As you will remember from this post, we had gone to the Prefecture of Police in the 14th arrondissement to apply for a carte de sejour, which was necessary because we were spending more than three months in France. After going through all of the documentation in July, the folks in the 14th gave us an appointment in late September for yet another interview about our carte de sejour, this one at the big-dog Prefecture of Policy on the Ile de la Cité. (Actually, they gave us two appointments, one for me and one for Suzie, but we both showed up for the first appointment, and, as hoped, they took us both at the same time, albeit, oddly, at separate windows.) When we got the appointment, there was no indication that anything was amiss with our documentation; no one said that we needed to update any of it or provide any additional documentation. Nor did anyone tell us that after providing multiple copies of everything to the folks in the 14th, we would also need to provide additional multiple copies to the Ile de la Cité folks. But we found out right when we got to our appointment that the extra copies would be necessary, which lead to a frenzy of searching and copying while we waited for our number to be called.
Finally, after about a 15 minute wait, our numbers came up, and we went to two different windows to have our interviews, which struck us as odd since our documentation was identical (and gave rise to the possibility, which fortunately never happened, that we would have different demands made on each of us). Once again, they went through our documentation -- the same as we had previously provided. At some point, Suzie told her person that we were only going to be in France until December 31, which evidently provided her official with an idea, which she quickly conveyed to my official. (I should add that my official was perhaps the least charming person I've met in France, a woman who was utterly bored with her job and who seemed to find my presence before her an affront to her day.) The idea generated by Suzie's official was this -- rather than have us provide all of the documentation necessary for obtaining a carte de sejour, we were given another three-month extension of time to provide the documentation (the three months being, I think, the maximum amount of time that the officials had the discretion to provide). This would take us to December 21, at which time, if we returned without the documentation, we would be told to leave the country within 10 days, which would be perfectly acceptable to us given that our flight leaves on December 31. Essentially, the two officials had done us a type of favor, by recognizing (I think) that we were legitimate, law-abiding, non-deadbeat visitors who posed no threat to the French nation, and allowing us simply to stay in France for our remaining scheduled time rather than having to fight the system to obtain our carte de sejour.
This was OK with us; our goal had always been to make sure that we were in France legitimately, and not overstay the permitted 3-month period (although we had hoped to get the carte de sejour simply so we could say that we had accomplished that feat). Most of the additional documentation we could easily acquire (it consists of newer versions of documents we had already provided), but showing that I have health insurance in France for the next year was going to be tricky. (Note to the French authorities -- I do have such insurance, but I pay for it bi-weekly). So all in all, this is probably a good result for us.
At the end of our interviews, they took back our existing "Récépissé de Demand de Carte de Sejour" and replaced it with another one good for the next three months. Our papers are thus, for the time being, in good order, thank you very much, and we remain in France legitimately.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Thursday, October 02, 2008
We're Gonna Spend $700 Billion -- You Want Some Tax Breaks with That?
You gotta wonder sometimes. From the New York Times -- Senate Passes Bailout Plan; House May Vote by Friday:
Hmmm. The U.S. is already beaucoup in debt from the Iraq War and the Bush tax cuts, and is looking to spend up to $700 billion extra (on top of its usual expenses) to bail out God-knows-who, and someone thinks it's a good idea to cut revenues by another $150 billion? Can you say "gutless"? Can you say "stupid"? Can you say "on the backs of our children"?
Incredible.
In the House, officials of both parties said they were increasingly confident that politically enticing provisions bootstrapped to the original bill — including $150 billion in tax breaks for individuals and businesses — would win over at least the dozen or so votes needed to reverse Monday’s outcome and send the measure to President Bush.
Hmmm. The U.S. is already beaucoup in debt from the Iraq War and the Bush tax cuts, and is looking to spend up to $700 billion extra (on top of its usual expenses) to bail out God-knows-who, and someone thinks it's a good idea to cut revenues by another $150 billion? Can you say "gutless"? Can you say "stupid"? Can you say "on the backs of our children"?
Incredible.
Lost Post #1: The Kids Are Alright
I'm sure some of you have heard me piss and moan about my kids. In fact, they are two amazing boys, whose adaptation to being thrust alone into the French public school system has been absolutely remarkable.
For example, the first day of school, my youngest son Andrew, who is 13 years old, had to go off on his own to his school, which is located quite a good distance away from our apartment, and which requires him to take Line 4 to Chatelet, a large, crowded station, then transfer to another line (the #1), then get off at the Hotel de Ville station, then walk through narrow, irregularly-placed streets to a school located on a side street. Go to this post and zoom in on the map if you don't believe me. The first day of school, he made it to the last stop, but had a little trouble finding the school, although he finally did get there. Then he had to go -- completely alone -- into a school where almost no one speaks English, into a class taught exclusively in French, with students from all over the world whom he does not know, and then deal with having to learn a new language. Extraordinary. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him, and also to imagine what confidence it must be giving him to have mastered everything the way he has.
And he has mastered everything. Suzie and I went to visit his teacher a few weeks ago after school, and she told us that he was perhaps her best student, and that if he were staying in Paris the next semester, he would almost certainly be moved into the "Welcome" class (in which instruction in French continues, but which also allows the students the have a few "regular" classes with the French students). His teacher, by the way, was very impressive -- experienced, dedicated, with an obvious love for what she is doing and an obvious concern that her students succeed in integrating into the French school system. She said that she was sorry to think that he would be leaving France -- perhaps the highest praise Andrew's ever gotten from a teacher.
He's also completely adjusted to life in the big city. Metro trip across Paris alone? Piece of cake. Hang out with the French kids at the skatepark? No big deal. Pick up something at a restaurant or grocery store? Just give me the money, Dad. If anything, he's a little bored, because I think he could be learning French at a much quicker rate than he is, his class being contrained by the fact that a majority of students are Chinese, and have a much more difficult time learning French than someone like Andrew, whose native language is a western language like French.
My other son Will is also doing remarkably well. In some ways, he had a more difficult task facing him, because he is going to a huge school (1800 students from grades 6-12) and because he has several classes (including one academic class, math) in "regular" classes with French students. (Also, much to Andrew's delight, his intensive French class only meets 3 or 4 hours a day; we've also found him a math tutor who is helping him keep up with the math being learned by his class in Santa Rosa, which adds a few more hours to his schedule.) I try to imagine what it is like for Will, sitting in a math class not geared toward foreigners, but for regular French students, trying to follow the teacher and learn the subject (which is taught using different methods and tools, at least the part I've seen). But Will, too, has adjusted incredibly well to his new situation, and is doing great in school. He has made friends and even has a date this weekend (I think) with a French girl (the first time, really, that he's asked someone out on a date; what a deal that it gets to happen for him in Paris!). Like Andrew, I suspect that Will will have gained confidence by being here in ways he does not yet understand.
I had such fears before we came over here that once the kids started school, they would be stressed to the max and react to that stress by acting horribly. Not that they haven't had their moments, but for the most part that has not happened. If anything, they seem to have risen to the challenge, and as difficult as this is to believe, they seem to be a little more relaxed and confident here than at home. They have been, in sum, remarkable -- resourceful, diligent, open-minded, flexible, adaptable, and much, much more calm than I could have imagined. I am very, very, very proud of them.
For example, the first day of school, my youngest son Andrew, who is 13 years old, had to go off on his own to his school, which is located quite a good distance away from our apartment, and which requires him to take Line 4 to Chatelet, a large, crowded station, then transfer to another line (the #1), then get off at the Hotel de Ville station, then walk through narrow, irregularly-placed streets to a school located on a side street. Go to this post and zoom in on the map if you don't believe me. The first day of school, he made it to the last stop, but had a little trouble finding the school, although he finally did get there. Then he had to go -- completely alone -- into a school where almost no one speaks English, into a class taught exclusively in French, with students from all over the world whom he does not know, and then deal with having to learn a new language. Extraordinary. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him, and also to imagine what confidence it must be giving him to have mastered everything the way he has.
And he has mastered everything. Suzie and I went to visit his teacher a few weeks ago after school, and she told us that he was perhaps her best student, and that if he were staying in Paris the next semester, he would almost certainly be moved into the "Welcome" class (in which instruction in French continues, but which also allows the students the have a few "regular" classes with the French students). His teacher, by the way, was very impressive -- experienced, dedicated, with an obvious love for what she is doing and an obvious concern that her students succeed in integrating into the French school system. She said that she was sorry to think that he would be leaving France -- perhaps the highest praise Andrew's ever gotten from a teacher.
He's also completely adjusted to life in the big city. Metro trip across Paris alone? Piece of cake. Hang out with the French kids at the skatepark? No big deal. Pick up something at a restaurant or grocery store? Just give me the money, Dad. If anything, he's a little bored, because I think he could be learning French at a much quicker rate than he is, his class being contrained by the fact that a majority of students are Chinese, and have a much more difficult time learning French than someone like Andrew, whose native language is a western language like French.
My other son Will is also doing remarkably well. In some ways, he had a more difficult task facing him, because he is going to a huge school (1800 students from grades 6-12) and because he has several classes (including one academic class, math) in "regular" classes with French students. (Also, much to Andrew's delight, his intensive French class only meets 3 or 4 hours a day; we've also found him a math tutor who is helping him keep up with the math being learned by his class in Santa Rosa, which adds a few more hours to his schedule.) I try to imagine what it is like for Will, sitting in a math class not geared toward foreigners, but for regular French students, trying to follow the teacher and learn the subject (which is taught using different methods and tools, at least the part I've seen). But Will, too, has adjusted incredibly well to his new situation, and is doing great in school. He has made friends and even has a date this weekend (I think) with a French girl (the first time, really, that he's asked someone out on a date; what a deal that it gets to happen for him in Paris!). Like Andrew, I suspect that Will will have gained confidence by being here in ways he does not yet understand.
I had such fears before we came over here that once the kids started school, they would be stressed to the max and react to that stress by acting horribly. Not that they haven't had their moments, but for the most part that has not happened. If anything, they seem to have risen to the challenge, and as difficult as this is to believe, they seem to be a little more relaxed and confident here than at home. They have been, in sum, remarkable -- resourceful, diligent, open-minded, flexible, adaptable, and much, much more calm than I could have imagined. I am very, very, very proud of them.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Fall!
As you can see, it is turning fall in Paris. Here are some pictures from the weekend. Above and below, Parc Montsouris, located a short walk from our apartment.
Strange art in Paris:
A contrast of old and new (the new Les Halles commercial center and St. Eustache church:
The Samaritaine department store:
The very tip of the Ile de la Cité:
A narrow alley leading to Boulevard St. Germain:
Today was the Fete de Jardins, which allowed the public access to a number of private gardens that usually not open to the public. Two of them are here:
I am fighting off a bad chest cold so the blogging is going to be difficult for a while. But I have not forgotten you....
