A Partial List of Things I'll Never Understand

1. German

2. Why the French spend so much time growing expanses of grass to look at, but not use.  Granted, I'm allergic to grass, so I wouldn't plan to roll around on the stuff, but the ubiquitous "Keep yer smelly feet off the greenery, punk" signs amuse me.

3. Why it's not okay to walk your dog on the grass, but it's a terrific idea to let Pierre crap on the sidewalk and leave it there.

 

 4. Why it's permissible to open packages of water and soda to pull out the two or three bottles you want. I still feel like a security guard is going to grab me by the shoulder and haul me away when I do this!

5. Why this counts as an expansive living room

. 6. Why this picture is flipped.  But the point was to make snarky comment about the tiny fridge. 

7. Why you would place a clothes drying rack on top of the revolting, smelly garbage chute (positioned right next to the oven, stove and microwave, mind you).

7. If this is protesting something or just being funny.  But I love it either way!

8. German.  Did I already say that?  Right.  I stole it from Howie Mandel, back when he was funny.

BS--It Doesn't Stand For What You Think It Does

Eating is always a challenge for our family.  With my hypoglycemia, I need to eat a mix of protein and carbs about every three hours.  I try to eat small meals or snacks throughout the day.  This means my fueling schedule is often:

8 AM: breakfast
10 AM: second breakfast or early lunch
1 PM: lunch
4 PM: first dinner or snack
7 PM: dinner

The kids typically eat on my schedule.  Since I'm an at-home mom who home schools, we're pretty able to keep my blood sugar stable while still getting done what we need and want to do.  Bryan is only affected on the occasions where we're off track and he arrives home to a nearly-starving, glucose-deprived wife who is sometimes unaware of it.

The first organ your body deprives of sugar is your brain--it's an energy hog.  So when slipping low on the blood sugar (redefining BS for my family) scale, many times I won't realize I need to eat.  I won't "feel" hungry, so I dismiss the slight dizziness and headache which are warning signs to which I should be paying close attention.

Because of this, and a few other medical things, vacations can be really stressful for me.  I need to be able to eat right after waking up.  If I'm stuck in a hotel, that often means snacking on something until I can shower and get presentable/rally the troops enough to go down to the restaurant or crappy free-breakfast room.  When I pack for a hotel-based trip, I bring enough snacks for every morning, along with a supply to keep in my purse for during the day.  If I eat dinner at a normal time, I often need a small snack before bed.  It's really tedious being constantly aware of the need for food.  Typically half of my carryon bag is filled with Luna bars, granola bars, peanuts, almonds, cookies and the like.

Add to my stupid issues the fact that our children are children, and thus, picky about what and when they eat in a country that's pretty rigid about food.  It's a recipe for drama.

Back home, I know the opening times of most major restaurants.  But here, a blood sugar crash can strike at inopportune times.  Another situation we encounter often is when I'm fine and the kids are starving.  This happens a lot here in France, since they don't finish the often-unfamiliar sandwiches and meals we're eating.

The other day, we were shopping for clothes for the adults.  I'd just found four lovely dresses and Bryan snagged a terrific sweater and three gorgeous shirts.  The kids had been pretty patient with the whole process, so we were inclined to humor them when they said they wanted to eat.  We went into a Leon--a chain of Belgian restaurants here in Paris.  They specialize in mussels, fries, beer and waffles.  What's not to like?

After determining that the kids were overwrought with boredom from the shopping, we caved and let them order waffles for lunch.  Bryan and I had eaten too recently, so we split an order of mussels. 

Lunch was:
Bryan: large beer, mussels, fries
Anne: large beer, mussels, fries, waffle
Olivia: waffle, fizzy water
Helena: waffle, fizzy water

Are we crazy?  Yep, that's what our server thought.  He thought it incredible that we split the mussels--but honestly--it had to be three pounds!  I don't know how one person could eat an order as part of a French meal.  Even if I'd been starving, I'd have been hard pressed to finish it alone, to say nothing of the salad and fries that accompanied it!  Yet we watched an elderly couple near us do just that.

And they think WE eat a lot.  That's another French paradox that's particularly acute for me.  With my blood sugar issues, I believe we eat more often, but in smaller quantities than the average American.  I've gotten good at eating half a meal and boxing up the rest.  It's not a weight management thing so much as a strategy I've learned.  If I eat too much food, it causes my stupid blood sugar to get all out of whack.  In addition to the physical discomfort of overeating, I feel hot, sweaty, dizzy and near fainting.  Notice that they're the identical symptoms of a blood sugar crash.  Gads, it's annoying.

For me to eat a truly French meal--the 90 minute, 3-course lunch or 2-hour, 4-course dinner would push me over the edge into sickness most times, unless I really held back at each course.  That would be noticed and awkward in a restaurant or family home.  So if eating at home is stressful, eating here is just all that more complicated.

Enough BS!

Kids--The Way to Win Friends and Influence People

How to start a blog on the topic of the French rudeness?

Option 1: Don't tell me the French are rude.
Option 2: I know the French are rude, but so are we.
Option 3: You'd be rude too, if you lived here.
Option 4: We're rude too, ya know?

I see that I progressively more defensive about it since I have as many lovely French friends as I have rude American ones.  It's a cultural thing that I understand slightly better each time I come here, but it can't be easily explained.

So let me explain it.

As far as my limited experience and readings lead me to conclude, the French are by nature extrememly private people.  They don't pry in each others' business, they don't question, they don't assume and they don't ask/don't tell.  To show respect, they are cordial and to-the-point, wasting no one's time with anything but the necessities, as they see it.

