The Bold Soul

Roundabout

I seem to have discovered a rather roundabout way to expand my French vocabulary. I am teaching English to a 13-year-old girl. She's the daughter of a good friend of Georges; she is learning English in school but she seems to have been struggling with it, and her parents decided a tutor was in order. How nice that her mother thought to ask me if I'd like to help; I'd been thinking about doing some English tutoring for some time, and this is the perfect opportunity, plus the girl in question is just adorable and very eager to learn. I couldn't ask for more as a tutor!

I would have expected that having this concentrated time (4 hours/week) in English would drive me further away from my goal of fluency in French, but now after just three sessions with my new étudiante, I suspect the opposite may prove to be true. We are splitting up our sessions into a combination of doing her regular, assigned English homework and reviewing her notes from her classroom work (yesterday it was Le Comparatif and Le Superlatif adjectives, as in "good, better, best" and "more difficult, most difficult, less difficult, least difficult"), and general discussion where I get her to be more comfortable with conversation and I correct her pronunciation and grammar.

Of course, in the process of doing all this, there are times when she needs a translation of a new word into French, and naturally I am not gifted enough in French (yet) to translate everything without help. Enter my pocket-sized Larousse, to the rescue! I look it up, we discuss some examples or I explain in more detail until she understands, and voila!

Her father has told her he wants her to learn five new English words every day, even on the days when we're not studying together; she's writing them down in a new notebook she keeps just for our tutoring sessions. I think I will give myself the same homework assignment. I have been astonishingly lax about forcing myself to learn new vocabulary and there's just no excuse for that. Maybe the first new word I need to look up and write down is the title to this blog post. Because I have no idea.

But I know I'm already getting through to her and our tutoring is helping, although perhaps some of my teaching methods could also be considered "roundabout". While she was walking me to the metro yesterday afternoon, she laughed as she told me, in English, using a new and very popular English word I had (jokingly) given her over dinner with her mother and Georges last week: "I suck at math".

And she pronounced it perfectly. I was so proud. Next thing you know, she'll be glued to MTV, watching "My Super Sweet 16" without subtitles or French voice-overs, and imitating those California valley-girl accents.

I will never make it as a spy in France. Never.

I am working here at the kitchen table, writing a chapter or two for a client's book I'm working on. Georges has the day off for VE day. While I'm working, he's been doing his own thing, and a little while ago he got a phone call from a friend. Not long before that, it was me on the phone as I'd gotten a call from someone I know back in the States.

It has just occurred to me that he is much better equipped at eavesdropping on my phone conversations than I am at eavesdropping on his. (Not that either of us is going out of our way to listen in on the other's phone calls. I'm just saying.) And that is because his English comprehension is light years ahead of my ability to understand rapidly-spoken French. After my phone call with my friend, I was able to talk with him about the conversation easily because I just assumed, correctly, that he had heard and understood most of it. When he gets off of HIS phone call, I will have to ask him to tell me what the conversation was about (he's talking to friends I've met several times, so it's not out of bounds for me to ask) because while I have understood bits of what he's saying, he is speaking so fast that most of it is just a blur, sort of like a French version of the school teacher's voice in the Charlie Brown TV specials: "Wa-WAH wa-wa-WAH-wa".

Same thing with the older kids, who often get phone calls when I'm within listening distance. If they were American kids, they'd probably retreat behind the nearest closed door to speak in private about who is going out with whom, what trouble they got into at school that day, and how they're probably failing algebra. Here, my step-kids and their friends could be planning to overthrow the government during the next student manif and I'd certainly be none the wiser, so they don't even bother to leave the room if I'm around. They know I'm clueless as long as they speak quickly and throw in lots of slang. I sometimes long for a day when I will surprise them by repeating, verbatim, some juicy morsel of what they assumed was private chitchat, and THEN they will realize their error in misjudging me -- HA!

But until then, I think I can forget about getting any job offers from the French secret service.

Happy, happy, happy

Lately, the Little Guy has been surprising us by randomly coming out with new words and phrases... in English! He is not yet learning English in school as his maitresse is teaching the class the fundamentals of German (I guess at this age, the kids learn whatever their own teacher knows best), but sometimes I will tell him a word or two here and there, informally. I also bought him a childrens' French-English dictionary with pictures and a book of phonics exercises with stickers, but I let him initiate working with those. There's no sense pushing him to learn a new language if he's not ready, yet it's nice when sometimes he chooses to take out one of those books or repeats some words with me. He also hears some additional English next door, as our neighbor is half Canadian and sometimes speaks English to her two little boys so that they start learning the language as well.

So him just blurting out words on his own is kind of a new thing around here. Early on, he learned "Hello" and he got the "h" pronounced perfectly right away; now he almost always says "Hello!" instead of "Bonjour!" when he bursts through the door after school. But then a few weeks ago, Georges and I were taking him somewhere and all of a sudden the Little Guy said, "Let's go!" instead on "On y va!" It took me a second or two to register that he'd actually said it in English and not French, and then we both praised his initiative and how well he'd said it (you know, positive reinforcement and all that).

Since then, it's a new word here and a new word there. But our favorite by far had to be what he said last weekend, out of the blue on our way to see the animals at the Jardin des Plantes...

"Happy, happy, happy!"

... while simultaneously jumping up and down with a big smile. His attitude expressed far more than just the words. Happy, happy, happy became sort of the theme for the weekend, an inside joke with us all repeating it to each other every so often as we went here and there together.

And as happy as we were to hear this sweet boy pronounce some new words, we were happier still to see how joyful he was, how bien dans sa peau. Just the way you want to see a young child going through his life.

Happy, happy, happy indeed.

Small signs of progress

I had a moment of awareness this morning, while doing some Sunday shopping with Georges. We had just left the Franprix with a caddie full of groceries, and decided to stop at this really good rotisserie place on Rue du Poteau to get a chicken for dinner.

I queued up while Georges waited a short distance away with the groceries.

When my turn came, I placed my order and then moved to the caisse to pay for it.

No big deal, of course, but it was on the way out that I realized that it WASN'T a big deal anymore. That it was just easy and natural for me. I no longer dread going in there; I just do it. So when I got outside, I was all:

"Wow, honey... I can now line up and order a cooked chicken with the best of those Parisian housewives."

I even knew to ask for the poulet to be fermier. No sense skimping on quality. Even if I am too lazy to cook the chicken myself.

Love, Franco-American Style

Here it is again, February 14th. The second biggest Hallmark holiday of all -- at least in America, where Valentine's Day is the day the florists, bakeries and greeting card sellers often make the most money of any holiday period all year long. I used to hate, hate, hate Valentine's Day in America because inevitably I was sans romantic partner and had to watch all the women I worked with as they smugly accepted their deliveries of a dozen (or more) roses and balloons at the office. Bah, humbug!

Of course, I'm a lot more friendly toward Valentine's Day NOW... for obvious reasons. It doesn't matter to me one iota whether or not I get flowers or a gift from Georges (even though it's certainly nice if I do); it's just the idea of having the one I love next to me that counts the most. We both like to be acknowledged on this day just as on our birthdays or Christmas. And this is our first "married" Valentine's Day, too! We have the Little Guy with us for the weekend, so we may end up spending the evening right here (unless we can guilt one of the teens into sticking around after we put the Little Guy to bed so we can sneak out for a nice little dinner à deux) but we can crack a bottle of champagne and celebrate in our own way (read into that what you will).

It occurs to me, however, that despite the day being celebrated in both my native and adopted countries (unlike Halloween which has never really caught on over here), they are celebrated in slightly different ways. In America, the holiday is definitely driven by Madison Avenue advertisers and marketing experts who have brainwashed the general population into thinking if they don't buy (or receive) that big fat diamond ring or that stuffed hippo holding the heart or that dozen roses (marked up from $25 to $150 or more, just for this day), then they are defective in some way. So it's gotten to be less about finding creative and special ways to express your love, and more about how much you spend to express your love.

They even get the kids started on it young and they turn it into a popularity contest. I remember being in the 2nd grade, circa 1969 I think, and the teacher (oh, how I hated her, that Miss Rush, the same thoughtless bitch who made us do square-dancing at age 7 and who cast me as the APPLE in the class play, a move I believe is directly responsible for the fact that I am definitely APPLE-SHAPED as an adult) made all the kids bring in those dorky little cartoon kiddy Valentine's cards for our classmates. We had to make special "mailboxes" out of shoe boxes we had covered with red or pink construction paper and decorated with glitter and other crap, with a mail slot cut into the top of the box. Then on Valentine's Day we had to sit in a circle with our mailboxes and take turns putting our Valentine cards in each other's boxes. We had been instructed to bring a card for every child in the class to make it fair, but of course some kids ONLY made cards for the kids they liked (and really, why should you be forced to give a card to the kid who picked his nose and wiped it on your chair, or the one who always called you names and made you cry?) So some children received more cards than others, and of course it became public knowledge which kids were so favored (I was somewhere in the middle, not getting the most cards but not getting the least either, thank God). Even then I was aware that some kids got a lot less cards than others and that they probably felt really bad about that.