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Nineteen Hundred Four-Score and Fourteen -- A Funny Misunderstanding
My son Andrew has had an ongoing problem with his stomach, so on Thursday we took him in the afternoon to see the doctor. The doctor ordered an analysis that required us to take a sample to a medical lab, so on Friday morning I found myself standing in a long line waiting to drop off the sample and pay for the service. I had the paper that the doctor had given me, which had most of the relevant information on it, so I was hoping not to have to say much of anything. And mostly that was the case. But the one thing I did have to say lead to a funny misunderstanding.
French has a funny way of counting after you get to sixty. There is no "seventy"; 70 is represented as "sixty-ten." There is no "eighty"; 80 is represented as "four-twenty," the same structure as in the famous "four-score and seven years ago" phrase in Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. All numbers from 80 to 99 are formed by using "four-twenty" and the appropriate number from 1 to 19; "ninety-five" is thus "four-twenty-fifteen," which raises the additional problem for the new French speaker of having to deal with the "teen" numbers in addition.
So I was in line, and I had handed her the paper, and I had spelled Andrew's first and last name so she could input it into the computer, and then she asked me for his year of birth. OK, I told myself, you've been here for three months, you've taken scores of French lessons (yeah, that was a nice little insertion there, wasn't it?), just slow down and think and you'll get it. Andrew was born in 1994 ... that's dix-neuf cent (nineteen hundred) quartre-vingt (four-twenty) quatorze (fourteen). That's it! So I start to say it to the lady: "Dix-neuf cent quarte-vingt ..."
"Non," the lady said, in the most affirmative way you could ever say "no," with a slight shake of her head. OK, I thought, I thought I said it right, but maybe I've screwed something up, it's morning after all and maybe the coffee hasn't fully kicked in. Parse it again ... yeah, I think that's right ... so once again I start to give her the date: "Dix-neuf cent quarter-vingt ..."
"Non," she says again, this time more firmly (if that is possible), again shaking her head, no doubt thinking, "Idiot American." But if she were thinking that, she hid it well, as she politely asked me (in French, of course, I don't think she knew English), "Would you write it for me?"
She handed me a paper and a pen and I wrote out the year "1994." I handed it back to her and she looked up at me and said:
"Oh, this is not for you?"
"No," I said, "it is for my son."
She laughed, and I said to her, "Oh, now I understand!" For me, any birth year in the 1900s beginning with "four-twenty" was certainly and obviously wrong. Her "nons" weren't due to my poor French number skills, but to a misunderstanding about who the patient was. A small victory, but I will take it.
French has a funny way of counting after you get to sixty. There is no "seventy"; 70 is represented as "sixty-ten." There is no "eighty"; 80 is represented as "four-twenty," the same structure as in the famous "four-score and seven years ago" phrase in Lincoln's Gettysburg Address. All numbers from 80 to 99 are formed by using "four-twenty" and the appropriate number from 1 to 19; "ninety-five" is thus "four-twenty-fifteen," which raises the additional problem for the new French speaker of having to deal with the "teen" numbers in addition.
So I was in line, and I had handed her the paper, and I had spelled Andrew's first and last name so she could input it into the computer, and then she asked me for his year of birth. OK, I told myself, you've been here for three months, you've taken scores of French lessons (yeah, that was a nice little insertion there, wasn't it?), just slow down and think and you'll get it. Andrew was born in 1994 ... that's dix-neuf cent (nineteen hundred) quartre-vingt (four-twenty) quatorze (fourteen). That's it! So I start to say it to the lady: "Dix-neuf cent quarte-vingt ..."
"Non," the lady said, in the most affirmative way you could ever say "no," with a slight shake of her head. OK, I thought, I thought I said it right, but maybe I've screwed something up, it's morning after all and maybe the coffee hasn't fully kicked in. Parse it again ... yeah, I think that's right ... so once again I start to give her the date: "Dix-neuf cent quarter-vingt ..."
"Non," she says again, this time more firmly (if that is possible), again shaking her head, no doubt thinking, "Idiot American." But if she were thinking that, she hid it well, as she politely asked me (in French, of course, I don't think she knew English), "Would you write it for me?"
She handed me a paper and a pen and I wrote out the year "1994." I handed it back to her and she looked up at me and said:
"Oh, this is not for you?"
"No," I said, "it is for my son."
She laughed, and I said to her, "Oh, now I understand!" For me, any birth year in the 1900s beginning with "four-twenty" was certainly and obviously wrong. Her "nons" weren't due to my poor French number skills, but to a misunderstanding about who the patient was. A small victory, but I will take it.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
No, I'm Still Here
I realize that I am about a week (or is it more) behind in my posts, and the reason for that is that I'm starting to get a little worn down. I know this won't draw much sympathy given the context, but it is difficult and wearing to deal constantly with foreignness, even if the foreignness is a foreignness you have a great affection for. Class is four hours a day, five days a week, and it simply isn't possible to space out (even a little bit) and still follow what is going on. It requires complete, fairly intense concentration all the time. And while my French has improved a ton, the problem is the same one well-known to golfers ... the better you get, the more you expect, so that a level that would have satisfied you completely a month ago now seems insufficient. Or perhaps that is simply part of the human condition. In any event, what was a vacation seems a little like (sorry, no other way to say it) work now: Up at 6 a.m., on the Metro at 8 a.m., class 9 to 1, lunch sometimes with classmates (very fun, no doubt about it, but difficult to, dealing with people you barely know from countries you barely know in a language you know barely but not much more than that), and before I know it, it is 4:30 and the kids are back from school and the day is almost over. Plus it doesn't seem like I'm getting enough sleep, and by the end of the week I feel really, really worn out.
But, it's not all a grind here (I should note, as I'm sure you figured out already, that I absolutely love the classes, notwithstanding their difficulty, both for the pure love of learning a new language, which is intellectually and emotionally satisfying in a way I haven't experienced before, and for the opportunity to meet so many different people). Last weekend, for example, we had one of those "I can't believe that this is happening to us" experiences.
When we were trying to decide where to stay in France during our time off, we had corresponded with a family who lives in La Rochelle, a city on the Atlantic Coast north of Bordeaux, about exchanging houses for a year. We eventually decided we wanted to stay in Paris, but we kept in touch with them, and as they were finishing up their year in the U.S. (they ended up in Portland, which they loved), they visited us in Santa Rosa for an evening, along with two friends of theirs. We hardly did anything for them; they wanted a typically American restaurant so we took them to Kal's Kaffe Mocha on Airport Boulevard and treated them to the grossly large portions. They told us to be sure to write them when we got to France, so we could come for a visit, and so we did, and the date was fixed for last weekend.
In an ideal world, we would have taken the train, as there is a TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse, or high-speed train) between Paris and La Rochelle, but the cost for the four of us was prohibitive, so we rented a car (a great, small Renault Scenic, which was a six-speed diesel and which got about 40 miles per gallon) and drove the long, long way down and back (a little tiring, but it was almost all freeway). When we arrived on Friday evening, the husband of the couple (Alain) was packing up his car so we could stay at their house on the Ile de Re, which is (we discovered), a very pretty and very upscale vacation/resort area just off the coast of La Rochelle.
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&num=10&ie=UTF8&t=h&s=AARTsJpyd699azyliAtM3dmXKkI1PHj4WQ&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000457a5a0abda52f3041&ll=46.14654,-1.246948&spn=0.456691,0.878906&z=10&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
When we got to the house, we were amazed. Alain is a builder, and he had built this house a few years ago, and it was exactly the kind of house that Suzie and I would build if we had the time, the inclination, the money and, perhaps, a little more experience in interior decoration. The house was at once both interesting and understated, warm and calming, obviously expensive and yet completely comfortable and unassuming. Pretty much, it turns out, just like Alain and his wonderfully friendly wife Isabelle, who treated us, the entire weekend, like we were very important long lost friends. They made us a huge, delicious dinner on Friday evening, followed by a huge, delicious breakfast Saturday morning, followed by a trip to the nearby village, where they had a huge market, including the largest selection of fresh seafood I have ever seen in my life (much of it still jumping around!), and where they purchased fresh oysters and mussels and small shrimp for dinner that evening.
After returning home, we all took advantage of one of the most outstanding features of the Ile de Re, its many kilometers of bike paths. The island is perfectly flat, and with the many bike-only paths, biking around the island is easy and pleasurable. Our main stop in the morning was the the village of St. Martin de Re, a walled city and port dating from the 15th century, whose fortifications are a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The village has pretty narrow streets and a picturesque harbor, in addition to the huge fortifications along the Atlantic.
After that little excursion, we returned to their house, and then went with the boys to the beach. It was only a 5 minute walk from the house, and at the low tide there was a wide, wide expanse of sand, sun, and, of course, water, which the boys found very chilly.
After the beach it was time, yet again, for eating, this time a brief snack of shrimp and pistachios. After an hour or so, during which the boys swam in the pool, the adults went out for a bike ride east, the the "marais," or swamps, which are now used for the production of salt. (The boys, including Alain and Isabelle's son Arthur, occupied themselves with a Wii game, which they all loved.) The bide ride took us through several small villages and finally into the marais, with its mudflats and its salty, rich smell and large avian population.
Here's a nice picture of the four of us, taken by a reluctant older lady who really didn't want to hold or operate my camera, but did so anyway. You can see what a beautiful day it was; we didn't see a cloud the entire time we were there.
After returning home, we all went to the beach to watch the sunset, drink champagne, and eat Pringles and pistacios. This beautiful photo of the sunset is courtesy of Alain.
That evening we had a very late dinner, consisting of oysters and mussels and rice and bread and, as always, cheese ... five different types of excellent, wonderful, mouth-watering delicious cheese, followed by the rest of the rhubarb crumble that we'd slowly consumed over the past two days, followed by dark chocolate, just to show that we were all really, really decadent. I slept that night like a rock, unmoving, thanks not only to the exercise and the sun and the food, but also to the absolute dead silence of the night, so different from Paris.
The next day we were up and out relatively quickly, for a tour of La Rochelle. First stop (after their house) was the market,
where we were treated to a butcher who wanted to show, apparently, that these really, really were ducks he was selling.
After the market, we headed toward the harbor. On the way we passed City Hall (the Hotel de Ville), which was open to the public this weekend because of the Journees European de Patromoine, during which the public can enter and view buildings not normally accessible. The City Hall was magnificent, both inside and out.
From the City Hall, we walked down narrow, narrow old streets to the harbor, where we were presented with stunning views of the harbor and the towers protecting it, as well as the city itself:
After touring the city, it was time, once again, to eat! Alain and Isabelle bought a roasted chicken and potatoes from the market, which we ate along with fresh bread, wine, cheese, coffee, and, to finish the whole trip off ... more dark chocolate.
Then sadly, we had to leave to drive back to Paris. This was not much fun, as it was almost 500 kilometers, the freeway was not very interesting (although we continue to marvel at the rest areas), and we hit a huge traffic jam about 20 miles outside of Paris, in which we were more or less stuck for over an hour. I dropped off Suzie and the boys at the apartment and took the rental car back to Montparnasse, safe and sound. (As an aside, when I rented the car I dealt with a very nice woman who told me, after our transaction was over, that my French was very good, which I believe was a lie, but which she claimed was the truth, and which made my afternoon.)