The necessities of polite conversation are the inviolable quad of:
1. Bon jour, X--always said upon entering any business or before starting any verbal encounter
2. S'il vous plait, X--when asking for anything
3. Merci, X--when they have done anything, large or small, for you
4. Au revoir, X--when leaving anything, anywhere, anytime

The X stands for Monsieur, Madame, Mademoiselle, Messeiurs, Mesdames or Mesdemoiselles.  ALWAYS add the title.  It signifies that you are going to have a civilized conversation.  To walk into a shop without speaking is tantamount to dropping a deuce right there on the welcome mat.

Well, sorta.

French children learn this early and they learn it often.  The French are very hung up on not letting their children be seen as poorly raised.  Your kid could knock over a wine bottle in a shop, but if he said "Bon jour, Madame" when he entered, it wouldn't be so much a problem.

Ergo, my children have become a secret weapon in the "make France agreeable" war.  They're the second most powerful tool in my arsenal.  The first is the fact that I speak French without a terribly strong American accent.  That opens a lot of doors.  But making my kids say their "Bon jour, Madame" and "Merci, au revoir, Monsieur" in every possible situation positively kicks the doors down for us.

It doesn't hurt that my kids are cute.  I give you Exhibit A:

and Exhibit B:

But beyond cute, it's music to a Parisian's ears to hear not only their culturally-mandated politeness, but a clear attempt to learn the language and to speak it properly.  As an American, I fight all the prejudices that we've rightfully and not-so-rightfully been shackled with--we're fat, loud, rich and rude.  I realize I overcompensate, but I figure I'm in a good place to earn some points with whomever I'm talking to--points that might be spent by the next American they meet who doesn't speak any French, but is trying.  Maybe somewhere I lodge a grain of "well, not all Americans are so awful" in their subconscious with each "Bon jour, Madame" that Olivia and Helena say.

And now, to conclude, thank you, gentlemen and ladies.

Energie!

One of the best parts of travel is finding the local brands that you just love.  When I first came to France in 1987, liquid hand soaps were relatively new.  There was a brand, Pousse Mousse, that sold a lavender scented soap that was amazing.  It smelled more like the nicest men's cologne you've ever imagined.  So, of course, I brought back three bottles and jealously guarded each tiny pump until it was gone.

On our last trip, when we stayed two weeks in Villefranche-sur-Mer on the Mediterranean coast, I fell in love with this wonderful shampoo/conditioner.  It's a cheap, grocery-store bought Garnier brand--nothing to write home about (and yet I am writing about it, hmm).  What makes it so wonderful is that it's avocado oil and shea butter scented.  Seriously.  It's a wonderful break from the flowery, fruit shampoo Hell I find myself in at home so often.  It's gentle, simple and such a refreshing break from normal that I think I'm going to haul home a few bottles.

The shower gel, ah, the shower gel!  I bought a store-brand shower gel as a joke our first day here.  Of the four scents to choose from, I bought Energie since we were fighting jet lag.  It's advertised as a tropical mix of gingembre and guarana.  I figured it'd be fruity, but it's not.  It's a piquant little squirt of, "oh, isn't that peppy?" in the shower.  I already sent two bottles home with Bryan and will bring two more with me.

Not making the picture, but worth an honorable mention is the already-so-well-loved-that-it's gone La Marseillaise lotion.  The packaging shows this to be a traditional, old school French brand--sort of the Johnson's Baby Lotion of France, I suspect.  But here's the twist.  It absorbs into your skin in about 1/10th the time my lotions do back home.  Granted, I slather up with body butters and extra-heavy fruity B&BW stuff most days, but even by cheap Jergen's lotion standards, this stuff is amazing.  When I finished it, I decided to try a lotion marketed specifically as "quick absorbing" just to perform scientific experiments on it.  Disappointingly, it's no faster than my Marseillaise stuff, but smells better, so I'm still declaring it far superior to grocery store lotion back home!

To be thorough in my product review process; the dish soap, laundry soap, bleach and toilet paper aren't much to crow about.  The generic toilet paper is pink, however, which delights the girls, so I deal with the cheapness of it.

The less said about that, the better, methinks.

The True Truth About French Food

Okay, to be fair, here is a list of terrific French food I've had since April 2.

Apple Slices with Cheese
Badoit
Baguette
Belgian Waffle
Boudoirs
Cheese: Babybel (for the kids)
Cheese: Brie
Cheese: Camembert
Cheese: Chevre
Cheese: Rocquefort
Cheese: Something I didn't get the name of and will regret my life over
Cheese: Tartare
Chinese Dumpling Soup
Chocolate Cream Puff
Chocolate Mousse
Coke in glass bottles!
Creme Brule
Crepe with Nutella
Croissants
Croque Madame
Duck Breast
Ecoliers cookies--chocolate covered little devils!
Escargots de Bourgogne
Fried Rice (Bryan's leftover-created masterpiece--rice, sausage, pork chops, peas, sauces, AMAZING)
Gyros with Salad and Fries
Hot Chocolate
Ice Cream (tasted better because it was eaten while walking through Versailles' gardens)
Macaroons (French ones, not the coconut things, but I love those too)
Melon
Mussels
Nutella on anything
Omelette
Orangina
Pho
Quiche: mushroom
Rice Noodle Dishes from "Hawai"
Salads with terrific vinaigrettes
Sandwich "boeuf a la citronelle" avec piment from the Vietnamese place around the corner
Spring rolls with sauce
Steak Frites
Tarte: Lemon
Tarte: Mirabelle
Tarte: Mixed Fruit
Wine: Champagne
Wine: Red

The Paradox of French Food

Argue with me if you will, but French food sucks!