Now in France, despite most people claiming to be non-believers, nearly every day on the annual calendar, not otherwise devoted to the big holidays like Christmas or Armistice Day, is still labeled as an official Saint's Day of one type or another (they are even marked on the 2009 agenda book I bought). So today is known as SAINT Valentin's day. There is a Saint Georges' day (April 23rd), and although there was no Saint Lisa, there is a Saint Elisabeth's day is on November 17th and I supposed I could claim it as "my" Saint's Day. There was even a Saint Amour whose day is August 9th.

France claims to hold some of the relics of the actual Saint Valentin and every year there is a festival devoted to this day.

The French hold the current (albeit unofficial) world title for being the most romantic. Certainly here in Paris you can find couples of all ages kissing passionately on park benches and in the metro and leaning up against walls and strolling along the Seine at ANY time of the year and no one bats an eyelash, whereas public displays of affection on that scale are rarely seen and generally frowned upon in the U.S. (where, if you witnessed a couple in a deep embrace you might be likely to utter these romantic words under your breath: "Geez, get a room, will ya?")

I have seen Valentine's displays in store windows throughout Paris and also down south in Saint Raphael (the lingerie shops of course do a banner business this time of year), and of course the chocolatiers and patisseries have made their heart-themed yummy specialties. Although in France there is no Hallmark or equivalent chain store that specializes in just greeting cards and the like, there are papeteries where you can find Valentine's cards and gift bags and very pretty wrapping paper. Book stores have created special display tables with romantically themed (even erotic -- this being France -- books). So this is roughly the same as you'd find back in the States. It just seems that there is a lot less of it and that the whole thing is a lot less "in your face" than in the U.S. As in many other things, France and America celebrate the same things, but the French don't like to over-do it. They seem to prefer the subtle approach where America prefers the bigger, bolder gesture.

Maybe the difference is in the general attitude about the need for Valentine's Day in the first place. Although the holiday has been celebrated here for centuries, just as in other parts of the word, I'm not sure it's as big a deal here, emotionally speaking, as it is back home. Two nights ago at the dinner table, we talked about Valentine's Day with the teenagers. They are both in relationships at the moment, so we (Georges and I) were curious what they each had planned with their respective copin/copine and were a bit surprised to learn that the boy was more in favor of Valentine's day than his sister, who very definitively stated that when you are in love, EVERY day is a lover's day and there shouldn't be one special day for it. While I can't necessarily argue with her logic on that, it is clear she is the more practical and less romantic of the two kids; I think the boy perhaps takes after his very romantic father on this one.

Whatever the similarities or differences may be between the two cultures and how each chooses to acknowledge (or ignore) this Day of Love, one thing is crystal clear: I now have the love I waited for my entire life, and he's in my life not just today but each and EVERY day, and for that I am more grateful than words can ever express. He makes me feel special when I feel anything but. He makes me feel appreciated when others do not. He makes me feel beautiful even first thing in the morning when I have morning breath, sheet marks on my cheek, mascara smudged-eyes and hair that would give Medusa a run for her money. He makes me feel valued and important to him. And he gives me the opportunity every day to show him my love for him, which is infinite in its depth and yet which grows bigger every single day.

I just hope he knows how important he is to me. And that I can't do any of it without him by my side.

Happy Valentine's Day, my Georges. Tu es mon coeur.

Wallflower

Sometimes, I am pointedly aware of how being in France has changed me, and one of the biggest ways is how I am when I'm socializing with a group of French people... even with my new French family. And it has to do a big change in my own social behavior.

In the United States or with a group of anglophone ex-pats here in France, I am often one of the more animated conversationalists... which is a nice way of saying I'm often one of the ones doing the talking. (Don't worry, I also know how to LISTEN, too.) I love talking with people, about nearly any subject, and I get a lot of energy from the interaction with others, whether it's in person or even on the phone. That's probably why I enjoy doing coaching work or public speaking from time to time; as much as I love writing, it's a solitary pursuit and can be rather isolating. But in my "natural habitat", if I'm around a group of people who know me well and I'm in a (rare) quiet mood, they're usually asking: "Are you feeling all right, Lisa? You're so quiet today!"

But here when surrounded by French people, including a family dinner with all three kids present and where there is usually a lot of rapid-fire chatter going on (and French teenagers are the same as anywhere else -- they talk very fast and mumble their words a lot of the time), I find I'm usually the quietest one in the bunch, hampered as I am by the language barrier. Although I am slowly improving in my ability to understand and participate, I'm anything but 100% up to speed, so I tend to hang back, to fade into the background.

I am the lone American wallflower among a field of colorful red French poppies.

Sometimes, I simply notice this and observe myself as if from a distance, kind of like a scientist might follow an experiment and report on his findings. In those observant moments, I just chalk it up to "this is the way it is right now, and eventually it will get better as I get more fluent" and then I go back to listening and seeing how much I can actually understand of what is going on around me.

At other times, I must admit, I find it frustrating to the point where I have to leave the room to avoid bursting into tears publicly, because I feel so "left out" and so, well, foreign. It's during those moments that I sometimes despair that it will ever be different, that it will ever get better... and will I ever be able to be wholly myself here?

My frustration, I think, comes from not being able to fully express myself yet in my new language... the way I can when I'm thinking, speaking or writing en anglais. As someone who has always been a talker and who makes her living from writing, the inability to do what comes naturally forces me to be different than I normally would be in certain situations.

They say that travel broadens you, and in most cases I'd agree with that and have certainly found it to be true for me in every other respect. But when it comes to language barriers, maybe that's one way that travel narrows you instead, because when you can't say what you want to say, you're kind of stuck, aren't you? Or at least, it feels that way to me right now. I'm not blaming anyone for this, don't misunderstand me. I'm just saying it's something I've become increasingly aware of, the longer I'm here.

Of course, there's nothing wrong with being quiet sometimes, even when you're with others. Like right now, for instance. I'm sitting on the bed while I'm blogging this... and the Little Guy came in a few minutes ago to see what I was up to. When I said I was working, he just sort of snuggled up next to me anyway... and he has since fallen asleep, curled up on Georges' pillow, dou-dou tucked under his chin. What a bonus at the end of the holidays, to have a quiet moment with this wonderful child. (Pity we'll have to wake him up for dinner.)

And someday, hopefully sooner rather than later, I can join in with the other poppies in the field -- when I want to. In the meantime I'll take the unexpected "quiet time" bonuses as my consolation prize.

Reconnaissance

Reconnaissance - a feminine noun meaning:

1. gratitude; en reconnaissance de = in appreciation of
2. recognition, acknowledgment;
3. (of wrongs) admission, admitting; (of qualities) recognition, recognizing;
4. (military) scouting

There is so much that I am en reconnaissance de this year that I don't even know where to begin because my sense of gratitude is just that big. My life is so completely different from what it was just a little over two years ago, and even just one year ago, that in some ways I barely recognize myself.

So I just want to take a moment to say Thank You to The Creative Force that is Out There helping to make all this possible. It is times like this that, as a writer, I am aware that words are sometimes entirely inadequate. And although I can never really say thank you enough to express the depths of my profound gratitude... I can at least try.

Thank You for giving me the courage to get on a plane and follow my dream.

Thank You for providing me with wonderful friends once I got here.

Thank You for the beautiful city of Paris, the city of my dreams, the city I now call home.

Thank You for Georges. Thank you for putting us both together at just the exact right moment in our lives so that neither one of us was for some reason tempted to run the other way.

Thank You for every single second of the life we have shared together since we first met.

Thank You for making him who he is: kind, gentle, strong, funny, intelligent, unique and oh, so loving.

Thank You for Georges' three wonderful, gorgeous, amazing children and for the opportunity to be a part of their lives. They have accepted me not only with relative grace, but also with affection, and I couldn't have asked for more during this first transitional year.

Thank You for our beautiful wedding in America and our amazing after-party in Paris, and for all the friends and family who joined us on both occasions to help us celebrate our love and commitment to one another.

Thank You to my family for having accepted Georges so willingly, and to Georges' family for doing the same for me.

Thank You for the inspiration and opportunities that keeps me doing what I love most and getting paid for it: writing. There's nothing else in the world I want to do more, and I know how lucky I am to be able to say that.

For all this and so much more: Thank You. Thank You. Thank You.

A very Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who are celebrating it today.

Knock first and ask questions later

There is something I have been noticing for a long time since coming to France. It was something that at first I thought I might even be imagining, frankly, because it has caught me off guard so many times. Finally I decided to chalk up to it being yet another cultural difference, but one which sort of confuses me. And it's this:

French people rarely knock first before trying to open the door of the W.C.

I realize that this is a very general statement and that of course there may be people all over France who are, even as I type this, politely knocking on the door of the toilet before barging in. I just don't seem to have encountered very many of them. Now, growing up in suburban New Jersey, we were always taught to knock on any closed door and to wait for someone to say "come in" before opening it, ESPECIALLY if it was someone's bedroom door or the door to the bathroom. I never gave it much thought before coming to France, but now it seems most Americans must have been taught roughly the same thing. Because rarely, when I have been in either a public restroom/toilet or even in someone's home (or in my own home for that matter) in America have I had someone try the door handle first without knocking. And I've traveled pretty widely around America, too. Knocking first is just de rigueur out of respect for someone else's privacy.

