to cover out-of-school activities. I do not have it and I don't think we ever have. I tell her we don't have it. She asks, nicely, for us to get it for next week. Also she'd like a copy of Thayer's vaccination record and wants us to go to the mairie to get the rate worked out. That is all.
So Thayer and I check out the activities -- there are wooden puzzles and mats to roll around on and paper and markers to color with. Thayer writes me a note: "I <3 U, Mama," it says, in big blue letters. I am loving him. Then he takes it back and adds another letter, changing Mama to Maman, which is French for Mommy. I am loving him more. I write his name in big purple bubble letters for him to color, promise him pizza for dinner if he's a good boy, and have him push me out (a farewell activity that we've been using since he was 3, or maybe younger!).
It is 9 AM. Both of my kids are ensconced for the day in a safe and stimulating environment. And I am on my way!
Now how did it go, I hear you ask? Well, that will have to wait until tomorrow's blog!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Is that for here or to go?
My pal J, who is also spending the summer in France, suggested that I blog about this incident. Indeed, it is revealing about the French v. American systems, and about how deeply ingrained certain attitudes can be. Generally speaking, this event falls under the broad category of "not better or worse, just different," yet it took me a little while to see it that way.
When: Thursdsay, lunchtime
Where: Boulanger Paul, near the Opera House
Boulanger Paul is actually a chain of bakery/restaurants; they are now all over France (I had lunch at one in Colmar back in March) and possibly all over Europe (there are several in London, I noticed last year). In spite of its franchise nature, it is actually an excellent bakery. This is obvious when you see, at lunchtime, a long line of well-dressed business people -- and not badly dressed tourists -- waiting to place an order at Paul. If Parisians are willing to queue for something, take note! It's likely to be something good.
What: The French like the concept of a "value menu" -- here it would be called a "formule" or even a "menu" or, as we might know it, a "prix fixe" -- in most cases, it involves more than one course and a beverage (so the McDonald's burger + fries + coke for a few cents less than ordering those things individually is right up their alley). Paul has a number of formule, based on the kind of main dish you order (mainly, how elaborate your sandwich is, but they also serve salads).
As I mentioned, the place is hopping at lunch time, with most people getting their food to go (à emporter, to carry or take-away as the British say). The line moves swiftly, so decision-making must be timely or you risk the ire of those behind you in line as well as the staff behind the counter. This was a spotty day, weather wise; it had rained a bit early and threatened to do so again, so I wasn't keen on taking my lunch with me somewhere and getting drenched. So I order my formule (tuna sandwich, sparkling water, and a pastry) and say that I want to eat sur place (the opposite of "to go," or what know as "for here.") "Oh, non," says the woman behind the counter, "the formule are only à emporter."
In the words of Amy Pohler and Seth Meyers, Really?
I am a little ticked. That means that the exact same food that I'd be taking with me is now going to cost me a couple of euros more just because I want to sit down. Now, I know this is true at cafés, where sitting down with your coffee means you can "rent" the table for hours on end, but Paul is not a café.
In any event, I am directed to sit down at a table. Which I do, still a little bit miffed.
Then a staff person comes with my lunch. My sandwich has been cut in half and nicely presented on a real dish, with a healthy helping of green salad to boot. I feel a litle bit better. Then I get a carafe of water in addition to my sperkling, so I have much more to drink than I would have in the park (have I mentioned that I am always parched in Paris?). Then my pastry is delivered to my table in a little basket (it was delicious. So was the sandwich). Then, the server comes back and asks me if I'd like a coffee. I say, "Oui, s'il vous plaît." Definitely no coffee forthcoming at the park, and I have no coffee maker at home as of yet, so I have been missing coffee. It comes, in a lovely little cup, with a beautiful little meringue on the side. Nice touch.
The coup de grâce comes with the check, however. As I take a look (the coffee was only like 1 euro 20 -- really reasonable!), I realize what an American boob I am. Why must I pay more to sit down? How long have I spent in France? The service is INCLUDED, you idiot! I got waited on, sitting there in the dining area. At home, I would be adding 15% to the damn check anyway, without complaint. I did leave a little extra next to my coffee cup, as is customary, but everything felt right again. Plus, there was that meringue. Life is good.