Okay, I'm saying that with more than the usual amount of sarcasm (which is really saying something, isn't it?).  But the reality is that we have had few truly memorable culinary experiences in restaurants this past month.  By way of explanation, let me share a few things I've learned/experienced/endured in and about restaurants this month.

First, breakfast here stinks.  The French folks I know eat last night's stale baguette toasted.  It does nothing to mask the fact that they're using old baguette, the most depressing food known to mankind.  The Bonne Maman strawberry jam almost makes this bearable.  The coffee, I'm told is pretty bad.  I don't drink it, so I care very little.  There aren't breakfast spots other than the occasional cafe that sells a breakfast of two liquids (juice and coffe), some carbs and maybe an egg.  There are no cafes like this in our neighborhood, so we haven't tried one.  With my hypoglycemia, I'd have to eat a meal before going out for breakfast anyway.  So we're making eggs, cereal and oatmeal at home most days.  Occasionally, if we're getting out early, we'll grab a croissant at the bakery across the street.  As a result, I'm dying for a good First Watch breakfast--it'll be first on my list when I get home.

Second, lunch here stinks.  We typically have three options: picnic, cafe or sandwich to go.  Picnics haven't worked because it's so damned cold right now that I can't fathom sitting anywhere other than in a volcanic spring-fed pool to eat.  Or Hell.  Hell would be good.

Cafes have provided much warmth, but we've had so many disappointing, overpriced lunches that I could just scream!  Not the

"$75 for lunch?  Whaaat?" kind of scream,

but the "Holy crap--we paid $150 for THAT?" kind of scream. 

The issue is that the places we're going are crawling with tourists, so they tend to serve the same things.  Granted, I expected to have the biggies: onion soup, croque monsieur, omelette, escargot, steak/frites and mussels.  But that's all we're finding here.  Most cafes have limited menus that feature the typical things.  Most tourists aren't staying as long as we have, so they don't require more variety.  In fact, they prefer the standards.

The sandwich-to-go options are getting tired.  The kids love baguette now, but the tuna isn't what they're expecting.  The ham comes with either butter (which they don't like), veges (which they don't eat) or cheese (which the little heathens won't even try).  Repeat these issues for any type of sandwich sold at bakeries.

I'm ever on the lookout for a good fixed-price 3-course menu--where I can try an entree, a plat and a dessert.  But again, the stereotypical things are always on offer.  If we didn't have the kids, we'd be able to venture out into less touristy areas, but I need to conserve their walking energy.  So while I'd not hesitate to hop a Metro and go 30 minutes out of my way to find a great place normally, on this trip I get stuck hopping into any cafe I see when the kids are melting down.  Recipe for disaster.

Third, dinner here stinks.  But this one I can't blame on them.  It's me.  The kids (and me, in truth) can't wait until 7 PM to eat dinner.  We have yet to enjoy a single true French restaurant dinner here.  We mostly cook at home or grab something at one of the Vietnamese or Chinese places near the apartment.  I'm generally cool with this, but it still costs twice what you'd pay for food of comparable quality back home.  $10.50 for a bowl of pho that's smaller than I'd get at home for $6?  Bummer.

The best meal we had was at a friend's house last week--terrific salad, duck, veges, dessert.  It was lovely.  And that's the take-home here.

The French cook well.  They cook for themselves and don't eat out like we do.  French restaurants are for tourists, so they don't need to provide the best.  In fact, if they're too authentic, I imagine they don't do well.  We've gotten used to this, so we tend to pick less-expensive places and get stuck in a feedback loop of bad meal leading to bad meal.  Why pay more when we keep getting mediocre meals?

The departure of my husband yesterday sounded the death knell for truly enjoyable meals here in France.  I'm unashamed, happy even, to admit he's a much better cook than I.  He opens a refrigerator and sees opportunities when I see a bunch of leftovers and things that I don't feel like eating.  Last week, he threw together a mushroom and shallot omelette with cheese, bread, jam and fizzy water (France's Badoit is our family favorite).  Bryan's skill in the kitchen is a real disincentive to my attempts to learn to cook!

We leave Paris in three days and I'm optimistic that we'll get better meals.  Oh wait, we're going to England.  Well, at least I'll go home thinner than I arrived!

Hey Baby--Nice Melons!

If you've never been to Europe, YOU MUST COME NOW!  The melons from Spain are in season!  Or they are sprayed with ethylene like ours, I'm not sure which, but it doesn't matter.  They're here and they're terrific.

I'm a canteloupe girl like certain people are Manchester United fans.  I love it, despite the fact that I'm allergic to it.  If I eat melon (of any kind, or bananas) without eating something immediately after to remove the juices from my mouth, I get a tingly, swollen, precursor-to-throat-closing feeling.  It makes fruit salad rather an adventure, I'd say.

Seriously, though, it's just a food sensitivity.  As long as I take a bite or two of something else after the melon, I'm fine.

The melons here are smaller and stronger than ours.  The flesh is softer and pleasantly chewy.  And the smell is just amazing.  A melon here is the pinnacle of fruit's existence.  The fruit equivalent of Shakespeare, Michael Jordan and Pitbull.

Gee, I hope I'm the first blogger to put those three men together.

Putting aside my literary ambitions for the moment, do make a point to get to Europe to try one of these beauties someday.  For me.

Bon appetit!

Crazy Spiral Staircases--or--How to Know If You're a Big Dope

We live in the 13th arrondisement.  It's a long story why, but suffice it to say that there are good and bad things about the place we rented.  An interesting part is that we're up high--on the 27th floor.  Our building is served by four elevators.  Two serve the 1st through 16th floors and two handle 17 and up.

One day, our elevator started malfunctioning (while we were in it).  After successfully, I think, fighting that adrenaline-tinged omigod-I'm-going-to-die-today-in-this-elevator-with-my-kids feeling, we made it to the ground floor.  After a day of touring, we came home to discover only one working elevator.  Not a surprise.