The entire weekend, we absolutely marveled at the friendliness of our hosts. Why did they take so very much time and effort for us? We basically used up their entire weekend, and they cooked enough food to feed a normal family for a week and a half, and they were at all times simply wonderful to be around: intelligent, funny, kind, hospitable, and easygoing. I have a standing joke with Suzie; when we come from situations like that (which seem to happen to us more often, frankly, than we probably deserve), I tell her that the people must really, really like her, because it's hard for me to see how I could draw out that kind of attention. (Those of you who know Suzie and who know me will have to grudgingly admit that there is more than a little truth there....) We appreciated so very much all they did for us, and are sad to think that we may not be able to return the favor for a long, long time.
Whew, you can see why I'm behind in my blogging ... that was only three days! I've got a lot of things saved up for you (sort of coming attractions, if you will), including Suzie's interesting experience at the stake competition, our latest interaction with the bureaucracy regarding our residency card, our meetings at the kids' schools (and more generally, how the kids are doing in France), plus other posts yet-to-be-named. So stay tuned, I will try to not go a week between posts!
But, it's not all a grind here (I should note, as I'm sure you figured out already, that I absolutely love the classes, notwithstanding their difficulty, both for the pure love of learning a new language, which is intellectually and emotionally satisfying in a way I haven't experienced before, and for the opportunity to meet so many different people). Last weekend, for example, we had one of those "I can't believe that this is happening to us" experiences.
When we were trying to decide where to stay in France during our time off, we had corresponded with a family who lives in La Rochelle, a city on the Atlantic Coast north of Bordeaux, about exchanging houses for a year. We eventually decided we wanted to stay in Paris, but we kept in touch with them, and as they were finishing up their year in the U.S. (they ended up in Portland, which they loved), they visited us in Santa Rosa for an evening, along with two friends of theirs. We hardly did anything for them; they wanted a typically American restaurant so we took them to Kal's Kaffe Mocha on Airport Boulevard and treated them to the grossly large portions. They told us to be sure to write them when we got to France, so we could come for a visit, and so we did, and the date was fixed for last weekend.
In an ideal world, we would have taken the train, as there is a TGV (Train de Grande Vitesse, or high-speed train) between Paris and La Rochelle, but the cost for the four of us was prohibitive, so we rented a car (a great, small Renault Scenic, which was a six-speed diesel and which got about 40 miles per gallon) and drove the long, long way down and back (a little tiring, but it was almost all freeway). When we arrived on Friday evening, the husband of the couple (Alain) was packing up his car so we could stay at their house on the Ile de Re, which is (we discovered), a very pretty and very upscale vacation/resort area just off the coast of La Rochelle.
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&num=10&ie=UTF8&t=h&s=AARTsJpyd699azyliAtM3dmXKkI1PHj4WQ&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000457a5a0abda52f3041&ll=46.14654,-1.246948&spn=0.456691,0.878906&z=10&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
When we got to the house, we were amazed. Alain is a builder, and he had built this house a few years ago, and it was exactly the kind of house that Suzie and I would build if we had the time, the inclination, the money and, perhaps, a little more experience in interior decoration. The house was at once both interesting and understated, warm and calming, obviously expensive and yet completely comfortable and unassuming. Pretty much, it turns out, just like Alain and his wonderfully friendly wife Isabelle, who treated us, the entire weekend, like we were very important long lost friends. They made us a huge, delicious dinner on Friday evening, followed by a huge, delicious breakfast Saturday morning, followed by a trip to the nearby village, where they had a huge market, including the largest selection of fresh seafood I have ever seen in my life (much of it still jumping around!), and where they purchased fresh oysters and mussels and small shrimp for dinner that evening.
After returning home, we all took advantage of one of the most outstanding features of the Ile de Re, its many kilometers of bike paths. The island is perfectly flat, and with the many bike-only paths, biking around the island is easy and pleasurable. Our main stop in the morning was the the village of St. Martin de Re, a walled city and port dating from the 15th century, whose fortifications are a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The village has pretty narrow streets and a picturesque harbor, in addition to the huge fortifications along the Atlantic.
After that little excursion, we returned to their house, and then went with the boys to the beach. It was only a 5 minute walk from the house, and at the low tide there was a wide, wide expanse of sand, sun, and, of course, water, which the boys found very chilly.
After the beach it was time, yet again, for eating, this time a brief snack of shrimp and pistachios. After an hour or so, during which the boys swam in the pool, the adults went out for a bike ride east, the the "marais," or swamps, which are now used for the production of salt. (The boys, including Alain and Isabelle's son Arthur, occupied themselves with a Wii game, which they all loved.) The bide ride took us through several small villages and finally into the marais, with its mudflats and its salty, rich smell and large avian population.
Here's a nice picture of the four of us, taken by a reluctant older lady who really didn't want to hold or operate my camera, but did so anyway. You can see what a beautiful day it was; we didn't see a cloud the entire time we were there.
After returning home, we all went to the beach to watch the sunset, drink champagne, and eat Pringles and pistacios. This beautiful photo of the sunset is courtesy of Alain.
That evening we had a very late dinner, consisting of oysters and mussels and rice and bread and, as always, cheese ... five different types of excellent, wonderful, mouth-watering delicious cheese, followed by the rest of the rhubarb crumble that we'd slowly consumed over the past two days, followed by dark chocolate, just to show that we were all really, really decadent. I slept that night like a rock, unmoving, thanks not only to the exercise and the sun and the food, but also to the absolute dead silence of the night, so different from Paris.
The next day we were up and out relatively quickly, for a tour of La Rochelle. First stop (after their house) was the market,
where we were treated to a butcher who wanted to show, apparently, that these really, really were ducks he was selling.
After the market, we headed toward the harbor. On the way we passed City Hall (the Hotel de Ville), which was open to the public this weekend because of the Journees European de Patromoine, during which the public can enter and view buildings not normally accessible. The City Hall was magnificent, both inside and out.
From the City Hall, we walked down narrow, narrow old streets to the harbor, where we were presented with stunning views of the harbor and the towers protecting it, as well as the city itself:
After touring the city, it was time, once again, to eat! Alain and Isabelle bought a roasted chicken and potatoes from the market, which we ate along with fresh bread, wine, cheese, coffee, and, to finish the whole trip off ... more dark chocolate.
Then sadly, we had to leave to drive back to Paris. This was not much fun, as it was almost 500 kilometers, the freeway was not very interesting (although we continue to marvel at the rest areas), and we hit a huge traffic jam about 20 miles outside of Paris, in which we were more or less stuck for over an hour. I dropped off Suzie and the boys at the apartment and took the rental car back to Montparnasse, safe and sound. (As an aside, when I rented the car I dealt with a very nice woman who told me, after our transaction was over, that my French was very good, which I believe was a lie, but which she claimed was the truth, and which made my afternoon.)
The entire weekend, we absolutely marveled at the friendliness of our hosts. Why did they take so very much time and effort for us? We basically used up their entire weekend, and they cooked enough food to feed a normal family for a week and a half, and they were at all times simply wonderful to be around: intelligent, funny, kind, hospitable, and easygoing. I have a standing joke with Suzie; when we come from situations like that (which seem to happen to us more often, frankly, than we probably deserve), I tell her that the people must really, really like her, because it's hard for me to see how I could draw out that kind of attention. (Those of you who know Suzie and who know me will have to grudgingly admit that there is more than a little truth there....) We appreciated so very much all they did for us, and are sad to think that we may not be able to return the favor for a long, long time.
Whew, you can see why I'm behind in my blogging ... that was only three days! I've got a lot of things saved up for you (sort of coming attractions, if you will), including Suzie's interesting experience at the stake competition, our latest interaction with the bureaucracy regarding our residency card, our meetings at the kids' schools (and more generally, how the kids are doing in France), plus other posts yet-to-be-named. So stay tuned, I will try to not go a week between posts!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
The Press Needs some Lipstick
From Paris, the recent "controversy" over Barack Obama's "lipstick on a pig" remark looks just plain stupid, as does, frankly, the hand-wringing over the co-called Sarah Palin "phenomenon."
As for the former, you can only view the statement one of two ways -- either Barack Obama innocently used an expression he's used before (as has John McCain), or he used it intentionally as a reference to Palin's statement at the Republican Convention that lipstick is the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull. In either case, the appropriate response is -- who the hell cares? If the former (an innocent statement), then the Republicans' reaction is inappropriate. If the latter (and, personally, I hope it was an intentional reference, as I love a little clever creativity), the Republicans' reaction to me suggests that, as a "girl," Palin isn't tough enough to take a little clever shot like that, which to me means that the reaction was ... inappropriate. But because this analysis is based upon reason, it misses the real point, which, I think is this: Because the left has for so many years stupidly and inanely pounded the drum of identity politics and "victimhood," the right is all too ready to use that tool as a bludgeon, because, after all, what can the left really say about it? For someone like me, who sits in the middle of the political spectrum, it is a little amusing to see the left get hoisted on its own petard. What the left should do, if it were smart, is to reciprocate -- if the right is going to borrow from the left's playbook and play the "victim" card, the left should do likewise and borrow a little of the right's traditional emphasis on toughness. If the right wants to pony up Palin as a "pit bull" or a "barracuda," the left ought to point out that crying foul over a remark like "lipstick on a pig" is hardly the sign of true toughness. If I were Obama, I'd say ... 'grow up.' What are we to expect -- Putin makes a mean, sexist remark and President Palin falls to pieces, then capitulates? Of course not. But this is exactly why this whole "controversy" is stupid. I suspect that if Sarah Palin had any reaction to the "lipstick on a pig" remark, it was a grudging, 'Hey, that was pretty good.' In other words, the whole controversy is just made up.
The real pig in all this is the press and, perhaps worse, the blogosphere, which feeds on this crap like a big old fat ugly catfish at the bottom of the Mississippi River (sorry to mix metaphors there). With all the problems facing the U.S. and the world, we are spending time talking about something this inane? Holy crud, I'm doing it too! Incredible. We are supposed to vote for Sarah Palin because she's young, nice looking (supposedly, although I confess to me there's something slightly scary about her demeanor that doesn't allow me to find her attractive), has a "hunk" for a husband (what the hell is all that commentary about?) and a down syndrome baby? I don't get it. I'm as qualified to be President as Sarah Palin (actually probably more qualified, since I at least have some background about things like, oh, the Constitution and American history and American political theory). Obama needs to start getting serious. Start calling McCain on his crap. Be honest with the people; they want change, and McCain-Palin isn't it. That's the bottom line.
Sorry this post was so rambling. I'm tired, very tired, and, as an American overseas, a little embarrassed, too. Is this the best our press can do?