In France, my experience has been nearly 100% the opposite, at least where toilet facilities are concerned (the kids DO knock on our bedroom door before entering). Now, unlike in most public toilets in America that are constructed of those open-at-the-top-and-bottom steel cubicles, in France the cubicles are typically solid walls and doors ceiling to floor with loads of privacy (very nice), so you can't peek under the door to see if someone's in there or not. Many public toilet doors in France have a red/green indicator on the outside of the door handle that is supposed to show you if someone's in there and has locked the door, but of course they don't always work properly. So I would never think of trying to open the door of a toilet cabin without knocking first... just think of how embarrassed you (and the person inside) would be! How rude!

Yet over and over again, for two years, I have had the startling experience of someone trying the door handle without so much as a light tap to inquire if the space is occupado. And most times, they are trying to open the door with real force, as if they are confident in assuming that toilet WILL be available for them and they are just going to barrel on in... and how dare I be in there!

I couldn't really understand why it seemed to be this way in France. I mean, it seemed perfectly logical to me that it's more polite to knock first and not assume the person inside has locked the door. I mean, what if the lock was broken? Or let's face it, what if you just forgot to lock it? Stuff like that happens. So it stands to reason that by knocking first, you're not making the assumption the other person has been able to protect themselves sufficiently, and out of politeness you take it upon yourself to give them the benefit of the doubt, therefore knocking before entering.

Now of course, it is just common sense that when using a public toilet, locking the door should pretty much be second nature anyway; it certainly is for me. But in my own home I would have thought knocking first might be the automatic rule, making it less of an issue to remember to lock the door. Sigh... It's not. Here again, I find myself faced with what appears to be yet another cultural difference; people don't automatically knock on the toilet door, period, even if it's closed. So far I have managed to avoid any embarrassing scenes, especially where the young one or his little friends are concerned (they just barge in because they're little), but that doesn't make it any less startling when it happens.

Maybe this bothers me so much because one day when I was in the second grade (age 7) I was using the school restrooms (those steel cubicles again, with little toilets and sinks so low to the ground, appropriately scaled for little children) and somehow I must not have locked the door to my cubicle properly. And some older girl CRASHED the door open on me... and then proceeded to point and laugh. I was utterly humiliated. So my instinctive reaction, when I hear someone jiggling the door handle without warning, is a flash of panic... OH MY GOD, DID I REMEMBER TO LOCK THE FRIGGING DOOR? I never thought moving to France would bring flashbacks of old elementary school traumas.

When I brought it up in conversation with Georges, this observation of mine about "to knock vs. not to knock", he was at first a little surprised; like me he had never really thought about it one way or the other before. Then he acknowledged that it was probably true that French people aren't necessarily taught to knock first when attempting to enter the W.C.

To which I responded, "Well, wouldn't that be more polite, to knock?" and he said, "Well I guess we assume it's more polite for the person inside to lock the door!"

Once again, in France, it's always the other guy's fault.

Suffice to say this is one cultural battle I won't win. I'm outnumbered. And so I now religiously barricade myself against whomever is out there ready to storm the fortress.

Because I'd really hate to have them think I'm impolite or mal élevé. You know... while I'm sitting there, defenseless with a beet-red face, and my jeans down around my ankles.

Today is: Décadi, 10 Brumaire, An 217. Huh?

While looking at grave markers and commemorative plaques in the Picpus Cemetery, I noticed something unusual in how the dates were sometimes notated. Instead of a date of, say, "24 juin 1794" (June 24th, 1794) the date would be inscribed as "6 messidor an II" or "6 messidor an 2".

Here's one, on the right, for a poet: 7 Thermidor An II.

I thought, "Whaaaa???"

It took me a moment or two and then I remembered: for several years into the French Revolution, the Revolutionary government decided to CHANGE THE CALENDAR. And they created what is known as the Calendrier Républicain, which lasted from 1793 to 1805 (and was again resurrected for all of 18 days during the Paris Commune of 1871). Yes, in their zeal to completely change the way of life in France by abolishing religion and royalty, even the calendars and clocks had to change as well.

The new calendar in no way matched up to the Gregorian calendar, and frankly I don't know how they expected anyone to make sense of it especially in those days when so many were illiterate. "Messidor", for instance, was the name of the tenth month of the year and it spanned 30 days from June 19 to July 18. The months were named as follows:

• vendémiaire (in 1794, the month started on September 22)
  
• brumaire (October 22)
• frimaire (November 21)
  
• nivose (December 21)
  
• pluviose (January 20)
  
• ventose (February 19)
  
• germinal (March 21)
  
• floréal (April 20)
  
• prairial (May 20)
  
• messidor (June 19)
  
• thermidor (July 19)
  
• fructidor (August 18)

And the years were renumbered, too, usually in Roman numerals, starting with An I (Year 1) in September 22, 1792 -- the same day as the autumn equinox. There were twelve months in this calendar, divided into three 10-day "weeks". The tenth day, called décadi, was the day of rest, replacing dimanche or Sunday. And what about those pesky five or six additional days they ended up with by making all the months an even 30 days? They just tacked them onto the end of the year, and then started over.

They didn't stop there, either; each day was also changed to be only TEN hours long, not 24. But each hour was changed from 60 minutes of 60 seconds each, to 100 decimal minutes of 100 decimal seconds each. So an hour was twice as long as the "old" hour.

So Friday, October 31, 2008 at 7:28 pm would have been Décadi, 10 Brumaire, An 217 at 6:44 -- had Napoleon not decided that enough was enough with this calendar. He reverted France back to the Gregorian calendar and the 60x60x7x24 method of calculating time. He may have been a megalomaniac, but I think this was one decision he got right.

A bread by any other name... still tastes better in France

Overheard between a Franco-American couple (who shall remain nameless) recently:

SHE: Sweetie, I'm making a list for the store tomorrow. I think I should get some regular bread. You  know, the bread in the plastic bag, because [Little Guy] seems to prefer it for his tartine at breakfast. Not a special bread like a baguette or a pain de compagne.

HE: You know, mon amour, this is France. In France, "regular" bread IS the baguette or pain de compagne. The bread in the plastic bag, the pain de mie, isn't "regular" here, it's the "special" bread. In fact, it's not even real bread.

SHE: [stunned silence while her brain processes this information, then... HYSTERICAL LAUGHTER as she realizes...] OH MY GOD, you're right. Damn American "Wonder Bread" culture. I don't even know what real bread is.

..........................

This might be important information to know on Monday when I go for my Carte de Séjour interview. You know, like if they ask me to rattle off a list, in French, of things I typically buy when food shopping. There are so many different names for "bread" here.

Cultural assimilation is all in the details.

L'Observatrice

Last night at dinner with Georges and his daughter, I fell into my usual role as a mere observer while they talked together in French. While I will admit there are times -- and Georges is aware of this -- when I sometimes feel a bit left out and frustrated when around any group of les Français as they discuss something in their native tongue, last night was not one of those times.

Even though they were discussing a subject about which I know very little: Philosophy and Plato. And actually, it was precisely BECAUSE they were talking about philosophy and Plato, often known as Platon, that I was more than happy to remain silent and just observe what was happening in front of me.

It wasn't that I found their discussion so interesting in and of itself -- in truth, I understood just enough of the rapid-fire French to "get" the subject matter but not the details, so it wasn't as if I could have participated even if I knew anything about Plato. Which I don't, and I'll get to that in a moment. But there were two aspects of the dinner-table conversation I found really fascinating. The first was how much Georges was clearly loving having this kind of conversation with his 17-year old daughter. Georges has a brilliant mind and was a graduate of one of the Grandes Ecoles (the equivalent of the Ivy League schools in America), and so he is very well educated. Plus he loves classic literature and books of all kinds, as evidenced by the THOUSANDS of books in our library upstairs, which has ceiling-to-floor shelves and even a stepladder (I keep nudging him to make some space for my American books -- hint, hint, sweetie!) I think he has saved nearly every book he has ever read. And that comes in handy when one of his kids is working on a school assignment, like his daughter is doing now, where she needed to read something about Plato and oh, la vache! Quelle coïncidence! Georges had the book right here already.

So I loved watching the two of them discussing Plato together as he helped her to understand some of the more complex aspects of the work she'd been reading. On top of him loving to talk about philosophy in general, it was clearly an opportunity for him to have an actual discussion with his teenage daughter who is normally just a blur as she comes and goes from school and social activities... that is, when she's not installed in front of the TV catching up on her favorite American television shows (I have found I no longer need to spend the time to watch Desperate Housewives. I just ask her for the recap.) It was really lovely to see the enjoyment on Georges' face and when he sometimes looked over at me to try and include me, I just sort of waved him off to let him know it was fine that I wasn't participating, because after all this was homework in action.

But as I observed, I also realized how unusual this conversation was -- for ME. Meaning that in all my life, I don't think philosphy was ever once discussed at the dinner table. Certainly Plato was never mentioned. Nor Socrates, unless it was joking about the pronunciation of his name in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. And I don't come from ignorant, under-educated people. My parents went to college. My sister and I went to college, and she studied journalism among other things, and is now a school teacher herself. My sister's son is a senior in college now. I'm a professional writer. We ain't aren't uneducated hicks.