That was 10 days ago.  It's still not working.

The morning my husband left early to take his mom to the airport for her return flight, he sent me a text.  "Elevator is out.  Just dropped Mom off.  Shopping for shirts.  Text me when you're ready for lunch, I'll meet you and the girls somewhere."

Wait, what?  Elevator is OUT?  The remaining one?  You gotta be kidding me.

Dreading it, I hopped into the shower, got the kids ready and steeled my nerves for what was to come.  But, hizzah!, the elevator was fine.  When we met for lunch, my husband said he and his mother had walked down to the 16th floor and caught the elevator from the other side.

DUH!  I hadn't thought to do that.  I figured I'd just walk down 27 flights of stairs (well, 28, they call the ground floor the Rez-de-Chausee) here with the kids.

Here, for your enjoyment, is what we faced.

We did once have to walk down to the 16th on this bad boy, heading out to dinner.  But thankfully, the elevator was back running by the time we'd finished eating.  Whew!  I wouldn't be able to handle 28 flights of this!

Linens, and Things

Two summers ago, we spent a two-week vacation in Villefrance-sur-Mer, a tiny town in the French Riviera.  We brought the girls (of course) and a wonderful friend "L" who helped with them.  One day, Bryan watched the girls while L and I took a train to Nice for some shopping.  I wanted to buy tablecloths and napkins in that terrific provencal palette--rich yellows, blues and that rust-colored maroon with olive leaf and flower details.  They're typical of the region and heaven on the eyes.

L and I had fun laughing over the fact that they were all pretty inexpensive, no-iron, polyester numbers.  I don't iron, so it was great to realize it wasn't going to be necessary.  Since then, those two tablecloths have been among the workhorses of my linen closet!  They brighten up the room and wash up like a dream.  I use nothing else.

So when we arrived in France at the start of April, I was surprised to find The World's Most Awful Tablecloth (I verified with the the Ripley's people) on our rental apartment's dining table.  I forget that the French love these plastinated, hideous things.  Sporting an insouciant cigarette burn, the offending item features a multi-colored clashing palette of sherbet orange, seasick yellow, fake cornflower blue and viral-photo-of-that-goop-they-make-chicken-nuggets-out-of red.  And eggplant purple.  Don't let's forget the eggplant purple.

Here she is--hold your nose!

It's like eating off one of those awful plastic raincoats we all wore in the 80's, but it doesn't have cute whales printed on the inside.  It shifts awkwardly when you get up from the table.  The flower pattern produces a slight seasickly wavy feeling as you eat, aware of the movement in the background.  It pretty much has no redeeming features, other than providing a great topic for a blog on a chilly Friday morning when the kids are asleep and I don't feel quite ambitious enough to shower yet.

You can buy individual tablecloths like this or buy any length of hideous plastinated crap you want at various home stores.  In the emergency case of there NOT be a standard-sized plastinated crap tablecloth that suits your table needs, that is.

**************

So, I set out to buy a few more provencal tablecloths, but seem to be in a Parisian den of the hideous crap!  I looked and looked.  The expensive stores sell the nice "Jacquard de France" ones with matching napkins for $450.  But I have kids--I don't want to pay "good purse" prices for a tablecloth!

I looked at BHV (the "Target" of Paris), Monoprix ("Kmart") and Casino ("Giant Eagle/Meijer/Piggly Wiggly"), but no go.  Finally, I remembered Habitat.  It's a home decor store that I've enjoyed shopping in before--nice stuff, fun design, "cheap purse" prices for tablecloths.  I dragged the kids on a rainy day and BINGO! 

Now I have a set of four placemats and napkins (which raised an eybrow from my husband, we've never been fans of placemats)...

... and I have a gorgeous (to my eyes, dear reader, I'm not stating that as a point of fact, mind you) tablecloth and napkins set.

Victory!

The Mythic Phoenix

This week, my husband fulfilled a dream I've had for 25 years.  He bought me an Hermes silk scarf.

As I re-read, I realize how the cynic could read those two sentences I just put together: dramatic, haughty, hokey, naive, sappy... pick your negative desciptor if you must.  Haters be hatin', right?

But the simple truth is that his choice of that scarf shows how much he understands and values the things that are important to me.  I studied French in high school and college, lived her for a few summers and have actively sought to continue practicing French and visiting the country as an adult.  The iconic brand Hermes has been a touchstone to me from adolescence.  I used to subscribe to Connoisseur magazine (now defunct, go figure) just for the ads.  I'd cut out the glossy beauties and tape them on my dorm walls next to the photographs of gemstones and Duran Duran posters.

Hey, back off, it was the 80's.  You know you did it too.

When we first decided to try living in France, I told Bryan that as soon as he got his first paycheck or job offer, I wanted an Hermes scarf.  I was teasing, but he took me seriously.  He decided that it was something he wanted to do, once he was gainfully employed again.

Oops--spoiler alert, Bryan got a job.  He flew to Dallas today, probably landing about 20 minutes ago.  I'll do a blog on it soon, I suspect.  Now, back to the scarf....

We took the girls to the flagship Hermes store on the rue Faubourg St. Honore.  I picked out a few scarves, based on color, and asked Bryan choose the final one.  We were debating between two when the saleswoman hade me to try them on.

Well, that made the choice clear.  The first one looked awful folded up--the colors were all wrong against my skin and all the charm of the design was lost in the folds.  Then, when I tried on the second scarf, I believe I heard the Alleluia Chorus, faintly, in the background.