As for the former, you can only view the statement one of two ways -- either Barack Obama innocently used an expression he's used before (as has John McCain), or he used it intentionally as a reference to Palin's statement at the Republican Convention that lipstick is the only difference between a hockey mom and a pit bull. In either case, the appropriate response is -- who the hell cares? If the former (an innocent statement), then the Republicans' reaction is inappropriate. If the latter (and, personally, I hope it was an intentional reference, as I love a little clever creativity), the Republicans' reaction to me suggests that, as a "girl," Palin isn't tough enough to take a little clever shot like that, which to me means that the reaction was ... inappropriate. But because this analysis is based upon reason, it misses the real point, which, I think is this: Because the left has for so many years stupidly and inanely pounded the drum of identity politics and "victimhood," the right is all too ready to use that tool as a bludgeon, because, after all, what can the left really say about it? For someone like me, who sits in the middle of the political spectrum, it is a little amusing to see the left get hoisted on its own petard. What the left should do, if it were smart, is to reciprocate -- if the right is going to borrow from the left's playbook and play the "victim" card, the left should do likewise and borrow a little of the right's traditional emphasis on toughness. If the right wants to pony up Palin as a "pit bull" or a "barracuda," the left ought to point out that crying foul over a remark like "lipstick on a pig" is hardly the sign of true toughness. If I were Obama, I'd say ... 'grow up.' What are we to expect -- Putin makes a mean, sexist remark and President Palin falls to pieces, then capitulates? Of course not. But this is exactly why this whole "controversy" is stupid. I suspect that if Sarah Palin had any reaction to the "lipstick on a pig" remark, it was a grudging, 'Hey, that was pretty good.' In other words, the whole controversy is just made up.
The real pig in all this is the press and, perhaps worse, the blogosphere, which feeds on this crap like a big old fat ugly catfish at the bottom of the Mississippi River (sorry to mix metaphors there). With all the problems facing the U.S. and the world, we are spending time talking about something this inane? Holy crud, I'm doing it too! Incredible. We are supposed to vote for Sarah Palin because she's young, nice looking (supposedly, although I confess to me there's something slightly scary about her demeanor that doesn't allow me to find her attractive), has a "hunk" for a husband (what the hell is all that commentary about?) and a down syndrome baby? I don't get it. I'm as qualified to be President as Sarah Palin (actually probably more qualified, since I at least have some background about things like, oh, the Constitution and American history and American political theory). Obama needs to start getting serious. Start calling McCain on his crap. Be honest with the people; they want change, and McCain-Palin isn't it. That's the bottom line.
Sorry this post was so rambling. I'm tired, very tired, and, as an American overseas, a little embarrassed, too. Is this the best our press can do?
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Obama by a Landslide
In France, that is ... a poll published today by Le Figaro indicates that if the U.S. Presidential election were held today in France, Obama would win ... by 80% to 8%! The article notes that a similar poll in Great Britain shows Obama ahead 49% to 12% (the rest were in pubs and unavailable for comment), and that polls in India and Kenya show Obama with leads of 9% and 82% (!) respectively.
So What's a Typical Day Like?
So you might ask. So I might answer like this.
Up at 6:15. Suzie puts the coffee on and we wait until we hear that lovely sound of the last bit of water in the reservoir being coughed into the grounds. Lie in bed awhile reading the French paper from yesterday. Finally the coffee kicks in and we try to get Will out of bed. As will be the subject of a later post, both of the boys are handling their new French schools incredibly well. But it's very tiring for them, and Will balks at getting up at such an early hour (he has to get out, take the Metro -- with a transfer, and get to school by 8:00 a.m.). Eventually he rouses and Suzie and I shower and get ready for our classes.
We are both taking classes at the Alliance Francaise in Paris. Mine is four hours per day, 5 days a week, Suzie's currently is 3 hours a day 3 times a week. More about my class in a bit.
Get dressed (I've finally ceded the high ground and started wearing jeans in Paris, at which point, of course, I notice that tons of people in Paris, and not just tourists, wear jeans), and head out the door. Press the button to call the little elevator from the ground floor up to ours on the 5th (in France) or the 6th (in the U.S.) floor. This is the elevator that trapped the children between floors during our first week here (I dare say that they had something to do that, but that's another story) and which routinely stops working for certain periods of time. So it's always a toss up as to whether to call the elevator and take the risk, or walk down the spiral staircase that wraps around the elevator shaft, which carries with it its own risk (there is something almost hypnotic about walking downstairs in a spiral; by the end it is very easy to take a misstep). But today I'm feeling lucky, and the elevator works fine, taking me down to the lobby. Push the buttons to open the heavy wooden interior and exterior doors, and step out onto the sidewalk. The air is cool and fresh, and the sidewalk full of people walking to the Metro or away from the Metro. Turn right and walk the block or so to the Alesia Metro station.
At the top of the stairs leading down to the trains there is a stack of a free paper called "20 Minutes," so named because it's designed to be read during a 20-minute Metro ride, and containing not much more than 20 minutes worth of content (even I don't take much longer than that to go through the whole thing). This morning, this story caught my eye:
You have to love this. A dog gets on the Metro tracks right in the middle of rush hour and they shut down the line for an hour until he (or she) can be retrieved. A beautiful thing to contemplate, really.
Wait on the quai for the train to come. The quai is filling up with people quickly. Alesia is a very well-used, well-traveled metro station; there are always a lot of folks getting on and off the trains there. The train comes shortly (it's never more than 3 or 4 minutes), and it's already fairly full, but I manage to snag one of the one remaing seats. As is usual, the train is uncomfortably hot, and the cars do not appear to have any way to circulate air, other than opening the small vents at the top of the windows. The stops go by one-by-one, a few people getting on, more people getting on -- Mouton-Duvernet; Denfert Rochereau; Raspail; Vavin; Montparnasse-Bienvenue (a big, big station, often transfers take almost as long as the ride itself); and finally Saint-Plaicide, a block and a half away from the Alliance Francaise. I've gotten used to the etiquette of the Metro, which is similar to that of most big cities -- don't talk, don't look, but be polite and let old ladies and men have your seat. It's gotten to seem very familiar.
The Alliance Francaise is located on Boulevard Raspail, a pretty street in a moderately nice area in the 6th arrondissement, a few blocks west of the Luxembourg Gardens. It's situated in two buildings, an elegant older building fronting Raspail, and a newer, less-charming building on the Rue de Fleurus. The latter holds only classrooms, and the rest of the facilities (as well as a few classrooms) are in the former. It is a very comfortable, well-appointed facility, with a very good (and inexpensive) cafeteria and a good library. It feels very much like a building on the grounds of a small liberal arts college.
I always head to the cafeteria for an espresso before class. Suzie has been taking to walking there in the mornings, so she's already there ahead of me, having a latte. I'm running a little late so I just say hi to her and go on to my class, in the Fleurus building.
Taking French classes has been one of the biggest pleasures of this time in Paris. Not only has the process of learning French been intellectually interesting (as well as emotionally satisfying, as my level has increased), but I have had the opportunity to meet and interact with people from all over the world. Most of them are younger, which makes them a bit more interesting (perhaps) and lively (certainly). In my current class I have a young woman from Venezula, a young man from Argentina, a slightly older man from Russia (although he is ethnically Asian), two young women from China, a middle-aged woman from Japan, a young woman from Brazil, and a young woman from Iran (I think, although she seems awfully Westernized for someone from Iran, but then what do I really know about that), a young woman from Germany, and a young woman from Spain. Since a lot of the classwork is done in small groups, there is a lot of opportunity to interact, and it is interesting and rewarding to work with and connect with someone while using a language that is not native to either person.
In addition, there's something about the setting or the situation that is very conducive to connecting to people quickly and in a deeper way than you would think would be the case after interacting for only a short time. I've made a number of friends with whom I still communicate by phone and e-mail, even though they've returned to their native countries. How long that will last, who knows, but that it happens at all is very cool. Just today, before my class, the woman I sat next to in my class last week (an intelligent and interesting young woman from Germany, who moved on to a somewhat more difficult class) happened to see me at the same time I happened to see her, and the feeling was like two old friends meeting again. As I said, it is interesting and rewarding and broadening and intellectually challenging in addition to being just plain fun.
Class today wasn't particularly interesting (various and sundry uses of the pronouns "y" and "en", along with some painful, painful phonetics lessons), but I did have the opportunity to work with one of the women from China, who was obviously more comfortable speaking English than French, and who had a very cool small electronic dictionary that caused the electronics-envying part of me to wake up. She ended up being a perfectly charming and fun work partner, although the exercise was not particularly interesting to me or to her.
After class ended at 1 p.m., I did something unusual. Suzie had located a native French speaker on Craigslist Paris for the purpose of exchanging conversation in the two different languages, so I put a listing on also, and had a response from a woman with a legal background, which I thought would be interesting to hear about. She had suggested meeting at 2:30 at a cafe right on the Place de la Bastille, so I had some time to kill before then. I took the Metro up a couple of stops to St. Germain-des-Pres, found a Monoprix store (these are somewhat strange [to me] combinations of a clothing store and a grocery store, with pretty good food) and bought a sandwich and a soda, then found a bench to eat and drink them on while watching the people go by. Then back on the Metro, transferring at my least favorite station (Chatelet, always crowded and stuffy and with long, long walks between lines) before finally getting off at Bastille. I was, as usual, 30 minutes early, so I found a bench and did my homework to pass the time. At 2:30 I went to the cafe and figured out pretty shortly who my conversation partner was by the way she was looking for someone that she didn't really know.
She turned out to be a very good conversation partner, her English and my French being pretty much on par (she's a little better). Like many Parisiens, she comes from an interesting background -- an Algerian father and a Serbian mother, although she was born and raised in Paris. We talked about various and sundry things -- the study of law in France, French and American politics, schools, her job, my job, California, etc., etc. I told her that I think that Suzie would be a good partner for her also, so I suspect we may all get together next time. Again, it is very gratifying to be able to have a conversation with someone in French, and actually be able to understand and communicate (it's also fun to play English teacher a little bit; learning French has made me realize just how incredibly competent I am in my own language, without ever really trying).
The Metro ride home seemed long, as I took a different route that required two transfers, and when I got home I was tired. Suzie is working on a project, Andrew was sick today and stayed home from school, Will had a good day learning French. I'd tell you about my and Andrew's trip to the grocery store and our experience with the French self-service checkout, but I'm out of steam. Finally, as a treat to all of us, Suzie's father is coming to Paris, arriving tomorrow morning.
I probably don't have to say this (not again, I'm sure you thinking), but I love it here. I thought this would be a good experience, and up to now it has greatly surpassed my expectations. Sometimes still I can't really believe I'm here, that this is my life for now, that I'm a Metro commuter, that I'm a Parisien. Incredible.
Up at 6:15. Suzie puts the coffee on and we wait until we hear that lovely sound of the last bit of water in the reservoir being coughed into the grounds. Lie in bed awhile reading the French paper from yesterday. Finally the coffee kicks in and we try to get Will out of bed. As will be the subject of a later post, both of the boys are handling their new French schools incredibly well. But it's very tiring for them, and Will balks at getting up at such an early hour (he has to get out, take the Metro -- with a transfer, and get to school by 8:00 a.m.). Eventually he rouses and Suzie and I shower and get ready for our classes.
We are both taking classes at the Alliance Francaise in Paris. Mine is four hours per day, 5 days a week, Suzie's currently is 3 hours a day 3 times a week. More about my class in a bit.