However, it is often clear to me that French education places emphasis on far different things than what is taught in America. In France, for one thing, they are taught about their own great philosophers, and those from other countries as well. They are taught critical thinking and analysis as part of their normal education, and this happens well before they enter University. How many American teenagers do YOU know who could talk intelligently AND with enthusiasm about philosophy, poetry, and classic theatre? In my experience, they're rare, and I think that part of it is that our culture simply isn't interested. We'd rather watch sports on TV or the latest reality TV show, or go shopping at the mall, than to read a book and discuss it afterwards.

And when it comes to education and limited government funding for it, America tends to focus on what it considers "practical" for getting a job and making a living, and literature, the arts and philosophy "aren't gonna pay the rent, you know!" So unless you are fortunate to have been raised by someone who is interested in things like the arts, literature, theatre, or philosophy so that you're exposed to in in your home, you are unlikely to get much of it from your public schooling. In America, if I had wanted to study Plato, I would have had to wait until college and then sign up for courses accordingly; it was simply never an option in public school. I was lucky to get out of high school, even as an Honors student in English, with the ability to construct basic sentences; great literature and the discussion thereof was something with which we were provided only a passing acquaintance. And that acquaintance usually involved buying the Cliff Notes to avoid actually reading Dickens or Shakespeare (which I now LOVE, by the way).

So noticing the mostly-French table talk last night was, for me, an interesting opportunity rather than the exercise in frustration it sometimes is. An opportunity to see the glow in my husband's eyes at being able to impart his love of literature and philosophy to his only daughter, and how she was actually paying attention and participating with him rather than feeling lectured-to. She wasn't sitting there, rolling her eyes... she was debating and asking questions and quoting passages from the book.

And it was an opportunity to notice yet another cultural difference between where I lived the first half of my life, and where I now find myself living the rest of my life.

My tailleur is rich

My mission this morning: to take three curtain panels to the local tailor to have them shortened. Two are for our front entrance and the other is to camouflage some shelving in an alcove in our bedroom. Just as with bedding in France, you need to measure carefully for things like the length of a curtain, and inevitably the height of your particular curtain rod/window will never been exactly the length of the ready-made curtain panels. So you'll end up either having custom window treatments made (très cher!) OR buying something that is too long, and then paying to have it shortened (and if you have short windows in your apartment, forget about curtains and buy blinds or shades -- short curtains are nearly non-existent here due to the abundance of "French doors").

To prepare myself for this conversation with Monsieur Tailleur down the street, I asked Georges to help me prepare a short script so I'd have the proper vocab. A hem? Un ourlet. Length? Longeur. Okay, so far so good. So I practiced saying my "lines" and then Georges stopped me when I recited the numbers for the length I wanted for each curtain panel.

Him: "You say deux metres quarante, not deux cent quarante centimetres."

Me: [ponderous sigh] Then WHY do they write the length on the packaging in CENTIMETERS?

His response was that's just the way it's done. MY guess it that it's part of a secret plot designed by the French, or perhaps the entire metric-measuring world in general, to drive Americans off the deep end.

Nevertheless, this morning I took a deep breath and prepared for the half-block walk to the tailor. I also want to mention that I am into day three of a killer migraine that is messing with my schedule, my sleep patterns and my mental health, so I really did not have the energy to cope if I came up against a language problem this morning.

Five minutes later, I walked out of the tailor's place and realized something: I really AM starting to "get" the language, more and more every day. The transaction was effortless. I can't swear I didn't make some minor faux pas in carrying my part of the conversation, but I was able to communicate what I wanted, understand him when he confirmed my request, and I was even able to get him to do a rush job on the curtains so that I can pick them up at 10am on Saturday, just in time to hang them for the party that night. I got a receipt and a smile from the tailleur as I left with the usual "Merci, au revoir Monsieur". I was so proud of myself that I didn't even care that I had forgotten to ask him how much it would cost, but as I already know his prices to be quite reasonable, I'm not concerned.

I know it's not always going to be that easy, stepping into new situations for the first time and having to speak all in French. But each time I come out the other side of one of these with my feathers nearly unruffled, I feel like I've gained a victory and taken another important step towards assimilating into the French culture. Like the phone calls I've intercepted the past two days, both of which were wrong numbers. I was able to set the caller straight without just hanging up rudely because I couldn't understand them.

It gave me just the slightest boost in confidence that I think I will really need for the next few days, with our French-speaking houseguests and party invitées coming to visit and celebrate with us.

Grenouille, I hardly knew ye

One of the silly, fun cadeaux I brought back from the States for the Little Guy was a rubber tree frog from the Central Park Zoo in NYC. This was no ordinary rubber grenouille, though... not only was he pink and yellow, like an exotic species from the Zoo's rain forest exhibit, but THIS frog was designed to expand to more than THREE TIMES its normal size if you soaked it in water. Which I thought sounded totally cool and figured a 7-year-old would think so, too. Not wanting the little boy next door to feel left out, I also bought one for him.

On the first day the boys were back together after vacances, I gave them their frogs. Excitement ensued. We put them in some cold water per instructions, and waited for the miracle transformation. How big would it really get? Would it be like a "B" horror movie, "The Frog that Ate Paris"? We had no idea what to expect. So we waited. And waited. And waited some more. After an hour, still nothing, other than the frog's skin starting to feel almost realistically slimy. Georges then took a closer look at the packaging and discovered that hidden underneath the price sticker, there was a little mention of the alleged expansion taking three to seven DAYS in total. DAYS! Not minutes or even hours! Quel rip-off!

Frustrated that my $4.95 investment hadn't produced more immediate results, under my breath (and out of hearing range of the Little Guy) I muttered something in my best Franglish: "Damn frigging grenouille".

And Georges, his older son and his daughter all looked at me all like I had a tree frog sitting on my head, and they're all, WHAT did you say? Not because of the profanity -- but because of how I pronounced the French word for "frog". A word, by the way, I learned in my first year of French class in 1975, and I've been pronouncing it the same way ever since:

Gren-you-EE

I then had to endure about ten minutes of them trying to teach me the RIGHT way to say it. Because of course [sigh] I was saying it WRONG. (If I had a euro for every time someone has corrected my French in the past two years...) Georges says it's prounounced as if you said "Gren-New-York" but left off the -ork part, sort of like this:

Gre-NOU-ye

But even THAT doesn't adequately describe the bizarre pronunciation that is not only foreign to my ears, but to my American mouth, throat and vocal cords which are unused to forming such a sound. While working on this blog post, I even double checked with Georges to see if I had gotten the correct pronunciation FINALLY and of course I hadn't. After 15 minutes of him trying to coach me on it (Lord, that man is patient!) I'm still not 100% sure I've got it, although the Little Guy seemed pleased by my last attempt.

So I said to Georges, "I'm so proud that I can pronounce words like 'fauteuil' (which is not the same sound as grenouille but is equally hard for English-speakers to conquer) so well -- THAT'S not easy for a native English-speaker either", and he agreed I do say that one perfectly. Then I said, "But are there OTHER words in French that use that same sound as grenouille? Because I don't know of any."

It was then that he dreamed up the following French tongue-twister to help me practice.

Je fouille le fauteuil pour les couilles de la grenouille.*

I'll never look at a frog the same way again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

* Translation: I search in the chair for the frog testicles.

Oh, and in case you wondered, that damned rubber frog finally DID expand to three or four times it's normal size by about the third or fourth day.

Welcome in France

My latest ordeal in my quest for permanent residency in France is finally underway: I spent 4.5 hours this morning queuing up for my initial request for my spousal carte de séjour, i.e. the one that entitles me to stay in France and actually live here with my husband. Which, you know, is kind of the whole point of getting married, right?

It used to be, not all that long ago from what I'm told, that you just went down to the préfecture de police in whatever Parisian arrondissement you lived in, to make your application for the C de S. Not so any more. NOW, you go to one of only TWO locations in the city, depending on where you live, and wouldn't you know I had to go to the one that covers the majority of the city. And oh, by the way, did I mention they don't take appointments?

I attempted doing this yesterday and arrived at 9:30 to find the line halfway down the block. I waited one hour, while the line barely moved, only to realize I had forgotten to bring the livret de famille (French marriage document) which of course was one of the most important things. So I gave up and decided to get up extra early today and queue up more than an hour in advance of their opening time (9am).

It was a good idea, apparently. Because at least 50 other people before me had the same thought. Sigh.

The line moved in bursts, with long stretches of no movement whatsoever, while some police person at the door periodically allowed about 25 people in at a time. I felt sorry for the people with little babies in strollers and small children... all that standing around is very tiring. For people who were there alone, like me, we couldn't even leave the line to go get a cup of coffee or look for a toilet somewhere. Luckily the weather was really lovely today, sunny but not hot and with a nice breeze. While I waited, I finished re-reading A Year in Provence to help me keep my sense of humor about the French. Periodically, I sent a texto to Georges with my progress (or lack there-of) or just to tell him I loved him and wish him a Bon Anniversaire.

Because I raced out of the house so fast this morning, before he was even conscious, and therefore FORGOT to give him a big, wet birthday kiss. BAD WIFE! I'll make up for it tonight, as I'm taking him out to dinner at a new place he's wanted to try.