The color scheme is a pale yellow, slightly darker teal and vibrant purple.  It features a phoenix--the mythical bird that rises from the ashes of its own flames to new life.  We didn't know the name of the bird at the time we bought it, but it seems so beautifully symbolic.  So many parts of our life are renewing, reinventing and rebuilding now.

You could say it was a splurge to treat me after so many stressful months.
You could say it was a symbol of my love of France.
You could say it was an irresponsible, spendthrift purchase.

But you'd be wrong.

The scarf is a symbol of the love and understanding of my husband.  He knows how much the idea of this scarf has meant to me for so many years.  He knows that wearing it isn't about the label, but the story, the history of it all.  He knows that when I wear it, I will be thinking how lucky I am to have found someone observant enough to listen to my stories and thoughtful enough to make my dreams, however small, come true.  He knows it is for me and a part of me.  That's why I love my Hermes scarf--not for the scarf, but for the man who bought it.

Lie to Me, But Do It With Sincerity

While travelling, I find it reassuring to discover that so many things are truly universal.  Examples of Universal Truths include:

1) Never get involved in a land war in Asia.
2) The three days in each decade when I don't pack sunglasses, the sun will shine.
3) McDonald's always has slightly disappointing, but there-when-you-need-them restrooms.
4) People on public transit systems are stinky.
5) Nail technicians are full of crap.

Yesterday, I found a nail place across the street from our apartment.  About 10 minutes in I realize that I'm getting gel nails.  Ugh, damnit!  As near as I can tell, gel nails are applied by grinding off the top layer of your nail, gluing a tip to it and then applying several layers of gel which are then hardened by sticking your hand under a UV lamp.  You repeat the layering and lamp process a few times, adding color between some of the layers, and then are subjected to some annoying filing.  Voilà!  An hour and $75 later and you've got your claws (back home it's about $45--sigh).  Acrylics skip the lamp and use a powder that's combined with acetone.  They "cure" in air and are much more common in the U.S.. 

When I see the way you paint your lips
and I smell your perfume
when I see the brand new color
that you've dyed your hair, too
I know, you know, it's more than physical
My love, my love, my love, love is chemical
Lou Reed, "Love is Chemical"

I apologize in advance for the blurry photo.  Doisneau, I'm not.

Watching as she files, I realize that I can't very well leave, so I settle in for an expensive set of nails that isn't going to be quite what I want.  After the standard, "Where are you from" questions, the nail technician starts saying the same damned things I've heard from every nail technician who has ever done my nails.

Lie #1: These won't ruin your nails.  Okay, intrepid readers, let's test out this theory.  Run to Lowe's and pick up a dremel--a tiny drill.  Get a coarse grit barrel on that bad boy and go to town on your fingernails.  I guarantee they'll be ruined.

Lie #2: Your own nails will grow longer under the fakes.  Right, but then they start lifting and won't adhere unless you cut your real nails down to reapply the new tip.  Or they lift and you get a nice nail fungus under there.  And even if my nails truly could grow and stay longer under there, who cares?  Would having my own long nails buried under acrylic really be all that great a badge of womanhood, beauty or luxury?  Doubt it.

Lie #3: These look more natural.  This one's my favorite on two fronts.

Lie #3A: You won't be able to tell they're fakes.  Um, so you're telling me that I go from stubby, scraggily nails that don't even dream of extending past my fingertip to a set of 10 evenly-filed, perfectly rounded ellipses on the end of my fingers and nobody's going to be the wiser?  How dumb does she think my friends are?  Add to that the bright blue polish I chose.  Gee!  I'm sure I'm going to fool everyone I see tomorrow!

Lie #3B: Gels are more natural-looking than acrylics.  This is a great one because it's reversible.  If you're getting acrylics applied, you hear the inverse.  One thing I'll give her on this is that the way she air-brushed the color left it faded as you approach the nail bed.  So as it grows there's less of a stark line between polished area and non-polished area.  But again, refer to the choice of blue color and "natural" just isn't a word I'd apply to my nails right now.

BUT please know that in writing this I don't mean to say that nail technicians are idiots.  I'm trying to make a larger point about how we're all both experts and completely myopic in our areas of expertise.  For me, I suppose it's Zumba and child rearing.  I'll freely admit that I'm as full of crap as anybody on most subjects I yap about.  Want proof?  Check out my posts on Facebook.  It's all ranting and silliness with occasional bits of serious sentiment, support and love for my friends.

And to solve the eternal debate--acrylics are better.  These gels she put on are wavy, inconsistent, clunky things that will really look terrible as they grow out.  But maybe they'll be a natural-looking terrible?  Je ne sais pas.

Now, which of the five shirts I have here in Paris goes with the blue sparkle polish?

Paralyzed by Perfume Shopping

I need some new perfume.

Right now I wear one of two perfumes my husband bought me from his former company or some Bath and Body Works Spray whooziwhatzis that matches whatever bath gel I got at the last 80% off yellow rubber duck sale.

Buying perfume intimidates the crap out of me.  It's almost as scary as using a public bus (I should blog about that soon).  The problem of perfume shopping is twofold: we're picky and I have funky skin.

Let's attack this one on two fronts.

Problem A: Pickiness
I don't like most perfumes, it seems.  I like flower scents in principle and for candles, but I find they're too old-lady smelling on me.  I'm fond of peony, lavender and verbena scents in my house, but when I put them on my body, I feel like Bea Arthur.

I like woodsy, earthy scents--but only in yoga studios.

I like spicy, cinnamon/clove/anise scents--but only for soap.

Get it?  I'm picky.  Hey, I admit it, but if we're pointing fingers--Bryan's even worse.