Get dressed (I've finally ceded the high ground and started wearing jeans in Paris, at which point, of course, I notice that tons of people in Paris, and not just tourists, wear jeans), and head out the door. Press the button to call the little elevator from the ground floor up to ours on the 5th (in France) or the 6th (in the U.S.) floor. This is the elevator that trapped the children between floors during our first week here (I dare say that they had something to do that, but that's another story) and which routinely stops working for certain periods of time. So it's always a toss up as to whether to call the elevator and take the risk, or walk down the spiral staircase that wraps around the elevator shaft, which carries with it its own risk (there is something almost hypnotic about walking downstairs in a spiral; by the end it is very easy to take a misstep). But today I'm feeling lucky, and the elevator works fine, taking me down to the lobby. Push the buttons to open the heavy wooden interior and exterior doors, and step out onto the sidewalk. The air is cool and fresh, and the sidewalk full of people walking to the Metro or away from the Metro. Turn right and walk the block or so to the Alesia Metro station.
At the top of the stairs leading down to the trains there is a stack of a free paper called "20 Minutes," so named because it's designed to be read during a 20-minute Metro ride, and containing not much more than 20 minutes worth of content (even I don't take much longer than that to go through the whole thing). This morning, this story caught my eye:
Métro: un chien perturbe le trafic sur la ligne 13 pendant une heure
Un chien sème la pagaille sur la ligne 13, lundi matin. Le trafic a été interrompu entre 7h30 et 8h49 entre les stations La Fourche et Saint-Denis Université à cause de la présence d'un chien sur la voie au niveau de la station Guy Môquet, a précisé la RATP à 20minutes.fr.
«Le courant a été coupé et les pompiers cynophiles sont descendus sur la voie pour le chercher», a-t-elle ajouté. Ils l'ont finalement récupéré une heure plus tard.
La ligne 13 est une des plus fréquentées du réseau. Elle traverse la capitale du nord au sud.
You have to love this. A dog gets on the Metro tracks right in the middle of rush hour and they shut down the line for an hour until he (or she) can be retrieved. A beautiful thing to contemplate, really.
Wait on the quai for the train to come. The quai is filling up with people quickly. Alesia is a very well-used, well-traveled metro station; there are always a lot of folks getting on and off the trains there. The train comes shortly (it's never more than 3 or 4 minutes), and it's already fairly full, but I manage to snag one of the one remaing seats. As is usual, the train is uncomfortably hot, and the cars do not appear to have any way to circulate air, other than opening the small vents at the top of the windows. The stops go by one-by-one, a few people getting on, more people getting on -- Mouton-Duvernet; Denfert Rochereau; Raspail; Vavin; Montparnasse-Bienvenue (a big, big station, often transfers take almost as long as the ride itself); and finally Saint-Plaicide, a block and a half away from the Alliance Francaise. I've gotten used to the etiquette of the Metro, which is similar to that of most big cities -- don't talk, don't look, but be polite and let old ladies and men have your seat. It's gotten to seem very familiar.
The Alliance Francaise is located on Boulevard Raspail, a pretty street in a moderately nice area in the 6th arrondissement, a few blocks west of the Luxembourg Gardens. It's situated in two buildings, an elegant older building fronting Raspail, and a newer, less-charming building on the Rue de Fleurus. The latter holds only classrooms, and the rest of the facilities (as well as a few classrooms) are in the former. It is a very comfortable, well-appointed facility, with a very good (and inexpensive) cafeteria and a good library. It feels very much like a building on the grounds of a small liberal arts college.
I always head to the cafeteria for an espresso before class. Suzie has been taking to walking there in the mornings, so she's already there ahead of me, having a latte. I'm running a little late so I just say hi to her and go on to my class, in the Fleurus building.
Taking French classes has been one of the biggest pleasures of this time in Paris. Not only has the process of learning French been intellectually interesting (as well as emotionally satisfying, as my level has increased), but I have had the opportunity to meet and interact with people from all over the world. Most of them are younger, which makes them a bit more interesting (perhaps) and lively (certainly). In my current class I have a young woman from Venezula, a young man from Argentina, a slightly older man from Russia (although he is ethnically Asian), two young women from China, a middle-aged woman from Japan, a young woman from Brazil, and a young woman from Iran (I think, although she seems awfully Westernized for someone from Iran, but then what do I really know about that), a young woman from Germany, and a young woman from Spain. Since a lot of the classwork is done in small groups, there is a lot of opportunity to interact, and it is interesting and rewarding to work with and connect with someone while using a language that is not native to either person.
In addition, there's something about the setting or the situation that is very conducive to connecting to people quickly and in a deeper way than you would think would be the case after interacting for only a short time. I've made a number of friends with whom I still communicate by phone and e-mail, even though they've returned to their native countries. How long that will last, who knows, but that it happens at all is very cool. Just today, before my class, the woman I sat next to in my class last week (an intelligent and interesting young woman from Germany, who moved on to a somewhat more difficult class) happened to see me at the same time I happened to see her, and the feeling was like two old friends meeting again. As I said, it is interesting and rewarding and broadening and intellectually challenging in addition to being just plain fun.
Class today wasn't particularly interesting (various and sundry uses of the pronouns "y" and "en", along with some painful, painful phonetics lessons), but I did have the opportunity to work with one of the women from China, who was obviously more comfortable speaking English than French, and who had a very cool small electronic dictionary that caused the electronics-envying part of me to wake up. She ended up being a perfectly charming and fun work partner, although the exercise was not particularly interesting to me or to her.
After class ended at 1 p.m., I did something unusual. Suzie had located a native French speaker on Craigslist Paris for the purpose of exchanging conversation in the two different languages, so I put a listing on also, and had a response from a woman with a legal background, which I thought would be interesting to hear about. She had suggested meeting at 2:30 at a cafe right on the Place de la Bastille, so I had some time to kill before then. I took the Metro up a couple of stops to St. Germain-des-Pres, found a Monoprix store (these are somewhat strange [to me] combinations of a clothing store and a grocery store, with pretty good food) and bought a sandwich and a soda, then found a bench to eat and drink them on while watching the people go by. Then back on the Metro, transferring at my least favorite station (Chatelet, always crowded and stuffy and with long, long walks between lines) before finally getting off at Bastille. I was, as usual, 30 minutes early, so I found a bench and did my homework to pass the time. At 2:30 I went to the cafe and figured out pretty shortly who my conversation partner was by the way she was looking for someone that she didn't really know.
She turned out to be a very good conversation partner, her English and my French being pretty much on par (she's a little better). Like many Parisiens, she comes from an interesting background -- an Algerian father and a Serbian mother, although she was born and raised in Paris. We talked about various and sundry things -- the study of law in France, French and American politics, schools, her job, my job, California, etc., etc. I told her that I think that Suzie would be a good partner for her also, so I suspect we may all get together next time. Again, it is very gratifying to be able to have a conversation with someone in French, and actually be able to understand and communicate (it's also fun to play English teacher a little bit; learning French has made me realize just how incredibly competent I am in my own language, without ever really trying).
The Metro ride home seemed long, as I took a different route that required two transfers, and when I got home I was tired. Suzie is working on a project, Andrew was sick today and stayed home from school, Will had a good day learning French. I'd tell you about my and Andrew's trip to the grocery store and our experience with the French self-service checkout, but I'm out of steam. Finally, as a treat to all of us, Suzie's father is coming to Paris, arriving tomorrow morning.
I probably don't have to say this (not again, I'm sure you thinking), but I love it here. I thought this would be a good experience, and up to now it has greatly surpassed my expectations. Sometimes still I can't really believe I'm here, that this is my life for now, that I'm a Metro commuter, that I'm a Parisien. Incredible.
Monday, September 08, 2008
Pictures from a Glorious Fall Day
Yesterday I had the afternoon completely free, and it was a perfect fall day, clear and bright, so I decided to take a walk around Paris. Sometimes I think my readers (viewers?) prefer pictures to words, so here are a few, with some limited commentary.
First, a couple of political pictures: The Assemblee Nationale, the U.S. Embassy (sadly behind rows of concrete barriers and police), and the Elysee Palace, home of the French President.
From this area (near the Place de la Concorde), I walked through the ritzy area near Place Vendome, to the beautiful Opera building:
From there I walked back toward the Seine, passing through the beautiful garden of the Palais Royal, where for a time, unfortunately, I advertently had put the focus into manual, thus ruining all the shots until I discovered the error. Here's one that made it.
And -- a self portrait!
There was a lady in the garden who managed to get the small flity birds to eat out of her hand.
From here, I walked through the plaza of the Louvre, into the Tuileries Gardens, which afforded a number of beautiful views.
This final one I call "Me Thinking About Leaving Paris (Naked)":
That's all for now. The days are busy and I'm about a week behind in my posts, so there is more to come.
First, a couple of political pictures: The Assemblee Nationale, the U.S. Embassy (sadly behind rows of concrete barriers and police), and the Elysee Palace, home of the French President.
From this area (near the Place de la Concorde), I walked through the ritzy area near Place Vendome, to the beautiful Opera building:
From there I walked back toward the Seine, passing through the beautiful garden of the Palais Royal, where for a time, unfortunately, I advertently had put the focus into manual, thus ruining all the shots until I discovered the error. Here's one that made it.
And -- a self portrait!
There was a lady in the garden who managed to get the small flity birds to eat out of her hand.
From here, I walked through the plaza of the Louvre, into the Tuileries Gardens, which afforded a number of beautiful views.
This final one I call "Me Thinking About Leaving Paris (Naked)":
That's all for now. The days are busy and I'm about a week behind in my posts, so there is more to come.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
McCain Uncorks a Good One
We were able to watch John McCain's acceptance speech a day after he gave it, courtesy of the l'Assemblee Nationale and the Senat, which have a TV channel something like C-SPAN, and which broadcast the speech in its entirety (overdubbed, of course, by a translation in French). It was a bit difficult to listen to, because I found myself trying to do multiple things all at once -- listen in English, listen in French, evaluate the translation, and evaluate the speech itself. My take on the speech was that although 80% of it was slow and predictable, it reached an amazing crescendo at the end, with McCain's recitation of his time as a POW and the impact that had on his life and his politics. Agree or disagree with his policies, in my view that ending enabled McCain to turn a mediocre speech into a good one, one that will draw voters to him personally, in much the same way that many voters are personally drawn to Obama (albeit for different reasons).
I found myself afterwards thinking about the main thrust of the last part of the speech -- how McCain's captivity caused him to grasp the idea of a cause beyond himself, and thus lead him to dedicate his life to public service. It was this part of the speech that I found most engaging:
This, I dare say, is one thing that McCain and Obama would agree on. But what I don't understand is this: If serving others who are in need brings "great happiness" because nothing is better than "serving a cause greater than yourself," then why is the far right so very much opposed to government programs that do just that? If you think about it from an economic point of view, if I want to aid the fight against illiteracy in adults, it is much more efficient for me to work an hour in my regular job, and then give that money to pay someone who actually knows how to teach an illiterate person to read, than it is for me to try to do it directly. More actual "good" will come from that than will come from me trying to teach someone to read (although it will not be as emotionally satisfying for me). So why isn't paying taxes to aid those in need a "cause greater than yourself" that should be embraced by the right? (There are two answers, of course. The first is the mistrust of government that has become perhaps the single defining core belief of the right -- a belief that taxes are inevitably pissed away on bureaucrats rather than used to do "good." The second is that not all on the right share McCain's belief in public service -- many think that if an adult is illiterate it is his or her own damn fault, so why should we help?)