When: Thursdsay, lunchtime
Where: Boulanger Paul, near the Opera House
Boulanger Paul is actually a chain of bakery/restaurants; they are now all over France (I had lunch at one in Colmar back in March) and possibly all over Europe (there are several in London, I noticed last year). In spite of its franchise nature, it is actually an excellent bakery. This is obvious when you see, at lunchtime, a long line of well-dressed business people -- and not badly dressed tourists -- waiting to place an order at Paul. If Parisians are willing to queue for something, take note! It's likely to be something good.
What: The French like the concept of a "value menu" -- here it would be called a "formule" or even a "menu" or, as we might know it, a "prix fixe" -- in most cases, it involves more than one course and a beverage (so the McDonald's burger + fries + coke for a few cents less than ordering those things individually is right up their alley). Paul has a number of formule, based on the kind of main dish you order (mainly, how elaborate your sandwich is, but they also serve salads).
As I mentioned, the place is hopping at lunch time, with most people getting their food to go (à emporter, to carry or take-away as the British say). The line moves swiftly, so decision-making must be timely or you risk the ire of those behind you in line as well as the staff behind the counter. This was a spotty day, weather wise; it had rained a bit early and threatened to do so again, so I wasn't keen on taking my lunch with me somewhere and getting drenched. So I order my formule (tuna sandwich, sparkling water, and a pastry) and say that I want to eat sur place (the opposite of "to go," or what know as "for here.") "Oh, non," says the woman behind the counter, "the formule are only à emporter."
In the words of Amy Pohler and Seth Meyers, Really?
I am a little ticked. That means that the exact same food that I'd be taking with me is now going to cost me a couple of euros more just because I want to sit down. Now, I know this is true at cafés, where sitting down with your coffee means you can "rent" the table for hours on end, but Paul is not a café.
In any event, I am directed to sit down at a table. Which I do, still a little bit miffed.
Then a staff person comes with my lunch. My sandwich has been cut in half and nicely presented on a real dish, with a healthy helping of green salad to boot. I feel a litle bit better. Then I get a carafe of water in addition to my sperkling, so I have much more to drink than I would have in the park (have I mentioned that I am always parched in Paris?). Then my pastry is delivered to my table in a little basket (it was delicious. So was the sandwich). Then, the server comes back and asks me if I'd like a coffee. I say, "Oui, s'il vous plaît." Definitely no coffee forthcoming at the park, and I have no coffee maker at home as of yet, so I have been missing coffee. It comes, in a lovely little cup, with a beautiful little meringue on the side. Nice touch.
The coup de grâce comes with the check, however. As I take a look (the coffee was only like 1 euro 20 -- really reasonable!), I realize what an American boob I am. Why must I pay more to sit down? How long have I spent in France? The service is INCLUDED, you idiot! I got waited on, sitting there in the dining area. At home, I would be adding 15% to the damn check anyway, without complaint. I did leave a little extra next to my coffee cup, as is customary, but everything felt right again. Plus, there was that meringue. Life is good.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Rules based on whimsy, enforced by those with only a little bit of power.
When you outwit the system in France, it's known as Système D. There are times when I've been able to do it, French mojo seeming to be working its magic. Othertimes, the system seems more powerful than any one individual and I can feel beaten down and bewildered by the French Powers That Be.
For example, getting the children enrolled in the French day camps is not a clear or easy task for an outsider, but working the system is effective and clear. I will enroll my two kids on Wednesday and will likely have a full report on that effort, and its results, for Wednesday night.
But take the Bibliothèque Nataionale, where I am conducting a fair amount of my research this summer. Some of the rules are clear and obvious; you must obtain a Reader's Card in order to access the collections. As a student, this is a huge hurdle that requires official, stamped letters of support, and an interview, but as a faculty member it is more of a simple enrollment process (already being in their computer system helps, too!).