Problem B: Funky skin.
Our former Parisian exchange student, Emmanuelle, introduced me to Hermes' Eau d'Orange Vert.  I loved it then and love it now.  When she walked through a room, she'd leave a fresh, citrusy verbena scent behind her that made you float off your toes like Pepe le Pew chasing that black cat with the stripe painted on her back.  It was terrific.

So of course I tried it on myself and the top note of citrus is amazing.  However, after two minutes, the middle notes take over and start getting icky.  The base notes of this perfume, when spritzed on my skin, could be described more as basement notes.  Dank, humid, stagnant basement notes.

Okay, okay, it's not truly that bad.  But the scent left on my skin after five minutes is a flowery melange that just smells tired, old and unpleasant.

So why don't I take advantage of the fact that I'm living in Paris now?  It's the capital of perfume (well, Grasse in the south is, but you can't get the selection there that you can here)! 

A few reasons:
First, I don't know how to describe what I like because I'm too picky.
Second, you're only supposed to smell about three or four scents in any sitting because your olfactory sense is easily deadened.
Therefore, third, I'd need to pick one to try, spritz up and then leave the shop.  I want to know how it sits on my skin for hours after I put it on.

Truthfully, the appropriate process would be to go to a perfume shop and sample something new every day.  I'd need to take notes on how it smells on my skin after 30 minutes.  Then after two or three weeks of trial-and-error, I'd find the perfect scent.

But, I'll probably just end up going in and sniffing some sticks, spritzing a little and choosing something that has an interesting bottle and doesn't cost too much or too little.  *sigh*

At least I won't smell like old lady, duck sale or my husband's former job.

Still Life with Tacky Souvenirs, Olivia WRIGHT, circa 2012

First, let me get this off my chest, it drives me nuts how last names are capitalized here.  I'm Anne Wright.  Not Anne WRIGHT!  I like my last name and all, but jeesh.

My older daughter (self portrait, above) has taken an interest in photography.  She loves to shoot photos when I do.  She also loves grabbing the camera when I'm elsewhere and filling up the memory card with pictures of:

computer screens,
living room furniture,
stuffed animals,
Barbie dolls,
her sister,
favorite toys,
and our house,

among other things.

Here in France, she's taken a number of shots that I thought I'd share here.  My personal favorite and the title of this blog entry is:

This one's in the "preparation for my masterpiece" series.



Woodstock and George the Monkey are Francophiles.

This is the painting that looms over our dining room table.  I love the splotchy brushwork and colors, but wish the painter had chosen a less-modern building for the background.  Olivia's fond of it, so she wanted to have a photo of it.

I'm not sure what Helena's trying to express here, but apparently it was photo-worthy to Olivia.  Good enough for me.

Marriage is Full of Surprises

Last winter, I learned something new about my husband of whazzitnow?--14 years?  Turns out he likes stroganoff.

Hmmm.  Who knew?

I don't make it (or anything, really) all that often.  Being a quasi-terrible, semi-literate cook, I stick to the basics.  Bag of salad, peach cobbler, lowfat turkey meatballs....

Bryan hates all forms of casseroles.  He didn't like them growing up, so we don't have them at home.  Since I never had them growing up, I love them.  If I want one, I make them when he's travelling for business.  When I cook, I cook enough for a mid-sized city soup kitchen.  Last fall, I made about seven gallons of stroganoff and froze 4,592 plasticware pints of it.  When he got back from India, Bryan heated one, ate it and proclaimed it "not hazardous to human health" or some similar accolade.  Sweet victory!

Here in France, the suprises abound.  The most interesting was that he likes the Art Nouveau style of architecture--particularly in furniture.  I would not have guessed that.  Usually I'm pretty good at guessing the design styles, features and elements he'll like and dislike.  I run about 85% on clothes choices for men, 40% for women (we're all blind to our faults, aren't we?).  Note: Bryan has a degree in Industrial Design, so form, style, color, texture and the like are really important to him.  Particularly in day-to-day objects.  Picking out silverware, table linens and furniture is a nightmare.  It's a good thing I have no taste in decor and few strong opinions on the matter.

Back to the Art Nouveau.  I figured the curved fussiness wouldn't appeal to his spare, Scandanavian-style loving, design-minded self.  I was wrong.  It turns out the artistry of those pieces really speaks to him.  It was fun to discover this and walk through Orsay's furniture displays in mutual, "Oh, wow, look at that," bliss.  We both had a similar reaction walking through the Second Empire style Opera Garnier.

I'm grateful to France for giving me that gift.  I love that I'm learning new things about my husband.  Back home, in the daily grind of our U.S. lives, we don't get to do that often.  Time to get out, explore and discuss.  Tomorrow's agenda: buying linens at BHV.  It's reputed to be the Target of France.

Wish me luck!

Politics? Me, really?

I'll freely admit that I'm passionately disinterested in politics.  I'd much rather hear about your choice in movies, music, protein bar or hair gel.  But, it's election season in France, so here are some interesting tidbits I've run across recently. 

First, while people will talk about politics, it's evidently quite rude to flat out ask someone who they voted for.  This explains how some pretty obnoxious people get some pretty surprising election returns here.  If none of your neighbors, friends or co-workers will find out, you don't hestitate to vote for the right-wing, anti-immigrant jerkwad's daughter.  If she floats your political boat, that is.

Second, it's a two-phase process.  Today they whittle the field down to two, then in a few weeks, there will be a final run-off.

Third, defacing advertisements has been raised by the French to an art form.  I admit that I love seeing mustaches, wrinkle lines and other sophomoric appendages added to the inane commercial ads in the Metro.  But somehow the political ad defacements seem a little mean.  I'd hate to be driving through Paris and see Harry Potter glasses and a Hitler mustache drawn on my face.  But I don't plan to run anytime soon, so I suppose I needn't worry.