But I digress. Although I see that the general consensus in the blogosphere and media is that the speech was a dud, I didn't see it that way. I thought the end of the speech, with its story of despair and redemption, its call to public service, spoke to a lot of voters in the middle. I think that we are in for a race, Sarah Palin notwithstanding.
I found myself afterwards thinking about the main thrust of the last part of the speech -- how McCain's captivity caused him to grasp the idea of a cause beyond himself, and thus lead him to dedicate his life to public service. It was this part of the speech that I found most engaging:
If you find faults with our country, make it a better one. If you're disappointed with the mistakes of government, join its ranks and work to correct them. Enlist in our Armed Forces. Become a teacher. Enter the ministry. Run for public office. Feed a hungry child. Teach an illiterate adult to read. Comfort the afflicted. Defend the rights of the oppressed. Our country will be the better, and you will be the happier. Because nothing brings greater happiness in life than to serve a cause greater than yourself.
This, I dare say, is one thing that McCain and Obama would agree on. But what I don't understand is this: If serving others who are in need brings "great happiness" because nothing is better than "serving a cause greater than yourself," then why is the far right so very much opposed to government programs that do just that? If you think about it from an economic point of view, if I want to aid the fight against illiteracy in adults, it is much more efficient for me to work an hour in my regular job, and then give that money to pay someone who actually knows how to teach an illiterate person to read, than it is for me to try to do it directly. More actual "good" will come from that than will come from me trying to teach someone to read (although it will not be as emotionally satisfying for me). So why isn't paying taxes to aid those in need a "cause greater than yourself" that should be embraced by the right? (There are two answers, of course. The first is the mistrust of government that has become perhaps the single defining core belief of the right -- a belief that taxes are inevitably pissed away on bureaucrats rather than used to do "good." The second is that not all on the right share McCain's belief in public service -- many think that if an adult is illiterate it is his or her own damn fault, so why should we help?)
But I digress. Although I see that the general consensus in the blogosphere and media is that the speech was a dud, I didn't see it that way. I thought the end of the speech, with its story of despair and redemption, its call to public service, spoke to a lot of voters in the middle. I think that we are in for a race, Sarah Palin notwithstanding.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Report from the First Trimester
It pains me to think that our time in Paris is already one-third gone. It seems to have flown by, even though (as the highly-educated, classy, consistent readers of this blog know) we have done a lot. Here are a few reflections on the surprises so far.
The most pleasant surprise is an entirely personal one. Before this trip, I had more than a little fear that the great amount of time that we would all be spending together would lead to unpleasant consequences. But the exact opposite has occurred. We've had some rough spots, but in general this trip seems to have made us all much, much closer. That is certainly the case for me and Suzie; we were remarking the other day that despite all the time we've been together, and despite all the stresses that the travel and the move have brought to us, we have not even come close to having what I would call a real fight. To the contrary, we have immensely enjoyed spending so much time together. It has made us closer than ever. It's also the case for the kids. While they've put on a few outstanding displays of teenage fit-throwing, and while they still have the tendency to fight all the time (and although my youngest son Andrew has suddenly become more volatile and ill-tempered, thanks to the surge of testosterone running through his teenaged system), the boys have on the whole become much closer on this trip. I think that's because they have had to rely on each other more, and because they have to rely on each other more, they appreciate each other more than before. In particular, my oldest son Will has matured a lot on this trip; at least sometimes he seems to understand now in a way he didn't before how his actions impact the rest of his family. I'm very, very proud of the way they have both stepped it up.
Another surprise is how much more freedom the boys have here in Paris, due mostly to the fantastic public transit system. At home they are dependant on us if they want to go anywhere; here, they can go out anytime and go anywhere they want on their own. They absolutely love that freedom, and we do, too, as it is helping to make them more mature and more self-reliant.
A related surprise is how much I enjoy not having to drive. As I posted earlier, our carbon footprint here in Paris has shrunk to a small, small fraction of our carbon footprint in Sonoma County -- no cars, no dryer, no air conditioning, a small space to light and heat. Everything is a lot more efficient in a way. Suzie has remarked that since we have to carry all our groceries back to the apartment by hand, we only buy for the upcoming few days, and end up throwing away a lot less food.
An unpleasant surprise (which really isn't a surprise when I think about it) is how much we miss nature. Sometimes we find ourselves having a deep, deep need for green that drives us to the park. Related to this is how much we miss the quiet. On our busy, busy street the traffic noise is incessant, even at night. Now that it has gotten a little cooler, we've taken to keeping the main windows closed during the day to try to cut down on the constant din. That helps, but we sure enjoyed being in Aigrefeuille, where (as in our home in Sonoma County) the days and nights were so very quiet and peaceful.
Having been in France previously for extended periods, we haven't had any big surprises with respect to the country or its people, other, perhaps, than our continued amazement at how friendly and helpful everyone has been (our downstairs neighbor notwithstanding -- which reminds me, I never did exactly tell that whole story, did I ... that leaves two posts I have hanging!). We've also been amazed (perhaps me more than Suzie) at how well people we meet seem to like us. Even in our language classes, students who are much younger than either Suzie or I make friends with us frequently and easily. Suzie and I both have made several friends with whom we continue to correspond even though they are no longer in class with us.
My final surprise is a bit of a sad one, in a way. Meaning no offense to any of my readers in the Western Hemisphere, I have not missed "home" at all. If I miss anything at all, it is Elsie, our dog, but then only if if I see a spaniel on the street. I don't think this has anything to do with how much I appreciate my life in Sonoma County, or the people I share it with there (whom I love), as much has it has to do with two other things. First, every day here is so full that it is hard to imagine that anything could be missing from it. Every day seems magical, every street, alley, building, sunset, every new person I meet, every phrase I speak in French, every e-mail I send to my new acquaintances, every trip to the grocery store. Second, there is something about Paris, and about France, that makes me feel completely at home and in-place. Even something as simple as the weather: In just a week, the season here has changed from summer to autumn. The sun is lower in the sky, and the weather has turned fresh, cool, and, from time to time, drizzly. Sweaters and jackets have replaced t-shirts and sundresses, the Metro has lost some of its stifling warmth, and the winds carry the promise of yet cooler days ahead. Having been raised in the Midwest, I have never gotten used to California's seasons. The lack of rain in the summer still seems unnatural to me on a primal, gut level. Things are supposed to die during the winter, not during the summer. And California doesn't really have my favorite season, the fall. But here in Paris it is fall now. I can see the leaves starting to think about drying up and turning color. I can imgine how it will feel in December, when the cold comes, how the homes and restraurants and stores and classrooms become refuges, warm and inviting, how it feels to be bundled under layers of warm clothing. For 20 years, I have missed the autumn, and I have missed the slow decent into winter. Now I have a chance to have it again, and it makes me unreasonably, almost stupidly happy, and puts me very much at home, very much at ease.
If the next two months are half as interesting, half as engaging as the past two, I will be very lucky. At times, none of this seems possible. And at others, it seems like the most natural, most right thing I've ever done (next, of course, to marrying Suzie). More to come....
The most pleasant surprise is an entirely personal one. Before this trip, I had more than a little fear that the great amount of time that we would all be spending together would lead to unpleasant consequences. But the exact opposite has occurred. We've had some rough spots, but in general this trip seems to have made us all much, much closer. That is certainly the case for me and Suzie; we were remarking the other day that despite all the time we've been together, and despite all the stresses that the travel and the move have brought to us, we have not even come close to having what I would call a real fight. To the contrary, we have immensely enjoyed spending so much time together. It has made us closer than ever. It's also the case for the kids. While they've put on a few outstanding displays of teenage fit-throwing, and while they still have the tendency to fight all the time (and although my youngest son Andrew has suddenly become more volatile and ill-tempered, thanks to the surge of testosterone running through his teenaged system), the boys have on the whole become much closer on this trip. I think that's because they have had to rely on each other more, and because they have to rely on each other more, they appreciate each other more than before. In particular, my oldest son Will has matured a lot on this trip; at least sometimes he seems to understand now in a way he didn't before how his actions impact the rest of his family. I'm very, very proud of the way they have both stepped it up.
Another surprise is how much more freedom the boys have here in Paris, due mostly to the fantastic public transit system. At home they are dependant on us if they want to go anywhere; here, they can go out anytime and go anywhere they want on their own. They absolutely love that freedom, and we do, too, as it is helping to make them more mature and more self-reliant.
A related surprise is how much I enjoy not having to drive. As I posted earlier, our carbon footprint here in Paris has shrunk to a small, small fraction of our carbon footprint in Sonoma County -- no cars, no dryer, no air conditioning, a small space to light and heat. Everything is a lot more efficient in a way. Suzie has remarked that since we have to carry all our groceries back to the apartment by hand, we only buy for the upcoming few days, and end up throwing away a lot less food.
An unpleasant surprise (which really isn't a surprise when I think about it) is how much we miss nature. Sometimes we find ourselves having a deep, deep need for green that drives us to the park. Related to this is how much we miss the quiet. On our busy, busy street the traffic noise is incessant, even at night. Now that it has gotten a little cooler, we've taken to keeping the main windows closed during the day to try to cut down on the constant din. That helps, but we sure enjoyed being in Aigrefeuille, where (as in our home in Sonoma County) the days and nights were so very quiet and peaceful.
Having been in France previously for extended periods, we haven't had any big surprises with respect to the country or its people, other, perhaps, than our continued amazement at how friendly and helpful everyone has been (our downstairs neighbor notwithstanding -- which reminds me, I never did exactly tell that whole story, did I ... that leaves two posts I have hanging!). We've also been amazed (perhaps me more than Suzie) at how well people we meet seem to like us. Even in our language classes, students who are much younger than either Suzie or I make friends with us frequently and easily. Suzie and I both have made several friends with whom we continue to correspond even though they are no longer in class with us.