Other aspects of the BN are not nearly so consistent. There is a coat check, for example. The first two days, I could take most everything with me, including my very handy handbag organizer, which allows me to just lift an inner "bag in a bag" from my tote to the clear plastic boxes that BN patrons must carry. This policy has been in effect at the big, new BN site for many years, but this year is the first time that I've encountered it at the site where I'm working. Hey, I'm all for consistency. No worries there.
Then on the third day, the low-level reading room staff member tells me that I'm not allowed to bring the bag organizer in to the reading room, even if it's inside the clear plastic box. I respond that the coat-check person encouraged me to bring it with me. Reading room person is unmoved and will not assign me a seat until I go back downstairs and into another building to put the bag organizer into my checked bag. I will not tempt fate again, but will heretofore leave the smaller bag behind.
More interesting, and sometimes more irritating, still, are the no-basis-in-reality rules associated with the research documents themselves. I find these shifting regulations especially funny because back in 2004, when I was working on my dissertation, the head archivist of this collection actually invited me into her office, thereby performing an end-run around *all* of the rules, and allowed me to examine documents and do my research at the desk next to hers. When she had meetings, I was left entirely alone with these materials. Talk about trust!
Down at the reading room, it's a different world. And depending on the day and on the lackey at the desk, I may be subject to any number of different protocols. One woman would only give me 3 file folders at a time; she handed them to me with the warning that I was not shuffle the materials from one folder to the next. Her colleague, the stickler for what goes in my plastic case, allowed me 5-8 file folders at a time (He got to choose how many), but no warning about mixing the stuff up. Other staff members have given me whole boxes at a time, and Friday after lunch I was given TWO boxes of materials. Imagine if I weren't careful?! Of course, the ready availability of the documents made Friday my most productive day yet. I'm hoping that girl is at the desk more often!
The French don't enjoy these unfounded and arbitrary expressions of power any more than Americans do, but as they are so very common, the French expect them more and accept them better, with fewer feathers ruffled. When I'm really working the Système D, I can manage to get an exception, if it suits me. That is powerful mojo, however, that must be saved for the most critical moments of interface with French rules and regulations. More on that Wednesday, I imagine!
For example, getting the children enrolled in the French day camps is not a clear or easy task for an outsider, but working the system is effective and clear. I will enroll my two kids on Wednesday and will likely have a full report on that effort, and its results, for Wednesday night.
But take the Bibliothèque Nataionale, where I am conducting a fair amount of my research this summer. Some of the rules are clear and obvious; you must obtain a Reader's Card in order to access the collections. As a student, this is a huge hurdle that requires official, stamped letters of support, and an interview, but as a faculty member it is more of a simple enrollment process (already being in their computer system helps, too!).
Other aspects of the BN are not nearly so consistent. There is a coat check, for example. The first two days, I could take most everything with me, including my very handy handbag organizer, which allows me to just lift an inner "bag in a bag" from my tote to the clear plastic boxes that BN patrons must carry. This policy has been in effect at the big, new BN site for many years, but this year is the first time that I've encountered it at the site where I'm working. Hey, I'm all for consistency. No worries there.
Then on the third day, the low-level reading room staff member tells me that I'm not allowed to bring the bag organizer in to the reading room, even if it's inside the clear plastic box. I respond that the coat-check person encouraged me to bring it with me. Reading room person is unmoved and will not assign me a seat until I go back downstairs and into another building to put the bag organizer into my checked bag. I will not tempt fate again, but will heretofore leave the smaller bag behind.
More interesting, and sometimes more irritating, still, are the no-basis-in-reality rules associated with the research documents themselves. I find these shifting regulations especially funny because back in 2004, when I was working on my dissertation, the head archivist of this collection actually invited me into her office, thereby performing an end-run around *all* of the rules, and allowed me to examine documents and do my research at the desk next to hers. When she had meetings, I was left entirely alone with these materials. Talk about trust!