Earlier this week, we found a small packet on our welcome mat.  It was a campaign "brochure" of sorts supporting Sarkozy.  It was


(she pauses for effect)


a 34-page type-written document!  Not a single picture.  No glossy insert.  No catchy slogans printed in bright yellow starbursts.  Just 34-pages of text about why Sarkozy is the right man for France.

It looked like a college term paper.  It was printed with three colors of ink--black, red and blue.  That's it.  The blue was on the front and back covers--made to look like handwritten notes from Nic to me.  The red was for borders.  Nice, flag-waving French touch, I thought.

I flipped through it and wondered how many French people would be reading their copies.  I can't imagine any American politician trying a similar tactic.  What would you think if Obama's re-election team sent you a term paper? 

I'd think I was back in France.

Hooray for me! To Hell with you!

My dad taught me the phrase, "Hooray for me, to Hell with you" years ago.  He uses it to derisively describe anyone whose selfishness offends him.  I love how succinctly it expresses that feeling.

Now I understand that cultural differences will create stress and tension while travelling.  I know that the things I love about Paris will be tempered with some petty annoyances.  But my American sensibilities really get riled at the insensitive, unnecessary physical contact that goes on.

Let's just put it out there, shall we?

People touch my kids way, way too damned much.

When they're being cute, strangers pat their heads.  When we're in lines, the girls get brushed against gently, but persistently.  When we're in truly crowded spaces, my wonderful offspring get shoved.  I've come to observe these acts as an Amateur Anthropologist of Annoyances, of sorts.

Case Study A: Two weeks ago, Olivia got a full-on hand push on the middle of her back from a tourist trying to get to a great photo op spot near the Venus de Milo.

Case Study B: Last week, a guy actually pushed past us to corkscrew his way onto a crowded Metro train as the beeper was sounding.

Case Study C: Yesterday, I felt the "butt brush" (it's a term I read about on a retail marketing website) of a woman passing me in a Metro hallway.  I then realized she was using her purse as a brush guard of sorts as she shoved it against Bryan's elbow, Helena's head and then arm of the elderly gentleman using the stairs in front of us.  I'm glad she didn't go for the inside passage on our right, she'd have sweeped Bryan's injured elbow and knocked the cane out from under old Jacques!

The irony of this is: there was at least five feet of clearance on the stairs next to us.  It was entirely unnecessary for her to touch any of us.  She could have stepped 9 inches to her left and avoided soiling my clothes, my kid and my mood!  But there's a Parisian "I'm always right" going on here.

Yesterday, in front of us at a Metro ticket scanner, a woman tried to use an expired ticket.  When it didn't work, she jumped in behind Bryan as he scanned his monthly pass then pushed through the turnstyle with him.  I haven't been that physically close to his back pockets in public in YEARS!  She started yapping in French, not accusingly, but in a "my pass didn't work, so you should let me do this" manner.  Hey!  Paws off the married man, his wife's territorial, Frenchy!

Anyway, it's something to learn to laugh over, I suppose.  I don't mind a little excess contact, but the shoving my kids part gets me riled.  I've often said the most dangerous person on the street isn't the scary guy with the weapon, it's the mom pushing a stroller.  Because, honestly, anybody with a gun, knife or pointy comb is gonna have to go through me to get to my kids.  I'll stand up against any 400 pound ax-murderer if he's trying to come between me and my bébés!

So hooray for me, to Hell with you!  I guess.

Lost in translation

I'm thinking about symbols this week.  So I love this combination Da Vinci code/Opus Dei/conspiracy theory pyramid combined with American commercialism-inspired photo to start this entry.

The apartment we're renting is in one of Paris' Chinatown neighborhoods.  We chose it because it was much larger than any of the other apartments we were looking at.  We're steps from the #7 Metro Line.  We're a 10-minute walk from the #14 Express Metro Line.  So time-wise, it's about the same to get into or return home from downtown, if you figure the walk in.

When we first arrived, we'd arranged for a ridiculously-expensive car to pick us up.  Being the only one who speaks French, I handled translation duties.  Our driver was Vietnamese and MAN that made the accent hard to understand.

Let's be clear--I studied French for 3 years in high school, four years in college (got my third major in it), toured here for several summers and spent a summer doing intensive language lessons (went to a school for foreigners learning French, lived with a family full-time, etc.).  When I speak, people know I'm not French, but can't place my accent--which is nice.  I don't dress identifiably American (no jeans, no names on shirts, no white athletic shoes), so I flummox them sometimes.  It's fun.

The challenge in our non-native-French-speaking neighborhood is to be understood by other non-French residents.  The property manager, Madame Dao, has an accent that's a real challenge to understand.  It's clipped and cut, when I'm used to a flowing French.  I find myself staring at her lips when she talks.  I get 90%.  It's the same for our maid (she comes once a week for an hour or so to do the floors and change sheets).  I *think* she keeps telling me that I need to fold the sheets that she's draped over the various doors in the apartment, but I'm not entirely sure.  I think she's Eastern European--I've no clue what country, though.

It's frustrating because I can't count on my linguistic skills here as I can with more typical Frenchy-French people.  If we were living in a different area, it'd be easier.  But this is also the reality of modern Paris.  1 in 3 are born here, so it's a great melting pot of people, neighborhoods and cultures.  Our favorite two restaurants are Vietnamese!

Most entertaining is the funky framed miniature Asian building on the bookshelf in the living room.  I don't know where it comes from, but the backwords swastikas look down on us ominously.  I know that was long an innoucuous symbol before hitler (anyone that evil doesn't deserve a capital H) adopted it.  But still, it creeps me out.

Definitely something lost in translation there.