But I digress... So finally I make it inside the building. I take a number: #52. They're on #38. Not too bad, and actually the numbers seem to move rather well, considering they need to speak to each and every person and ask for documents, verify identities, etc. I notice that some people go to an area behind the main counter, I assume for a personal interview, while others are sent away probably because they don't have some critical document. I'm hoping I'm not one of those unfortunates who will have to come back to that line again at a future date.

Finally, my number appears on the screen. I go to the Accueil counter. She takes my number, passport, Georges' carte nationale d'identité (for some reason, they want this and NOT his passport), our livret de famille, and our latest EDF (electricity) bill as proof of our residence. She looks at everything briefly. Enters something in the computer. Hands it all back to me and tells me to take a seat again.

I watch the numbers on the screen, having figured out the system by now... and next time my number appears, it is with an arrow pointing to the back office directing me to cubical number 5. A rather pleasant woman sits there, we say our Bonjours, and we begin.

Fifteen minutes later, I walk out with a new document in hand: a temporary "carte" that is good up until about a week after a formal interview, which is not scheduled to take place until the end of OCTOBER (with Georges who must also be present, so they can no doubt check out whether we seem like a bona fide married couple). The appointment is at the main Préfecture near Cité (same place where I all the trouble over the apostilles) and at least it's a scheduled time rather than queuing up with the masses. But this temporary document is the reason I waited 4.5 hours in line today, so I'm happy, because it's done.

How long it will take me to get the ACTUAL carte de séjour after that October appointment is anyone's guess. Hopefully I will get it soon afterward... because I already noticed the warning signs posted online about card renewal -- which must be scheduled by appointment 3 to 4 months before the C de S expires. At the rate this is going, I might just get the card around the time I need to schedule the renewal.

Bienvenue en France. I'd best get used to it.

Immersion

My brain is exhausted. The backs of my eyes actually hurt. I never thought being immersed almost entirely in French for three days could take it out of me like this. We went to bed early last night and I even slept late this morning to try and get some energy back, but I'm still wiped out.

We had some invités for three days, French (of course) friends of Georges who used to live in Paris but who headed south to Marseilles a few years ago for a warmer climate (given the bizarre weather in Paris, one can hardly blame them for wanting to retire in the South, although Marseilles will never be Paris). Every so often they have business that brings them back north, and they stay here when they do.

They are absolutely delightful, this couple. He speaks fairly good English (he says he speaks "Frenglish" and I say I speak "Franglais" so we're both pretty much in the same bateau) and she has been trying to speak more. I actually met her some months back when she was visiting, but before I lived here, and at that time she was very shy about speaking any English, so she has made some fair progress since then.

As have I, apparently. Even though I still mainly speak English with Georges and the older kids, it seems that speaking my spotty French to the Little Guy, the nanny and the cleaning lady on a daily basis has paid off a bit. I am picking up more vocabulary and I am more comfortable at least attempting to express myself in French, although I frequently get stuck for a word or expression and have to call in someone else to interpret.

I knew I'd really made progress, though, when I was actually able to engage in several real conversations with the wife, some genuine girl talk -- and even if the words weren't always exactly perfect, we understood each other. And when the couple very graciously invited me to come with them to see the Goya "Graveur" exhibit at the Petit Palais yesterday (while pauvre Georges had to work), I didn't hesitate because I knew I would be OK even without him there in case of Franglais emergency.

But as much fun as I was having with them (and I will concede that maybe some of my fatigue was a result of the nightly apéro and a lot of wine with dinner, and we are normally very light drinkers in this house), by the time I came home yesterday afternoon, I was completely done in. Fatigué. Beyond fatigué, although I don't know the French for "so freaking tired I could barely see straight at 3 o'clock in the afternoon".

Clearly I can only take two straight days of immersion French right now. Once I cross into the third day, my American brain just goes into overload, and starts to crave massive doses of my mother tongue. I even found myself momentarily missing American reality TV until I got myself under control again, realizing The Bachelor and American Idol are not the solution.

So today, it's mostly back to my usual balance of French (with the Little Guy, the nanny, and local store employees) and English (with Georges, my clients and anyone else who will let me speak English to them). I need to recharge my batteries, because tomorrow we leave for a week in the South for a visit to Georges' sister. She does speak and understand some English -- in fact she reads this blog (waving at her!) -- but let's face it: once again it's going to be French and more French, and plenty of it. FAST French, too. I will be outnumbered again, three to one. And this time for an entire week.

Oh well, that's one of the reasons I moved here in the first place: to become more fluent in French, finally, after 30 years of trying it without immersion. It's just that no one warned me how tired you get when you've been treading in the French eau for a while, without an English life jacket.

Enfin

I am FINALLY taking some formal French lessons, starting tomorrow morning. It's not that I've been resisting the lessons since I really enjoyed those I was taking in the U.S. before I came over. I just always seem to have too many other things to do, and I could "get by" pretty well on what I already knew.

But that was when I was a single gal. Now it's really important that I get more comfortable using French and that I work harder to extend my existing knowledge of the language, or I am going to continue feeling like the proverbial wall flower every time I'm with a group of les francais. Although I continue to do OK talking to the nanny, at least half the time I get it wrong, what she's trying to tell me, and when it comes to details about the Little Guy, this is not a good thing. So I now have incentive to make more of an effort. (P.S. the nanny has decided that I am to give the Little Guy some English tutoring for 15-20 minutes every day! I'm all for it of course but it's clear who is running the household, hee hee.)

Anyway, the tale of how I got into these French lessons is a story in itself. A friend of mine from Finland, here in Paris, is engaged to a Frenchman and although she has lived and worked in Paris for over two years, she has made very little progress in the language. Like me, she has incentive to work at it now. We talked about our options, and a mutual friend of ours has had a good experience with the lessons offered by the Croix Rouge (the Red Cross). The lessons are for non-Francophones who have emigrated and need to integrate better into the culture. And get this -- once you pay your 10 Euro annual fee, the lessons themselves are FREE, and twice a week for two hours. This is a sweet deal and we decided to start there. If the instructor is no good and we don't feel we're progressing, we can stop the classes and go elsewhere, no harm done.

So last week, we went to sign up. You have to go in person to the Croix Rouge in the 5th arrondissement, and the only time you can register is from 2:30 - 4:30 pm on Fridays. (Note: I believe other arrondissements may have other Croix Rouge office that might also offer French classes. I only had information on the ones offered in the 5th.) We arrived late (as usual -- we always seem to be late -- and this time it was really my fault as I had totally forgotten about it) and discovered a long line of people waiting outside a cramped little room. There were people of all nationalities there, and many of them are referred by the state unemployment offices or other organizations because they are having difficulty finding work or doing their jobs well if they can't speak French adequately enough.

We weren't there long when a sharp-voiced woman came out and started saying, in French, that all the classes were full, and she chased most of the people waiting ahead of us out of there. I was determined to stick around, if only to ask her when we should try to come back again in the future, if the classes were really full now.

So in a combination of French and English (which of course, she secretly spoke) I explained that my friend and I were there to take the French classes and were the classes really full? She asked me who referred us and I said we were referred by a student, and gave our friend's name. Once she realized we weren't coming from unemployment or some other organization, but were there independently, she let us through into the bigger office.

There, we found utter chaos as four women, including the one we spoke to, were trying to interview about 20-25 individuals to assess their current level of French knowledge. All the while, the woman we'd spoken to was coming in and out of the first room, looking for some cahier vert she needed, that no one ever seemed to find. She also periodically shouted out that the classes were all full... but the other women kept on interviewing people and trying to place them in classes. Madame didn't give us any forms to fill out, like the other people were all holding, or any other instructions for several minutes, then finally she waved us at a couple of stacked chairs and told us we could sit down. Whew! Up until then we weren't even sure we were going to be allowed to stay.

After a few more minutes, when one of the other ladies was between interviews, I got her to give us the application form, figuring at least we could get those filled out to avoid any nasty delays (or anything else that could piss Madame off further, and hence disqualify us from the possibility of getting into a class). At last, Madame came back and invited us into the other room, where we both sat with her at a table.

She looked at our forms -- oh, la la, we hadn't filled out the "texte" area at the back. Which had no instructions as to WHAT kind of "texte", but I said to my friend just to write whatever she could in French because that was clearly the written part of the placement test, such as it was. So we quickly wrote what we could -- about 2-3 sentences each -- and then handed back the forms.

She mulled them over for a minute, and then looking at my form where I had listed my profession, her face suddenly lit up with a huge smile and she said, "Ah, vous êtes écrivain!" And suddenly it was like a storm had blown over! Honestly, we couldn't get over the transformation in the woman. She was like a completely different person. I don't credit myself with performing a miracle just by happening to be a writer, but maybe it had something to do with her reading our applications and realizing we were just two women in love with two French men and we need English to make our personal lives a lot easier.

Because it was moments later that the miracle occurred... when she stopped herself in the midst of explaining that all the classes were full -- and said she would accept BOTH of us in HER class, meeting Mondays and Thursdays for 2 hours at 10:30. Despite the fact we are at completely different levels of the language (she also urged me to seek additional conversational classes via the local mairie because I need more -- she says -- than just the 4 hours a week she can provide).

So, 20 Euros and two signed entry passes later, we realized we were IN! We have no idea what to expect; we were given no instructions on what to bring and barely managed to find out the address of the classes themselves before dashing out to make space for the next applicants. I thought these classes might be a bit in demand but I had no idea it was that tough to get a spot, so I think we're quite fortunate. Hopefully we'll like the classes and both get what we need out of them.