My final surprise is a bit of a sad one, in a way. Meaning no offense to any of my readers in the Western Hemisphere, I have not missed "home" at all. If I miss anything at all, it is Elsie, our dog, but then only if if I see a spaniel on the street. I don't think this has anything to do with how much I appreciate my life in Sonoma County, or the people I share it with there (whom I love), as much has it has to do with two other things. First, every day here is so full that it is hard to imagine that anything could be missing from it. Every day seems magical, every street, alley, building, sunset, every new person I meet, every phrase I speak in French, every e-mail I send to my new acquaintances, every trip to the grocery store. Second, there is something about Paris, and about France, that makes me feel completely at home and in-place. Even something as simple as the weather: In just a week, the season here has changed from summer to autumn. The sun is lower in the sky, and the weather has turned fresh, cool, and, from time to time, drizzly. Sweaters and jackets have replaced t-shirts and sundresses, the Metro has lost some of its stifling warmth, and the winds carry the promise of yet cooler days ahead. Having been raised in the Midwest, I have never gotten used to California's seasons. The lack of rain in the summer still seems unnatural to me on a primal, gut level. Things are supposed to die during the winter, not during the summer. And California doesn't really have my favorite season, the fall. But here in Paris it is fall now. I can see the leaves starting to think about drying up and turning color. I can imgine how it will feel in December, when the cold comes, how the homes and restraurants and stores and classrooms become refuges, warm and inviting, how it feels to be bundled under layers of warm clothing. For 20 years, I have missed the autumn, and I have missed the slow decent into winter. Now I have a chance to have it again, and it makes me unreasonably, almost stupidly happy, and puts me very much at home, very much at ease.
If the next two months are half as interesting, half as engaging as the past two, I will be very lucky. At times, none of this seems possible. And at others, it seems like the most natural, most right thing I've ever done (next, of course, to marrying Suzie). More to come....
Monday, September 01, 2008
Embarrasing Translation (TMI Warning)
I've been having a small, annoying, common medical problem that is entirely treatable by any number of products that you see advertised on TV in the U.S. during sporting events. (No, no, no, it's not that problem ... jamais, jamais in Paris, the city of love!) But here in France, it isn't possible to just to into a drug store and buy products like that. Such products (and others equally common) are only available in a pharmacie, and only after a consultation with the pharmacien (or pharmacienne) behind the counter, who discusses with you the specific ailment you're looking to cure, then gives you the appropriate product. For example, when my son Andrew had a bad intestinal problem, I had to go discuss his situation with the pharmacien before I could buy what's called Immodium in the U.S. I couldn't just go buy it on my own.
Well my particular problem involves (here's the TMI part, look away if you are squeemish) an embarrasingly-placed itchy rash, and I knew exactly what I needed for it, but I didn't know the French words I needed to communicate with the pharmacien (nor, frankly, did I particularly want to, since in truth it's none of his business). So Suzie and I sat down with the dictionary and tried to suss out the proper vocabulary.
First order of business ... just what do you call the offending agent in French. Let's see ... oh, yes, here it is: champignion. What?!? Champignon like the things that you cook? So I have to walk into the pharmacy and tell the man that I have ... mushrooms? Good God. OK, OK, take a breath ... what's the next thing I need? Oh yeah, a description of what is wrong. Let's see, it's "itch," that's ... demangeaison. Wait a minute, I see a verb I know in there ... it's manger, French for "to eat." So that means I have to go into the pharmacy and tell the man not only that I have mushrooms, but also that they are eating me? This is looking less likely. One more thing, the location ... let's see, let's see, here it is ... finally, I get a break; the French word is a little better than the corresponding English word, which I've always thought was a little rough, albeit in perhaps an entirely appropriate way.
In any case, armed with my new vocabulary, and accompanied by my back-up translator Suzie, I walked down the block to the pharmacy on the corner. I'm wishing, hoping, praying, of course, that the person behind the counter is a pharmacien and not a pharmacienne. Preferably he'd be an old guy with warts or something who'd experienced the very same thing multiple times during his life.
But, of course, that was not to be. The person behind the counter was a pharmacienne, a young, dark, pretty pharmacienne who could not have been more than 27 or 28. "Madamoiselle, I have a problem. Mushrooms are eating me dans the entrejambe and I need your assistance."
Actually, it wasn't bad at all. She was very helpful and didn't seem at all embarassed. She said I spoke French very well and that she loved English. She gave me a tube of champignion-killing lotion and charged me two euros and 15 centimes. And is all well. Still, it does not seem right. In my opinion, French should have different words for the champignions that grow in the forest and the champignions that grow on human beings.
Well my particular problem involves (here's the TMI part, look away if you are squeemish) an embarrasingly-placed itchy rash, and I knew exactly what I needed for it, but I didn't know the French words I needed to communicate with the pharmacien (nor, frankly, did I particularly want to, since in truth it's none of his business). So Suzie and I sat down with the dictionary and tried to suss out the proper vocabulary.
First order of business ... just what do you call the offending agent in French. Let's see ... oh, yes, here it is: champignion. What?!? Champignon like the things that you cook? So I have to walk into the pharmacy and tell the man that I have ... mushrooms? Good God. OK, OK, take a breath ... what's the next thing I need? Oh yeah, a description of what is wrong. Let's see, it's "itch," that's ... demangeaison. Wait a minute, I see a verb I know in there ... it's manger, French for "to eat." So that means I have to go into the pharmacy and tell the man not only that I have mushrooms, but also that they are eating me? This is looking less likely. One more thing, the location ... let's see, let's see, here it is ... finally, I get a break; the French word is a little better than the corresponding English word, which I've always thought was a little rough, albeit in perhaps an entirely appropriate way.
In any case, armed with my new vocabulary, and accompanied by my back-up translator Suzie, I walked down the block to the pharmacy on the corner. I'm wishing, hoping, praying, of course, that the person behind the counter is a pharmacien and not a pharmacienne. Preferably he'd be an old guy with warts or something who'd experienced the very same thing multiple times during his life.
But, of course, that was not to be. The person behind the counter was a pharmacienne, a young, dark, pretty pharmacienne who could not have been more than 27 or 28. "Madamoiselle, I have a problem. Mushrooms are eating me dans the entrejambe and I need your assistance."
Actually, it wasn't bad at all. She was very helpful and didn't seem at all embarassed. She said I spoke French very well and that she loved English. She gave me a tube of champignion-killing lotion and charged me two euros and 15 centimes. And is all well. Still, it does not seem right. In my opinion, French should have different words for the champignions that grow in the forest and the champignions that grow on human beings.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Inadvertently Funny Palin Quote
Our potential next Vice President, via Associated Press:
Yep, running for Vice President is a great way to learn all about the USA.
You know that old trick reporters sometimes play, where they ask candidates to name the Prime Minister of some foreign country? Here's an even better target. "Ms. Palin, what state is south of Iowa?" This is going to be fun!
The first-term Alaska governor told reporters she was having fun in her new role. "It's great to see another part of the country," she said.
Yep, running for Vice President is a great way to learn all about the USA.
You know that old trick reporters sometimes play, where they ask candidates to name the Prime Minister of some foreign country? Here's an even better target. "Ms. Palin, what state is south of Iowa?" This is going to be fun!
Who?!?!?
From Paris, John McCain's selection of Alaska Governor Sarah Palin seems bizarre. Step back from the moment-to-moment campaign jostling and ask this question: You are John McCain. You think you will be elected President. Who do you want as your V.P? You'd think that the independent, strong, leader McCain would step up to the plate and give us someone just as solid and substantial as he is, someone who he could rely on for advice and counsel, and, more importantly, someone ready to take over the Presidency on Day One (McCain is how old?) Someone like ... Joe Biden. OK, not quite the same policy preferences there, but you get the idea. But never, never would you expect that McCain would pick a young, very inexperienced, almost unknown woman from left field.
What this says to me is two things. First, forget for the duration of the campaign the good old, open, accessible, say-what's-on-your-mind (I think "Straight Talk" was the phrase, wasn't it?) John McCain. From now on, the political handlers will make all the calls. Chalk one up there for Obama. Second, erase from your mind the idea that John McCain is a politician who will put his "country first" all the time. Level with us, John ... do you really, really think Sarah Palin is the most qualified person in the whole United States to take over if something happens to you. Of course not.
What's happened is that John McCain has traded "straight talk" for what he sees as political expediency and has at the same time made, in my view, a big mistake, for the reasons discussed here and here. Reading between the lines, the French press is appalled; I've watched three or four news programs on TV since the announcement, and each of them has shown that great footage of Ms. Paulin picking up a rifle or machine gun or whatever the hell it is, sighting through the scope, and putting her finger on the trigger. They are wanting to communicate: Even more than a pistol-packing mama, what we've got here is a machine-gun-toting danger to the world. (And then there's that hair. Oh Sarah, oh Sarah, let down your long hair.) [Sorry, I have the flu, perhaps delirium is at work; I mean no offense to those of you with the beehive thing, I used to love the B52s.]
Finally, I am completely, completely irked at Hillary Clinton. I didn't believe it, I really didn't believe it, but after the convention, and after this story (Clinton Congratulates Palin) I'm ready to believe that she doesn't want to see Obama elected. Given an opportunity to rip McCain's pick on any number of things, what does Hillary say?
Yeah.
What this says to me is two things. First, forget for the duration of the campaign the good old, open, accessible, say-what's-on-your-mind (I think "Straight Talk" was the phrase, wasn't it?) John McCain. From now on, the political handlers will make all the calls. Chalk one up there for Obama. Second, erase from your mind the idea that John McCain is a politician who will put his "country first" all the time. Level with us, John ... do you really, really think Sarah Palin is the most qualified person in the whole United States to take over if something happens to you. Of course not.
What's happened is that John McCain has traded "straight talk" for what he sees as political expediency and has at the same time made, in my view, a big mistake, for the reasons discussed here and here. Reading between the lines, the French press is appalled; I've watched three or four news programs on TV since the announcement, and each of them has shown that great footage of Ms. Paulin picking up a rifle or machine gun or whatever the hell it is, sighting through the scope, and putting her finger on the trigger. They are wanting to communicate: Even more than a pistol-packing mama, what we've got here is a machine-gun-toting danger to the world. (And then there's that hair. Oh Sarah, oh Sarah, let down your long hair.) [Sorry, I have the flu, perhaps delirium is at work; I mean no offense to those of you with the beehive thing, I used to love the B52s.]
Finally, I am completely, completely irked at Hillary Clinton. I didn't believe it, I really didn't believe it, but after the convention, and after this story (Clinton Congratulates Palin) I'm ready to believe that she doesn't want to see Obama elected. Given an opportunity to rip McCain's pick on any number of things, what does Hillary say?
“We should all be proud of Governor Sarah Palin's historic nomination, and I congratulate her and Senator McCain," Clinton, the first woman to win a presidential primary, said in the statement. "While their policies would take America in the wrong direction, Governor Palin will add an important new voice to the debate.”
Yeah.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Guest Blogger, Part 2: How to Get Your Non-French Speaking Kids Enrolled in the Best Paris Public Schools
[Editor's note: Suzie continues, with some minor editing and photographic additions from SSS.]
We had discovered that our kids would be placed in the worst school in Paris. We were aware that much of what we read could be the normal rumors and speculation that often surround parental discussions of schools. However, the ranking of the third worst school in France was not a parent’s subjective measure. Action was needed, and quick.
When we were at CASNAV on testing day, I had asked several questions, including where the kids might be placed, whether we could find a place for them closer to home in one of our neighborhood schools, when the letter would come telling us where they would be placed, whether it would come before the first day of school. The helpful woman kindly told me that we could request a different placement in a more distant arrondissement of Paris if we wanted to. Being naïve and trusting and wanting the kids as close to home as possible, it never occurred to me that she might be sending me a covert message that I might want to make such a request. I responded “no thank you” and we went on our way.