Down at the reading room, it's a different world. And depending on the day and on the lackey at the desk, I may be subject to any number of different protocols. One woman would only give me 3 file folders at a time; she handed them to me with the warning that I was not shuffle the materials from one folder to the next. Her colleague, the stickler for what goes in my plastic case, allowed me 5-8 file folders at a time (He got to choose how many), but no warning about mixing the stuff up. Other staff members have given me whole boxes at a time, and Friday after lunch I was given TWO boxes of materials. Imagine if I weren't careful?! Of course, the ready availability of the documents made Friday my most productive day yet. I'm hoping that girl is at the desk more often!
The French don't enjoy these unfounded and arbitrary expressions of power any more than Americans do, but as they are so very common, the French expect them more and accept them better, with fewer feathers ruffled. When I'm really working the Système D, I can manage to get an exception, if it suits me. That is powerful mojo, however, that must be saved for the most critical moments of interface with French rules and regulations. More on that Wednesday, I imagine!
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Pay attention to the Guide!
One important detail of the timing of our trip involves the French school calendar. While my kids finished for the year on May 21st (extra early, actually, and strangely, but that's another story!), the Parisian children are in school this year until July 1. They then enjoy 9 weeks of vacation and return, refreshed, the first week of September (school starts on the 2nd).
So there will be lots of kid-friendly activities in July and August, but what to do in June? We considered hiring an American university student to come with us as an au pair, but that would require a larger, more expensive and less available apartment (it was hard enough to get what we got, considering our dates, actaually), and would also mean that the kids would be speaking primarily in Englsih during the month of June. I found that last bit particularly unacceptable.
What to do? I put out a call to my FB friends who live or spend considerable time in Paris, asking for both apartment and "babysitter" leads. One of the first came from my friend S, who is a French professor in the States but whose boyfriend of many years, Benoit, lives in Paris. Benoit has a nephew in his 20s, it turns out, who is au chômage (unemployed, an official status here in France). There's about 10% unemployment across the country, but the rate is much higher among those under age 25. So I contacted this person, who I'll call him M, and he was very enthusiastic about the offer.
M has been the children's guide for four days now. That's what they call him -- not the babysitter, not the au pair, but The Guide. He's tall, lanky, and a bit shaggy, also very calm and very engaged with the kids. After his first day, the kids asked if he could stay for dinner, and he accepted! And so we made pasta and salad and he and I had a glass of wine and celebrated his first day with us. The children now want him to stay for dinner every evening! I have helped him explain that he has friends and family who also want to spend time with him.
Plus he's got to be tired. They are busy all day long! He's already taken them to the science museum, a farmer's market, the canal, several parks, and to the movies. He's fed them crêpes and ice cream and leftovers. Together, they have made stuffed tomatoes and "little sweet and salty clouds" (whipped cream with salted caramel) and macaroni and cheese (brought from the US for this express purpose). They have shopped for food, postcards, and a special plaque for our mailbox. Next week, they have plans for a picnic in Luxembourg Gardens, a drop-in art class, and more. It's all good.
Not only are they being shown the city by a native, they are also speaking French with him all day long. Meredith is used to this sort of thing, but Thayer truly is not. I have already noticed an increase in T's French usage after just a few days. If nothing else good comes of our summer (and I suspect it will), my little man will have made some big linguistic leaps in a few weeks.
For a variety of reasons, I have always led a rather charmed life in Paris. I don't want to get over-confident, but M. has already enhanced our experience here. I am most grateful to S and B for helping us find him!
So there will be lots of kid-friendly activities in July and August, but what to do in June? We considered hiring an American university student to come with us as an au pair, but that would require a larger, more expensive and less available apartment (it was hard enough to get what we got, considering our dates, actaually), and would also mean that the kids would be speaking primarily in Englsih during the month of June. I found that last bit particularly unacceptable.
What to do? I put out a call to my FB friends who live or spend considerable time in Paris, asking for both apartment and "babysitter" leads. One of the first came from my friend S, who is a French professor in the States but whose boyfriend of many years, Benoit, lives in Paris. Benoit has a nephew in his 20s, it turns out, who is au chômage (unemployed, an official status here in France). There's about 10% unemployment across the country, but the rate is much higher among those under age 25. So I contacted this person, who I'll call him M, and he was very enthusiastic about the offer.