I have packed a small notebook and my French-English dictionary to bring, for starters. Perhaps there is a text we will need to purchase or some other supplemental materials. I have a huge box here of French language study books I've brought with me... and now access to Georges' enormous library of books to reach for practice, any time I want, so I won't lack for material with which to practice.

Meanwhile, I am also planning, in addition to these classes, to get some private tutoring and conversation practice from my second-favorite Frog starting probably in April (so don't think I've forgotten, Froggie dahling!) Then depending on how much time I have left in life to pursue French studies, I will consider my new teacher's suggestion about classes offered by the local mairie as well.

So if you will excusez-moi, I need to get to bed early, as Georges has an early train to catch for a meeting out of town, and I am on duty to get the Little Guy up and off to school, before getting myself up and off to school! Let the jeux begin!

Chateau Weekend: The Reader's Digest Version

We returned home last night from our WONDERFUL getaway to the Loire valley to discover that for some inexplicable reason, our Internet service has been cut over the weekend and is still not restored. I am only able to blog this by the grace of our next-door neighbors who allowed us to patch into their home network.

So here is the "short version" of our weekend. Longer details and wonderful pix to follow as soon as I can spare the bandwidth.

Weekend was supposed to be rainy and snowy all the time. It wasn't. Miraculously blessed with sunshine and blue skies at precise moments where needed to tour chateau gardens. At EVERY chateau we visited.

I DROVE A CAR. In Europe. For the first time. And didn't damage the car, any pedestrians, stray cats or the many cyclists who were clearly in training for the next Tour de France.

Favorite discovery at a chateau: the amazing frothy architecture at Chambord. When you're standing on the top floor terraces getting a close-up view of all the spires, staircases and chimneys, it's like looking at a fancy French pastry.

Franco-American trivia point that Georges did not know: that the Chambord liqueur that many Americans love and think is SOOOO French is something most French people have never heard of, and I'm not even sure you can buy it in liquor stores in France. The target market is outside of France. Their web site claims it was "inspired by" a recipe that dates back to the 17th century and Louis Quatorze, and that it's made "on the premises of a traditional Loire Valley chateau south of Paris" (implying that it's made AT Chambord, when it's really not). Yet you can buy a bottle in the gift shop at the famous chateau. I bought one just so Georges could try some, and to have some around for visitors from home. Or to drizzle on some cheesecake because it's seriously good that way. But isn't it interesting how marketers can completely bamboozle the buying public? The Chambord name has been licensed to many products over the years, including cars and coffee pots. I guess the idea is: Voila! Let's make it sound elegant and French, and then people will buy it. And so we do. (If you have seen Chambord sold elsewhere in France, leave a comment... I'd be curious about that.)

The region is home to many troglodyte caves, some of which you can tour. There is also an aquarium and a tourist attraction where they have recreated all the most famous Loire chateaux in miniature. We ran out of time for those, but maybe on the next trip.

The local Chinon wine is quite excellent. As was our Easter night dinner at L'Epicerie in Amboise, located at the foot of the town's chateau. You will probably need a reservation especially during weekends and holidays (we did), but we got a gourmand 4-course meal and great service with wine (and tip included) for 36 euros each. Can't beat that!

Leonardo daVinci totally rocks. Second time I visited his last home, and I enjoyed it as much as the first time. The man was just plain freaking brilliant.

And sometimes you have to skip the tourist stuff, the great architecture and the history lessons, and just snuggle up alone together in your cozy hotel room with the sound of the rain on the roof, and tune out the world. There's nothing better.

Not even finding out that French kings have chosen salamanders and porcupines as their official royal logos.

Bell Free

The other day I asked Georges what the family tradition is concerning Easter and buying special chocolates for the kids. OK, I admit it: I was really inspired to ask this question after passing a local chocolaterie that had a sinfully delicious display of holiday chocolates, and I wanted an excuse to go in and buy something for myself the kids. But it was still a valid question: does the Easter Bunny make a visit here?

Well, yes and no. Turns out that egg hunts and chocolates are a part of the tradition here, but it's not the Easter Bunny that gets all the credit. It's the Easter Bells.

The French tradition is that in the week before Paques (Easter), all the church bells leave their steeples, and fly off to Rome (presumably to visit His Holiness?) and then on Easter Sunday, the bells return and bring Easter eggs and treats for the children.

So this week, the bells in our neighboring church have been silent because they are apparently taking a Roman holiday.

Adjustments

So, it's been three weeks since I've been at Georges' house full-time and just one week from the date we actually moved all my things in. It has gone incredibly well in every respect, much more smoothly than we could have hoped, really. And there is nothing better than being next to the one you love, every morning and every night.

[contented sigh]

Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't the only adjustment I'm having to make lately. (In the U.S. you've all flipped your clocks ahead but we aren't doing ours in France for two more weekends yet. Consequently with every meeting I have with clients in North America, I am having to figure out all over again what the time difference is THIS week.) I'm much more comfortable being in the house, and now having a few of my things scattered about here and there really helps me feel more at home. I know how to work the washing machine, and I know where things are located in the kitchen, pantry and bathroom. I finally figured out the trick to locking the front door. But there are still things I am learning about and adjusting to.

Last week, with the February holidays over and the usual school routine reinstated, I was able to observe the daily routine of the nanny and the boys. I now know when the femme de ménage comes on her two half-days each week. They both do a wonderful job, these women, and my only job with them is to pretty much stay out of the way and let them do what they already know how to do. Yet my ability to converse with either of them is sorely limited, since neither speaks English and my French is still at a rather basic conversational level. We're more or less making ourselves understood, but I find myself wishing I could say more, be a bit friendlier, really talk with them. I find myself hiding out in my office a lot, even when I'm not actually working, because I don't want to be in the way, and I don't have much I can really say to them when they're here.

Still, I do get some alone time. The nanny has stretches during the day where she is either picking up the boys from school/after school activities, or dropping them off, or on nicer days (not that we've had many of late) they might go to the park when school is out. When the two older boys are at school, there is just the baby here, and he's really a happy, good baby and very little trouble. And even when the kids are all here at lunch times, she manages to keep them occupied so that there isn't too much noise (I think she's afraid the boys are bothering me, although they aren't). I was a little worried, before I moved in, about how I might manage to get any work done with little children in the house most of the day, but now that I've seen the routine in action, I don't think it's going to be much of an issue at all, save for perhaps the odd interruption. Like the one just 5 minutes ago where the Little Guy tapped quietly on my door because he couldn't find the paper MacBook "computer" Georges had drawn for him yesterday (very creative!); the cleaning lady had moved it, of course, but I was able to locate it and received a huge smile as my reward. And that was well worth the interruption.

Yesterday, we crossed another milestone in our relationship: meeting the family. We were invited to visit one of Georges' sisters, along with her son, daughter and granddaughter, and to spend the day. First of all, going anywhere outside of Paris proper excites me because it gives me a chance to see a bit more of whatever else is out there. I still marvel at how beautiful the classic architecture can be here, so elegant and, well, French! They live in a very nice suburb roughly south-west of the city, in a lovely neighborhood adjacent to some woods with walking trails. Already the spring flowers have been making an appearance and I saw irises, flowering tulip trees and daffodils galore!

The family members all speak and understand at least some English -- probably better than I do with French -- but for the most part they all spoke in French together (of course, and why not?) and with me, and I had the fun of seeing how much I could understand and communicate (surprise, surprise, I did better than I expected so maybe that means my listening comprehension is improving). I'm sure, however, that they think I'm a very quiet woman -- but wait until they get to know me better and I can communicate better in French! They were all warm, friendly and welcoming to me, and I enjoyed being with them, watching Georges and his kids interacting with their family, and seeing some family photos -- my favorite being one of Georges taken circa 1972 where he had very long hair and totally looked like a HIPPY (still incredibly handsome, of course, even with the long hair, but a hippy nonetheless!)

Up until now, the only way either Georges or I have been able to meet any of one another's relatives was via web cam at Christmastime. So now the ice has really been broken, at least on the French side, and we both thought it went really well. I was very moved and a little emotional at the end of the day when Georges' sister told me how happy she was to see her brother so happy. She couldn't have said anything better to make me feel comfortable coming into this family.

So, as I said... it's been a period of many adjustments. New family to meet and get to know. Finding my way around the neighborhood looking for interesting shops. Learning the new bus lines. Learning the household routine and figuring out how to get over my fear of making mistakes in French (like for one thing, I apparently need to speak louder -- I tend to speak very softly in French, probably out of insecurity, and people aren't understanding me because they can't HEAR me.) There are obviously a lot more adjustments to be made and who knows what they will be or how it will go. And I didn't get as much unpacking done this past week as I might have wanted.

But I think we're off to a wonderful beginning together. Now, if I could only figure out where to put all the shoes...

Confused by the Centimeter

Today, I simply couldn't stand it a moment longer. I had to do it, I just had to. Ditching what was supposed to be a working afternoon, I threw on my coat, wound a giant orange scarf around my neck comme une vrai parisienne, and headed for the metro.