What's a priest, Mommy?

Being agnostic, my kids don't know much about organized religion.  I home school, and fully plan to teach them units on world religions when they're old enough to understand it, but as far as knowledge of any religious figures or practices, they're lacking.

So today as we went past Notre Dame, I explained what I knew about the historical development of churches, architecturally.  I took their photo at Point Zero--the bronze plaque on the ground from which all traffic distances in France are measured.  They were duly impressed.

Inside, I told Olivia, who always has further questions, about how the stained glass windows were ways to tell biblical stories to the illiterate masses.  I explained how the cathedral was built on the remains of the former Roman Temple at the site.  Lastly, I told her that Napoleon was crowned emperor here.

Zing!  That's what stuck.  She'd seen the David painting on our Louvre DVD.  Then at Versailles, she saw the room-sized version.  Last week, we saw the one in the Louvre.  She also latched onto the gold dome of Les Invalides--so every time she sees it, she announces, "That's where that Napoleon Emperor guy is buried."

My budding historian!

Structurally Unsound

While so many, many things in my life could be considered structurally unsound (like the fact that we're essentially homeless), this post will share the joys (?) of finding playgrounds in Paris.

 

My wonderful friend Heather travelled to France last summer with her daughter and told us about a hidden gem playground behind Notre Dame cathedral.  We duly stumbled upon it the other day, to the delight of the girls.  Notice how my husband's new wardrobe makes him look like the kids' bodyguard.  I wonder if people think I'm some diplomat's wife, out for a stroll with our two pampered children and Serge, the Security Agent.

Nah, I'm sure they just peg us as American tourists.

The entertaining part of these playgrounds is how not-American they are.  Sometimes you have to pay.  Sometimes they're full of English and Italian kids.  Sometimes they're wildly dangerous, to my eyes.

Case in point--the interesting merry-go-round we saw.  Kids are always reckless on these, to my vertigo-fear-based eyes.  I get dizzy because the tiny hairlike structures in my inner ears decide to move on their own (or the fluid they're in thickens or the tiny rock-like inclusions in said fluid move).  Whatever the reason, uncontrolled dizziness is a problem for the women in my family.

I know this about myself, I admit it.  There!  I admit it.  As a result, I'm the "Don't spin so much" Nazi to my kids.  I know I make them stop too early on merry-go-rounds.  But in my defense, they've got my genes, so they might get vertigo someday.  Plus Helena is weirdly, intermittently susceptible to motion sickness.  Sometimes she can be in the car for 10 hours and be fine.  Other times, she'll get carsick after and eight minute drive.

But let's go back to the merry-go-round.  After pushing it around, a boy fell, getting trampled by two other boys, then appeared to be stuck.  The short version of the story is that this kid's sneaker was wedged under the bottom of the metal.  It took two adults about 90 seconds to free him.  The kid was pretty patient with the whole thing, no panicking or crying to be seen, but I'd have been tremendously annoyed if one of my daughters had been trapped under that hunk of metal.

The spinning drums are another great play-on toy you'd never see back home.  We watched as two girls, ages about seven or eight, got these bad boys spinning rapidly.  My girls gave them a try with much less success.  Helena couldn't even get on while Olivia could get on, but couldn't do much more than a slow grocery-store amble.  Perhaps when we go back, we'll practice.

The pièce de résistance was the, thankfully restricted to age 7 and older, Flinging Swing of Cranial Injury.  It's a loose translation of the French, I realize, but I belive it to be pretty accurate.  You mount a rope swing to a meandering, roughly-elliptical track that runs downhill.  Some sort of pulley system ensures smooth rides and higher velocity for maximum concussive force.  If only they could put a moat of hungry crocodiles or broken glass under it--now THAT'D be a playground toy!

Yeah, I'm a lame mom, I get it.  But I have run out of Hello Kitty band-aids already, don't judge me!

The French Sensibility

When I first came to France (at age 15), I marvelled at the way some French things seems so contrary to what I'd expected.  The ever-fashionable French wore some pretty awful combinations of clothing.  Grey flats and black tights with a brown skirt?  Je ne comprends pas an outfit like that.  Men are more than happy to wear things here that no self-respecting (even fashionable) American man would wear.  A Pepto-Bismol pink polo shirt with lemon yellow pants--sure, why not?  Um....

So when we ran across a street performer, I eagerly anticipated my daughter's reactions.  He wasn't exactly a mime, but was clearly playing to an international audience, so he kept the talking to a minimum.  He spent about four minutes moving the crowd around into a square, getting us placed just so.  I kept thinking how in the U.S, nobody would wait that long for the action.  Nothing's entertaining enough to sit through all that, right?

Then he enlisted the help of an Italian woman.  She stood on the end of a line of packing tape that he'd stretched over the ground.  He then attached the free end to a bike.  The tape kept a bike propped up, but her involvement wasn't necessary--the tape was secured to the ground.  She participated with good humor for about five minutes, then made a show of leaving.  He teased her a bit, trying to get her to stay, and eventually she left in a huff.  He grabbed another woman.  The crowd applauded politely for her, but if he'd really "had" us, there would have been much more cheering.  Clearly the audience wasn't on his side.

Eventually he did some tricks on the bicycle and finished by asking the audience for a few coins.  The girls were, to my surprise, quite interested in the entire show.  I asked them a few times if they wanted to leave, but they were adamant about staying.  They were more curious than amused.  But maybe that's the heart of the cultural experience.  You're more curious than amused by many aspects of travel.  Then once you figure things out, that's when the pleasure comes.  The pleasure of the familiar is often hard-earned, but so delicious.

So I'm off to today's adventure: seeking amusement and basking in the curious.  Vive la France!