M has been the children's guide for four days now. That's what they call him -- not the babysitter, not the au pair, but The Guide. He's tall, lanky, and a bit shaggy, also very calm and very engaged with the kids. After his first day, the kids asked if he could stay for dinner, and he accepted! And so we made pasta and salad and he and I had a glass of wine and celebrated his first day with us. The children now want him to stay for dinner every evening! I have helped him explain that he has friends and family who also want to spend time with him.
Plus he's got to be tired. They are busy all day long! He's already taken them to the science museum, a farmer's market, the canal, several parks, and to the movies. He's fed them crêpes and ice cream and leftovers. Together, they have made stuffed tomatoes and "little sweet and salty clouds" (whipped cream with salted caramel) and macaroni and cheese (brought from the US for this express purpose). They have shopped for food, postcards, and a special plaque for our mailbox. Next week, they have plans for a picnic in Luxembourg Gardens, a drop-in art class, and more. It's all good.
Not only are they being shown the city by a native, they are also speaking French with him all day long. Meredith is used to this sort of thing, but Thayer truly is not. I have already noticed an increase in T's French usage after just a few days. If nothing else good comes of our summer (and I suspect it will), my little man will have made some big linguistic leaps in a few weeks.
For a variety of reasons, I have always led a rather charmed life in Paris. I don't want to get over-confident, but M. has already enhanced our experience here. I am most grateful to S and B for helping us find him!
Friday, June 11, 2010
Not bad, just different
So many things about life here are different from home. They are not necessarily better or worse, but they are not what I'm used to. Like the pink toilet paper, for example.
Take the doors. When I want to push, I need to pull. When I want to pull, I need to push. This happens a lot. I will get used to it.
How about that French computer keyboard? This is like the old joke about rearranging Helen Keller's furniture as a practical joike. There are just enough keys in different places to make a touch-typist such as myself a wee bit cranky. And when I'm in the library all day and using the French keyboard, I start to adjust to the fact that, for example, the q and the a are in opposite places, and that you have to shift and hit the American m key in order to type a period. Not better or worse, on the face of it, just different.
And the outlets, well, they are different, too. And the electricity they emit is powerful stuff. We learned long ago not to even bother with appliances that have motors over here, especially after we fried the second laser printer.
The paper is different. We use 8 1/2 by 11" paper, which is what exactly now? Anyway, the French (and all of Europe, I suspect) uses A4 paper. It's taller and skinnier than 81/2 x 11, which means it sticks out of my file folders and hangs off the edge of my clipboard. Also, no file folders here. They use pochettes, or large envelopes made of thick cardboard (like posterboard) or even some kinds of plastic, and they close with velcro (a French invention, did you know that?) or string or elastic.
And I can't leave this topic without mentioning the non-refrigerated eggs. The eggs are fine. They are not kept cool. I doubt that they've been radiated or anything creepy like that, but they can stay at room temperature. So can the milk, by the way, so long as it's unopened. The milk generally comes in rather heavy plastic bottles.
Tax is already included in the price of items on the shelf. That is what you pay, just like at the gas station back home. At cafés and restaurants, the tax and the tip are right there in the price on the menu. Just pay that and you're good to go. It's always nice to leave a little extra on table for the server, but there's strictly optional.
And since we just finished watching the World Cup match, I guess I can say that the French deal with a tie much better than we Americans do. I remember a time, back when I was in college, that American football games could end in a tie. No more. And tonight's match might have been 0-0, but we know who won, right?
Take the doors. When I want to push, I need to pull. When I want to pull, I need to push. This happens a lot. I will get used to it.
How about that French computer keyboard? This is like the old joke about rearranging Helen Keller's furniture as a practical joike. There are just enough keys in different places to make a touch-typist such as myself a wee bit cranky. And when I'm in the library all day and using the French keyboard, I start to adjust to the fact that, for example, the q and the a are in opposite places, and that you have to shift and hit the American m key in order to type a period. Not better or worse, on the face of it, just different.