Destination? BHV, otherwise known as Bazar de l'Hotel de Ville. I was on a pilgrimage, in search of attractive yet reasonably affordable new bedding. I hated spending the extra money but I just felt compelled to create a fresh new look to go with the new bed we got on the weekend. I knew it would not be easy, shopping for this bedding solo... there would be decisions to make and obstacles to overcome (especially the high prices; quality bedding and towels are notoriously très cher here).

And then, there are the measurements.

Woe to any unsuspecting Américaine who lives here and wishes to redecorate her boudoir, but is naive enough to believe she can walk into a store and pick out the correct size of bedding based on the good ol' standards of Twin, Full/Double, Queen or King. Here in France, it's all about the centimeters.

The first thing to know is, French mattresses and pillows are measured by centimeters, and there are no handy labels like "Full" or "Queen" to help you out, so you actually need to measure your French bed and pillows before you shop. Remember that stores really hate it when you try to return things, so you need to get it right the first time around if at all possible. And it's no use thinking you can get away with bringing your American sheets and pillowcases (unless you're shipping your American bed and mattresses), because they usually won't fit properly.

We had purchased a 140x200cm mattress, the rough equivalent of a Full or Double bed. There are also 90x200cm (Twin), and 160x200cm (Queen). There is even (at Ikea, at least) an 80x200cm mattress which I'm guessing is for toddler beds perhaps? But as if this wasn't confusing enough, I have seen the web sites for some other mattress dealers where they offer some brands with many more widths (ranging in 10 cm increments from 70cm to 200cm) and even with a length of 190cm. Why do they make it so difficult? It's France, where making simple things complicated seems to be a way of life.

Then (God help us) there are the pillow dimensions. In America, you don't need to know the measurements of your pillows, you just need to know if you want a Standard length or perhaps Queen or King-sized lengths for wider beds. For years in France, the "European style" square pillows and those round bolster-type pillows were the standard, but of course you could get the square ones in several sizes, the largest being 65x65cm, but I've also seen 63x63, 60x60 and perhaps even smaller.

But now, the French are doing rectangular pillows as well, both the usual filled ones as well as the ergonomic types. Here again, you have decisions to make about dimensions. Do you want 50x70? Or 45x70 (oh REALLY? Do those 5 frigging centimeters make ANY kind of a difference or are these manufacturers just screwing with our heads? Because last time I looked, 5 centimeters was NOTHING.)

So I'm at the BHV in the bedding department, and for starters I am totally freaked out by the prices. I mean, you could actually pay more than 100 Euros for a single PILLOW, and some of the comforter covers (called housse de couette here, NOT "duvet covers" as I had always thought) are upwards of 200 Euros for the better quality (and we're not even talking Egyptian cotton here). I was attempting to find something for under 65 Euros in a color scheme that would more or less coordinate with the sheets we already have and that I didn't absolutely hate. But when I realized that some of the brands only had pillow cases in certain sizes but not others, I realized I would have to first make a commitment to the size of the pillows and the comforter.

This is not as easy as it might seem on the surface. For a 140x200cm mattress, you don't get a comforter the same size -- it needs to be wider and possibly longer, depending upon how high your bed frame is and on whether you want the comforter to dangle or if you plan to tuck it in. (I know, it's enough to make you want to start drinking, isn't it?) I agonized for a good half-hour over whether to get a 200x200 or 220x240 size. Georges had told me he thought the 220x240 was going to be too big for our low bed frame but I just wasn't sure the 200x200 would be quite right, either. Eventually I settled on the smaller one and decided to take my chances. (It later proved to be the right move -- WHEW!)

The pillows nearly put me over the edge, though... seriously. I was leaning toward the rectangular ones, because that's what I'm used to. Yet I want Georges to be comfortable too, and I thought maybe he'd really prefer the square ones. But here, I had another dilemma: the comforter cover I finally decided upon only had square pillow cases in 63x63... but the store doesn't seem to SELL any square pillows smaller than 65x65! And they just looked HUGE to me. Finally I broke down and sent Georges a texto, hoping he wasn't in a meeting or something, so he could cast his vote. His response: that I should pick whatever I wanted. (This is not the main reason I love him -- his tendency to let me have my way in many things -- but it sure made my life easier today!) So... I went with the rectangular ones, 50x70. And before going to the cash register, I broke out my French and asked a salesgirl to confirm that the 50x70 pillow cases would, in fact, fit the 50x70 pillows. Because by this point my head was spinning, the store was overheated as usual, and I was starting to lose my ability to think rationally.

Approximately 250 Euros and THREE HOURS after I entered the store, I left with the new comforter, pillows, pillow cases, housse-de-couette, mattress cover and also three 5-hanger packs for just 99 centimes for each 5-pk (at least I got ONE really good bargain). The comforter and pillows were all marked down as well (pillows @ 21 Euros each, comforter at just 56), and the other bedding was the store brand rather than the pricier designer marques I might have preferred, given a larger budget.

Knowing that there are so many good places in the U.S. to buy decent quality bedding at reasonable prices (did you know Target even carries some 600-thread count sheets now?) made it difficult to spend that kind of cash. Until I got it all home and put it together on the bed. And saw how crisp and bright and fresh the room looks now.

It was so worth it all... the headache-inducing strip to the store, the OUCH when I saw the total at the cash register, and the sore arms and shoulders from lugging it all home on the metro. And I can't wait for Georges to come home and see it.

Just call me Mrs. Fields

My bronchitis is down to a repetitive and annoying runny nose, sniffle, and occasional cough, and I'm feeling more human again. Several days of doing very little may sound good on paper, but in practice it really gets boring.

Yesterday, finally, I was feeling well enough to venture out for the afternoon with Georges' daughter. We had a mission: she asked me to teach her to bake cookies! Apparently, cookies are not something the French "do". My first thought was: "Toll House chocolate chip cookies!" because the recipe is always on the bag, and they're a cookie everyone loves. And the French love anything with chocolate in it. Which of course meant I had to buy the ingredients. Where to find the chocolate chips, baking soda and dark brown sugar in Paris? Only one place I knew: the Thanksgiving Store.

I had been seeking a reason to go shopping at this store for a while. Looking at their web site to see which American products they carried, I got very enthusiastic and made a long list of treats I wanted to buy... little things to remind me of home. Like Vlasic Bread-n-Butter Pickles. Aunt Jemima Pancake mix. And Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, of course.

Our first stop, though, was "lunch" at Breakfast in America in the Marais, to treat her to an American-style breakfast. (We ate WAY too much. Hint: if you're not really REALLY hungry, don't order the 3 Pancakes. They're HUGE, the size of the plate, and very filling. I only ate half, and half my side order of bacon, so it was kind of a waste. But very delicious.)

After "breakfast" (which we ate at 1pm) we wandered around the Marais for a while, walking off the meal, doing a little shopping. Then we went to the Thanksgiving store where I dropped about 83 Euros buying 12 products (WOW, their import markup is HUGE! I don't expect to be stocking up regularly at this place, that's for sure.) Then, we headed down to the 15th to my apartment, where all my things are stacked in boxes and bags in the middle of the room, awaiting the moving van on Saturday. I located my cookie sheet, and measuring cups and spoons (the measuring spoons were also a curiosity to her... apparently these don't exist in French cooking either? Even in metric?) and we headed home to start baking.

I haven't baked in years, although I used to do it regularly when I worked in the corporate world because I could bring whatever I'd baked to share with my colleagues. (When you live alone and work at home, baking is NOT a good habit to get into, so I just sort of stopped baking when I went freelance.) I had to look up the temperature conversion for the Celsius oven on-line, and we got part-way into the operation before realizing there was no electric mixer in the house (we made do with the Cuisinart). I had to actually measure a cup of butter in a measuring cup because their "sticks" of butter aren't the same size as ours in America. I wasn't at all sure how they would turn out, quite honestly, as this was my first attempt at baking anything in France and I could only find salted pecans to use in the recipe. But in the end, we had 2 dozen perfectly baked, totally delicious American cookies for her to show off to her friends... and her father, of course!

So we had a nice afternoon together, where she learned how to make cookies, and I learned that I don't need to look far for ways to bond with the kids. The bonding seems to be taking care of itself; all I have to do is be prepared when the opportunities arise, and show up with a willing spirit and an open heart.

And I have plenty of both.

Phonophobia

Oh wow. I have just realized that I seem to have developed an unnatural fear of the telephone.

Well, not ALL telephones. I'm fine with the telephone in my apartment, my cell phone and my Skype phone. Totally fine, business as usual.

It's the phone in Georges' house. I'm here in the house on my own, working, while Georges and his Little Guy are out in the nearby park kicking around the football. And the phone just rang. The house phone. Which I do not answer. Because I know the person on the other line will probably want to speak only French, and then I'm totally screwed.

As I listen to it ring and ring, I debate with myself: to answer, or not to answer? What if it's D, Georges' older son, calling to say he (a) or (b) is not coming to dinner tonight? I nearly take the risk to pick it up because D speaks English, but my fear of it being anyone else stops me.

Which I know is completely ridiculous, but there it is. I am afraid of the person on the other end of the line speaking in rapid-fire français to me while my mind goes spontaneously blank and I am forced to stutter haltingly, "Monsieur M, Il. N'est. Pas. à la. Maison. Maintenant. Uh... [listening to more fast French] Je. Ne. Comprends. Pas. Désolé. Merci. Au revoir."