And the outlets, well, they are different, too. And the electricity they emit is powerful stuff. We learned long ago not to even bother with appliances that have motors over here, especially after we fried the second laser printer.
The paper is different. We use 8 1/2 by 11" paper, which is what exactly now? Anyway, the French (and all of Europe, I suspect) uses A4 paper. It's taller and skinnier than 81/2 x 11, which means it sticks out of my file folders and hangs off the edge of my clipboard. Also, no file folders here. They use pochettes, or large envelopes made of thick cardboard (like posterboard) or even some kinds of plastic, and they close with velcro (a French invention, did you know that?) or string or elastic.
And I can't leave this topic without mentioning the non-refrigerated eggs. The eggs are fine. They are not kept cool. I doubt that they've been radiated or anything creepy like that, but they can stay at room temperature. So can the milk, by the way, so long as it's unopened. The milk generally comes in rather heavy plastic bottles.
Tax is already included in the price of items on the shelf. That is what you pay, just like at the gas station back home. At cafés and restaurants, the tax and the tip are right there in the price on the menu. Just pay that and you're good to go. It's always nice to leave a little extra on table for the server, but there's strictly optional.
And since we just finished watching the World Cup match, I guess I can say that the French deal with a tie much better than we Americans do. I remember a time, back when I was in college, that American football games could end in a tie. No more. And tonight's match might have been 0-0, but we know who won, right?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Funky apartment oddities
I have already mentioned some things that are normal and regular about Paris apartment living, such as the stairs and the code. I could also add a couple more:
Having noted these items, I will now try to explain the oddities of our particular living space. I will admit that these oddities were less surprising or stress-inducing than they would have been before we lived in France (you can read about those details in older blog entries, if you like).
This time, we knew in advance that the place was a duplex. Which means that there's a staircase within the apartment. We enter on the lover level and climb a metal spiral staircase to get to a good-size bedroom where the children are sleeping, head to toe, in a queen-size bed. This arrangement seems to be working out so far, for which I am grateful.
Also upstairs: la salle de bain. This is French for bathroom, but this is not a euphemism for toilet: this space comprises a sink and a small tub. There is no toilet in this room (although I did bring a potty chair with us and placed it in there).
So, where is the toilet, I hear you ask? Excellent question. It is not unusual for the toilet to be in a separate space from the sink and tub (hence the use of the term WC, or Water Closet, even in French), but they are ordinarily close together. Our toilet is downstairs, on the main floor of the apartment, but it not quite officially inside our apartment. See, I told you there were oddities!
This apartment was originally larger than it is now. There are clearly two entry doors on each floor of the building, one on the right and one on the left as you approach each landing, so the original configuration involved two apartments per floor. Once inside our entry door, however, there are two apartment doors. The one directly ahead is rented by a woman who works for Tiffany's (at least that's what my landlord told me). The one on the right is our apartment, and we have a key to that door.
But in the vestibule area between these two doors is our toilet. Once inside the door, there's a small foyer that leads to the kitchen/dining room through which you can access the living room (where my bed is and from there, the spiral staircase. And I like to keep my apartment door locked, thank you very much, so I must unlock the door, with the key, in order to get to the toilet. And since the landlord just installed a new floor, the door does not swing open smoothly or easily. Good thing I brought that potty chair!
- The hot water is EXCEEDINGLY hot out of the tap, and it is heated only on demand. The on-demand part I like (no tank to keep heated = big savings on gas bill), but the temperature I do not.
- Most buildings have a gardienne, normally a woman who lives in the building and who is responsible (in theory) for keeping the public areas clean, distributing the mail, and knowing everyone's business. Ours lives on the ground floor and keeps some lovely, healthy plants in the small courtyard adjacent to her apartment; we have been admiring a huge, beautiful lemon on her lemon tree.
- There are common garbage cans for the building, not unlike the ones we have at home (just smaller, so they fit through the interior doors), and there are a couple of bins for recycling, as well. These reside in the same courtyard with the aforementioned plants, which rather kills the garden atmosphere, but oh well.