Sigh. I used to dream of being fluent in French. Now I sincerely have my doubts I will ever get there. Other people do it though; they learn to speak French, and speak it quite well, even if they never quite managed to erase their foreign accent. Why is this so freaking hard for my brain to process and retain this language? I don't like thinking it's because I'm over 45 and the brain cells just don't operate the way they used to. But if it's not that, then maybe I am just stupid when it comes to this language. I don't like that, either... my teachers used to tell me I had a good ear for languages and music. Where did that good ear go?

I am frustrated beyond belief. I know I need to take some lessons again but I'm a little strapped for cash at the moment, and I know that lessons alone are not going to do the job because I've been taking them for years and fluency still eludes me. I keep waiting for that light bulb in the French part of my brain to flip on, but it seems stubbornly and perpetually set to "Out of Order".

I never thought I would see the day I'd be afraid to answer a telephone. And I feel like a total idiot for crying about it.

Worm Wars

There was a definite "war theme" going on with me and Georges this weekend. First, we saw two movies that had bloody war scenes in them -- A Very Long Engagement (First World War) and then Atonement (Second World War). And then, we had our own little battle going on in the house: the Great Paris Worm War.

You know it's real love when you both, as a couple, spend a good portion of the weekend emptying and cleaning the insides and outsides of his kitchen cabinets after discovering an infestation of moth larvae. And when you are still smiling and kissing by the end of it all. Because somehow, doing a disgusting job like that is a lot better when you do it as a team. It was us against the bugs in this war, and even though we were greatly outnumbered, I think we're winning.

Seriously, these little worms were totally disgusting. I saw one a few days ago, but thought maybe it was something that the cat dragged in. You know: Bugs Happen and the world will never be insect-free. But then we found two more INSIDE the door of a kitchen cabinet, and a small live moth. Then I looked up and counted about a half-dozen worms all over the kitchen ceiling. Georges killed them all, but then 10 minutes later (I kid you not, it was no more than 10 minutes) three or four more appeared out of nowhere. It was bizarre and more than a little creepy.

We cleaned out one big kitchen cabinet on Saturday, the one where the cereals, pastas, tea, flour and sugar are stored, because we weren't sure what these worms were, exactly, and whether or not they might be in the food. We were hoping they WERE moth larvae and not (shudder) maggots. Poor Georges was on the floor wiping down all the insides of the cabinet, and covered in flour by the end of it. We didn't find any bugs in the food, thank goodness, and we thought maybe we'd gotten rid of the problem, and congratulated ourselves on getting a jump start on the spring cleaning. But not long after we did all that work, we saw more of them. They just kept APPEARING, and way out in the middle of the ceiling a few feet away from any cabinets. We couldn't figure out what was going on.

I couldn't sleep half the night, wondering if more of those worms were on the kitchen ceiling. Fortunately we didn't find them anywhere else in the house, so we knew they weren't from the type of moths that would go into the clothes closets. But those worms just creeped me out, big time. And sure enough, when we woke up Sunday morning, there were more of them on the ceiling again.

So went to the bricolage to buy some kind of appropriate insecticide that could be used around food, and sure enough there are products that are for these types of moths (called "mites" en français, in case you need to know this -- in English, mites are another type of insect entirely) that gravitate to the food supply. Now that I think back on it, I had been noticing these tiny moths (about the size of small housefly) at his place the past couple of weeks since I've been back, but thought they were just coming in from outside whenever someone opened the door (and the cat is quite good at figuring out how to get the door open when she wants to sneak outside and play in the courtyard). I realize now that the moths had already invaded and set up housekeeping.

Because we cleaned out all the other cabinets where food was kept, and sure enough, we found them. We also found evidence that someone had left sticky moth traps in one of those cabinets in the past, so this might be a recurring problem. Ugh. Georges (my hero) did the work of disposing of them, of climbing up into the cabinets and taking everything out and then wiping down the insides well, and he scoured the poubelles as well, with bleach, just for good measure. I got to be the "assistant"; he passed me items out of the cabinets to go into the trash, and I kept him well supplied with spray cleaner and paper towels, and later washed out various containers and things. And while we were at it, we cleaned and degreased the range hood and cleaned under and behind the microwave, and wiped down the countertops. Then Georges set up the little moth traps in a few places, including inside one of the cabinets. We found a few renegade worms trying to make a break for it after that, but they didn't get far, and this morning we found ZERO. And I slept a lot better last night.

So, we REALLY got a jump on spring cleaning... not something we'd expected to be doing this weekend but it needed to be done just the same. And it was afterward that we both looked at each other and said, "Even this awful job was (almost) fun for us, because at least we did it together." Another step in our evolution as a couple and in my transformation from someone who is, for now, a regular house guest, but who will have a different role in the household before too long.

And you really have to love a man who refuses to let YOU be the one to clean out the cabinets and garbage bins, and who will willingly kill bugs for you... and not make fun of you even once, for asking him to do it.

Just a little bit more French

La Gastro (i.e. the stomach bug that comes out of nowhere and knocks you flat for a couple of days) is making the rounds of Paris again, and according to reports it is reaching near-epidemic proportions. It is unpleasant and inconvenient, but fortunately not life-threatening. Georges' little guy has had it the past few days (better now but didn't go to school again today so he can rest up for his half-day of school tomorrow), along with the neighbor and her two kids who share a nanny with Georges' son. Suffice to say, Georges had his hands full and very little sleep on Wednesday and into Thursday. I was safely here across town when it struck Wednesday evening at Chez Georges, but having had lunch with Georges on Wednesday I couldn't help wondering if he and I would both come down with it, too.

As a preventative measure, Georges and I have been taking "Smecta" which is the preferred remedy here for things like this. He had given me a few packets of Smecta (you dissolve it in a glass of water and drink it) weeks ago for me to take on my trip to NJ "just in case". But I thought it was time I kept a better supply on hand, despite having also brought back American remedies like Pepto-Bismol tablets and Immodium.

It was on my way walking home from the pharmacy and local supermarket, my groceries in a tote bag and a box of Smecta in hand, that I had one of those "I feel a bit more French today" moments. When I start taking French over-the-counter meds and am willing to bypass my more familiar things from home, it's one tiny step toward better integrating into the culture. And I can't help wondering if France is going to turn me into a hypochondriac? (I will draw the line at suppositories though, which French doctors seem to prescribe -- so I hear, anyway -- with frightening regularity for any and every ailment.)

Who know the Gastro could make me feel French?

I'm just happy I didn't get it... this time. And neither did Georges.

One odd thing about this Smecta powder though... I noticed that on the (happily) bi-lingual packet instructions it said the mixture could be taken orally -- or rectally. Ummm... does anyone else find that a bit peculiar? Or scary? I'm not sure I'm comfortable drinking something I could also administer into another orifice. Just what the hell is IN that stuff, anyway?

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FOLLOW-UP, January 13, 2008: This being open-minded to trying foreign OTC products goes both ways you know. Georges was begrudgingly willing to take some of my American Advil for a small headache on Sunday after he discovered he was out of what he says is the stronger French Advil. (They sell a 1,000mg Advil here without a prescription, which is the equivalent of FIVE American Advils).

And IT WAS A MIRACLE OF HEALING, because his headache went away despite thanks to the "inferior" Yankee product.

Phet bast-ard!

While running into the liquor store to pick up some Yellowtail Australian Shiraz for our Christmas dinner, I wandered by accident down the French wine aisle and started browsing to see if anything looked familiar. Nothing did... and then I spotted THIS chubby bugger, "Fat Bastard" Shiraz, by Thierry & Guy. YES, this is an actual FRENCH wine, with a simple yet charming label of a hippo on it. This is a 2006 vintage.

Back label reads:

The Origin of the Fat bastard.

Good friends Thierry (renowned French winemaker) & Guy (British wine industry rebel) created Fat Bastard almost by accident.

It started out as an experiment Thierry had been doing in the back of his cellar, leaving a barrel "on the lees" (yeast cells). He didn't know what to expect but when the friends tried the wine, Thierry exclaimed...

"Now zat iz what you call eh Phet bast-ard!"  (read with a strong French accent)

This very British expression perfectly describes the wine's wonderful color and ROUND, rich palate, so that's what they called it.

No one remembers exactly where the hippo came from.

We'll be sampling this over the next few days and if it's any good I may have to bring a bottle BACK to France to share with Georges, but really, would this not be the PERFECT gift for that snobby wine connoisseur in your life? I mean, it IS French, after all.

Bottom's up and à votre santé, people. And please... don't drink and drive.

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The Bold Soul Morning-After Wine Review: Ma soeur et moi, we killed the entire bottle of Fat Bastard last night, between dinner and some time relaxing our sore muscles in her outdoor hot tub -- I'm sore from chopping more icy-driveway yesterday, and she finished her holiday shopping and food shopping yesterday as well, so we were both exhausted. We liked the wine very much. I'm no wine expert but this hit MY palate just right: it IS full-bodied (as advertised on the label, remarkably so), not too dry and not too sweet. I would definitely drink this again. I should mention, the store near me had it priced at only $7.99/bottle, too. So very good French wine at a VERY afforable price.