Having noted these items, I will now try to explain the oddities of our particular living space. I will admit that these oddities were less surprising or stress-inducing than they would have been before we lived in France (you can read about those details in older blog entries, if you like).
This time, we knew in advance that the place was a duplex. Which means that there's a staircase within the apartment. We enter on the lover level and climb a metal spiral staircase to get to a good-size bedroom where the children are sleeping, head to toe, in a queen-size bed. This arrangement seems to be working out so far, for which I am grateful.
Also upstairs: la salle de bain. This is French for bathroom, but this is not a euphemism for toilet: this space comprises a sink and a small tub. There is no toilet in this room (although I did bring a potty chair with us and placed it in there).
So, where is the toilet, I hear you ask? Excellent question. It is not unusual for the toilet to be in a separate space from the sink and tub (hence the use of the term WC, or Water Closet, even in French), but they are ordinarily close together. Our toilet is downstairs, on the main floor of the apartment, but it not quite officially inside our apartment. See, I told you there were oddities!
This apartment was originally larger than it is now. There are clearly two entry doors on each floor of the building, one on the right and one on the left as you approach each landing, so the original configuration involved two apartments per floor. Once inside our entry door, however, there are two apartment doors. The one directly ahead is rented by a woman who works for Tiffany's (at least that's what my landlord told me). The one on the right is our apartment, and we have a key to that door.
But in the vestibule area between these two doors is our toilet. Once inside the door, there's a small foyer that leads to the kitchen/dining room through which you can access the living room (where my bed is and from there, the spiral staircase. And I like to keep my apartment door locked, thank you very much, so I must unlock the door, with the key, in order to get to the toilet. And since the landlord just installed a new floor, the door does not swing open smoothly or easily. Good thing I brought that potty chair!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
“Northwest Arkansas, we have a problem.”
After checking our bags and wending our way through an enormously long line at security, where we said our good-byes to Bill, we headed down to our gate, ready for an 11:30 AM flight to Chicago. Therefore, we were most ready when we finally boarded at around 1:00 PM (Fortunately, I had thought to bring lunch with us, which helped to pass the time, and new reading and activity materials also provided a diversion for the kids. Plus Meredith made stop-motion animation of her new stuffed rabbit with her camera. What will they think of next?). The plane was bigger than others I’ve flown on lately out of OKC; we had whole two seats on each side of the center aisle (Golly!). I sat with Thayer (he had a window seat) and Meredith was just across the aisle. C’était parti!
I heard the people in the row in front of us speaking in French, which I found a bit unusual for OKC, but of course made me happy. Meredith determined that they were a mother and grown-up son. We took off around 1:30 and I was feeling rather relaxed about the travel itinerary, as our connecting flight wouldn’t depart until 5:30 in the evening.
About 20 minutes after take-off, having just received our beverages (we were pretty far back in the plane, therefore among the first served), the drink cart was parked just in front of our row. Suddenly, the man in front of me practically hurdled over the cart and hustled to the front of the plane. I became briefly fearful: was there some kind of scuffle up there? Were we safe? Quite a number of people, including both flight attendants, were hopping over seats and grabbing supplies.
It soon became clear that there was a medical emergency of some kind, then the plane started to turn sharply and began a rapid descent, the likes of which I have never experienced. The captain came over the loudspeaker to let us know that we were making an emergency landing in NorthWest Arkansas (which turned out to be in Denton, home of Wal-Mart). Word passed through the plane that the ill passenger was having a seizure. Turns out, Meredith’s seatmate and his two travel companions were also doctors (one cardiologist, one neurologist…), but other medical personnel were on top of the situation, including, especially, the man seated directly in front of me.
Once we landed, we taxied at an extremely fast clip toward the airport terminal, where Fire Department EMTs quickly boarded the plane. A fuel tank also arrived, as we had burned quite a bit of gas in that brief but speedy descent. Fortunately, everyone remained calm and let the experts get to work.
The Frenchman, Léo, is in fact an emergency room doctor. I chatted briefly with him and his mother after he had returned to his seat and we were back underway to Chicago (we left NXA around 2:30), and the entire cabin enjoyed free drinks and snacks for the remainder of the flight. This made the whole plan very chatty, of course! So I learned that he is from just outside Paris, but got more information as we were waiting for our gate-checked hand luggage. He and his mom were in OKC for a wedding. The bride and groom were also on the flight, on their way to St. Croix for their honeymoon.
I then met the bride, Elizabeth, who has just finished medical school. I told her I lived in central OKC, and she replied, “I grew up in Crown Heights and we got married at Our Lady.” “And, you know,” she continued, “my mom is active with the Alliance Française.” And then it all came together. The Parisian visitors, the wedding, and my friend Ginny! Léo is the godson of Ginny’s husband, Bob, and they have stayed close all these years later. I had never met their daughter, but knew about her and about her wedding, and have spent time at her home. Quelle coïncidence!
Turns out that Léo and his mom were on our same flight to Paris, so I had the chance to chat with them a bit more before boarding our connection. This much longer trip, almost 8 hours altogether, proved blissfully uneventful. We had certainly had enough excitement for one day of travel.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
You know you're in Paris when...
Yes, we (Meredith, Thayer and myself) have made it safely to Paris. I was last here for a short stint in March, but as a traveller, teacher, and guide; I stayed in a hotel and mostly escorted my students around the city.
Now we are here for 10 weeks and living in an apartment, just getting established takes more time than the average American (if there is such a thing) might imagine.
The smoking: So much more of it here. Everywhere that it's allowed, and some places where it's not. And there are not restrictions about how far away from a building entrance you must be in order to smoke, so right outside the door of many places (notably, the airport) are smoke-a-riffic.
The special house key: you do not ever want to lose a French key. The replacement will cost you a fortune.
The code: So you can literally get in the front door. Many, if not most, French apartments are *not* equipped with a buzzer system, or with a front door key, so knowing the code is essential. And you have to remember to ask for the code when you're visiting someone's home. And how to get to their apartment, since they are generally not numbered.
The stairs: There are always stairs. There are frequently not elevators, as the 19th century redevelopment of Paris took place just prior to the invention of the elevator. Some buildings have remarkable retro-fitted elevators; ours does not. We are on the 4th floor, which would be the 5th floor at home. 5 flights every time (I've done them just once today, so far, but have at least one more trip planned for later). Who needs a StairMaster?
The cell phone: Iphones are proprietary, courtesy of France Telecom, a.k.a. Orange. I bought a chip (une puce) for 15 euros that activated the phone and gave me a few minutes of outgoing calls. Incoming calls are unlimited, like an American landline, so having the phone helps a great dea.
The toilet paper: Default color is pink. Vive la France!
Now we are here for 10 weeks and living in an apartment, just getting established takes more time than the average American (if there is such a thing) might imagine.
The smoking: So much more of it here. Everywhere that it's allowed, and some places where it's not. And there are not restrictions about how far away from a building entrance you must be in order to smoke, so right outside the door of many places (notably, the airport) are smoke-a-riffic.
The special house key: you do not ever want to lose a French key. The replacement will cost you a fortune.
The code: So you can literally get in the front door. Many, if not most, French apartments are *not* equipped with a buzzer system, or with a front door key, so knowing the code is essential. And you have to remember to ask for the code when you're visiting someone's home. And how to get to their apartment, since they are generally not numbered.
The stairs: There are always stairs. There are frequently not elevators, as the 19th century redevelopment of Paris took place just prior to the invention of the elevator. Some buildings have remarkable retro-fitted elevators; ours does not. We are on the 4th floor, which would be the 5th floor at home. 5 flights every time (I've done them just once today, so far, but have at least one more trip planned for later). Who needs a StairMaster?
The cell phone: Iphones are proprietary, courtesy of France Telecom, a.k.a. Orange. I bought a chip (une puce) for 15 euros that activated the phone and gave me a few minutes of outgoing calls. Incoming calls are unlimited, like an American landline, so having the phone helps a great dea.
The toilet paper: Default color is pink. Vive la France!
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