Well now I was ready to make such a request -- but I didn’t expect it to be easy or successful. One of the articles we had read was about a family who lived near us in the 14th whose daughter had been assigned to Francois Villon. They appealed the decision to no avail. They pursued their efforts to have their daughter moved to another school, started a website, rallied other parents and eventually sued the City of Paris. So, despite that fact that I could make a “request” I wasn’t expecting the going to be easy.
Not really knowing what I would encounter at CASNAV, not sure I could communicate all of my needs in French, and dreading that the boys had already been assigned to a school and the letters gone out, I set out for the long, long metro ride to CASNAV. I had timed my arrival for 12:30, after most of the testing was done for the day, but before the staff left for lunch.
Entering the office, I was greeted by the kindly security guard, explained (almost completely honestly) that “Je dois ajouter quelque chose aux dossiers de mes enfants” (that is, that I needed to add “add something to the dossiers of my children”). I was directed down to the Salle de Test where I miraculously found the same Madame from the day before. She immediately remembered us and gave me her full attention. I explained as best I could that yesterday after the testing she had told me that my boys would be at Lycee-College Villon and that I strongly wanted them to be placed in another school. I had several moments of panic when she started her response by saying that she hears this from lots of parents but, in fact, many parents and children are very satisfied at Francoise Villon. I feared the next thing would be, “I’m sorry but we have already made the allocation and there is nothing I can do.” But, au contraire, she said to follow her upstairs and she would see what she could do.
The search for the dossiers and testing results involved riffling through several deserted and scorching offices (no air conditioning at CASNAV). Finally they were all found. Apparently, the boys tests had been scored but they had not yet been assigned to a school. What luck! She then explained that if they were going to be placed someplace else, they could not be placed in the same school. We spent about 10 minutes discussing the options, estimating which of the possible schools would be the easiest commute on the metro (with the aid of a large map of Paris and the metro posted on the wall.) She went far beyond the call of duty in telling me which of the schools were good choices, something I’m sure she should not have done and helped me make the best selections I could given my ignorance of everything having to do with the Paris schools. She then took her own lunch time to type up the coveted letters and handed them to me so that the boys could start school immediately upon la rentree (the first day of school).
I felt so confident of my French after all of this communication that I wanted to tell her let her know how relieved I was. I looked her in the eye, thanked her profusely and told her that, “C’est un grand soulevement!” She gave me a little smile, told me she understood me and wished me a “Bonne journee.” (A good day). As I was walking out of the CASNAV building I realized that soulagement is the word for “relief.” Hmm, what had I said to her? When I got home to my dictionary, I found out that rather than saying “It’s a great relief!” I had said “It’s a great uprising!” [Editor's note: Possibly there would have been a great uprising had Suzie not been successful.]
The irony of all this is that Will has ended up at one of the most sought after schools in Paris. In the 7th arrondissement, across the street from the magnificent Dome Church and the Invalides, and immediately adjacent to the Musee Rodin, Lycee-College Duruy has massive grounds, well tended gardens, elegant old buildings, an enormous gym and new science building, not to mention a very good reputation. [Editor's note: If anything, this understates it. The place looks like a Hollywood set designer's vision of an elegant French school, as these pictures evidence (the first and the last were taken of and from the garden in the middle of the school:]
Andrew is also well situated at College Francois Couperin in the Marais very near the Hotel de Ville. He is thrilled about the neighborhood and already has already started to scope out his skateboard route from the metro stop to school. [Editor's note: His school is less picturesque but in a very cool area, right across the Seine from the Ile St. Louis:]
[For Google Map fans, the locations of both are shown below.]
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&t=h&s=AARTsJoJtqyVWQpUu-YVHf561KGEuV9lzA&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000455876aaaae8ac012c&ll=48.855962,2.334852&spn=0.027107,0.054932&z=14&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
It is now time to go out and find all of the school supplies we need. La rentree is Tuesday!
We had discovered that our kids would be placed in the worst school in Paris. We were aware that much of what we read could be the normal rumors and speculation that often surround parental discussions of schools. However, the ranking of the third worst school in France was not a parent’s subjective measure. Action was needed, and quick.
When we were at CASNAV on testing day, I had asked several questions, including where the kids might be placed, whether we could find a place for them closer to home in one of our neighborhood schools, when the letter would come telling us where they would be placed, whether it would come before the first day of school. The helpful woman kindly told me that we could request a different placement in a more distant arrondissement of Paris if we wanted to. Being naïve and trusting and wanting the kids as close to home as possible, it never occurred to me that she might be sending me a covert message that I might want to make such a request. I responded “no thank you” and we went on our way.
Well now I was ready to make such a request -- but I didn’t expect it to be easy or successful. One of the articles we had read was about a family who lived near us in the 14th whose daughter had been assigned to Francois Villon. They appealed the decision to no avail. They pursued their efforts to have their daughter moved to another school, started a website, rallied other parents and eventually sued the City of Paris. So, despite that fact that I could make a “request” I wasn’t expecting the going to be easy.
Not really knowing what I would encounter at CASNAV, not sure I could communicate all of my needs in French, and dreading that the boys had already been assigned to a school and the letters gone out, I set out for the long, long metro ride to CASNAV. I had timed my arrival for 12:30, after most of the testing was done for the day, but before the staff left for lunch.
Entering the office, I was greeted by the kindly security guard, explained (almost completely honestly) that “Je dois ajouter quelque chose aux dossiers de mes enfants” (that is, that I needed to add “add something to the dossiers of my children”). I was directed down to the Salle de Test where I miraculously found the same Madame from the day before. She immediately remembered us and gave me her full attention. I explained as best I could that yesterday after the testing she had told me that my boys would be at Lycee-College Villon and that I strongly wanted them to be placed in another school. I had several moments of panic when she started her response by saying that she hears this from lots of parents but, in fact, many parents and children are very satisfied at Francoise Villon. I feared the next thing would be, “I’m sorry but we have already made the allocation and there is nothing I can do.” But, au contraire, she said to follow her upstairs and she would see what she could do.
The search for the dossiers and testing results involved riffling through several deserted and scorching offices (no air conditioning at CASNAV). Finally they were all found. Apparently, the boys tests had been scored but they had not yet been assigned to a school. What luck! She then explained that if they were going to be placed someplace else, they could not be placed in the same school. We spent about 10 minutes discussing the options, estimating which of the possible schools would be the easiest commute on the metro (with the aid of a large map of Paris and the metro posted on the wall.) She went far beyond the call of duty in telling me which of the schools were good choices, something I’m sure she should not have done and helped me make the best selections I could given my ignorance of everything having to do with the Paris schools. She then took her own lunch time to type up the coveted letters and handed them to me so that the boys could start school immediately upon la rentree (the first day of school).
I felt so confident of my French after all of this communication that I wanted to tell her let her know how relieved I was. I looked her in the eye, thanked her profusely and told her that, “C’est un grand soulevement!” She gave me a little smile, told me she understood me and wished me a “Bonne journee.” (A good day). As I was walking out of the CASNAV building I realized that soulagement is the word for “relief.” Hmm, what had I said to her? When I got home to my dictionary, I found out that rather than saying “It’s a great relief!” I had said “It’s a great uprising!” [Editor's note: Possibly there would have been a great uprising had Suzie not been successful.]
The irony of all this is that Will has ended up at one of the most sought after schools in Paris. In the 7th arrondissement, across the street from the magnificent Dome Church and the Invalides, and immediately adjacent to the Musee Rodin, Lycee-College Duruy has massive grounds, well tended gardens, elegant old buildings, an enormous gym and new science building, not to mention a very good reputation. [Editor's note: If anything, this understates it. The place looks like a Hollywood set designer's vision of an elegant French school, as these pictures evidence (the first and the last were taken of and from the garden in the middle of the school:]
Andrew is also well situated at College Francois Couperin in the Marais very near the Hotel de Ville. He is thrilled about the neighborhood and already has already started to scope out his skateboard route from the metro stop to school. [Editor's note: His school is less picturesque but in a very cool area, right across the Seine from the Ile St. Louis:]
[For Google Map fans, the locations of both are shown below.]
[googlemaps http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&t=h&s=AARTsJoJtqyVWQpUu-YVHf561KGEuV9lzA&msa=0&msid=104194220758797817610.000455876aaaae8ac012c&ll=48.855962,2.334852&spn=0.027107,0.054932&z=14&output=embed&w=640&h=480]
It is now time to go out and find all of the school supplies we need. La rentree is Tuesday!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Guest Blogger: How to Get Your Non-French-Speaking Kids Enrolled in the Paris Public Schools
Steve has insisted that I do a blog entry about our experience entering into the public school system in France. [Editor's note: "Suggested" is more accurate that "insisted." I also added some links and pictures and extraneous commentary.] So here goes.
The dreaded day had arrived when the kids would be tested to be placed in the French public school system. In Paris there is a department of the schools ("L'académie de Paris"). called CASNAV (the "Centre Académique pour la Scolarisation des Nouveaux Arrivants et des enfants du Voyage") designed to welcome, test and place foreigners and others entering the French public schools. We had gone to this office in early July, directed there by a local school official, only to learn that we had just missed the testing (it had ended that morning). Testing would resume in late August. The first 50 families to arrive each day at the CASNAV office are tested. Others must come back the next day. So this day had been hanging over us all summer. As we knew it was coming, it gave us plenty of time to look forward to the bureaucratic hassles to come, not to mention the usual exam dread that teenagers inevitably have.
Up early, café (me) and chocolat chaud (the kids) with cereal. Out early, long-long metro ride to a distant suburb, then a long walk. We arrived at 8:30 a.m., a good half hour before the 9:00 a.m. opening time. To our horror we saw a throng of people outside of the CASNAV office. An efficient security guard from the Mairie de Paris was posted out front to do crowd control. The line of parents with their children started outside the office and stretched down the block and around the corner.
We had expected that a lot of people would arrive on the first day of testing after “les grandes vancances.” But we hadn’t expected something that looked like a crowd gathered outside the doors to a rock concert, with the usual jerks trying to push their way into the front of the line. With resignation, we took our place at the end of the line and were soon joined by even later-comers. We started what looked to be a very, very long wait.
We waited, and we waited. We drank a few sips of water (not too much for fear of needing a toilet). We ate a cracker (not too many for fear of being thirsty.) We talked. We speculated about when the line would start moving. We worried about all the people pushing in at the front of the line. Would we be in the first 50? Would we have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again? We drank another sip of water. Eventually boredom forced us to strike up a conversation with the (clearly) American man and his daughter who were directly behind us. This helped to pass the time and the hours (literally) slipped away. After a while, a man and his son from Australia, fighting their own boredom, joined our conversation.
Eventually, the efficient and friendly security guard came down the line handing out numbered tickets. After assuring himself that each family had a rightful place in line and hand not pushed their way in, he handed them a numbered ticket. [Editor's note: As Suzie described it to me, this involved the security guard verifying everyone's place in line by asking the few folks in front of them whether the people had, in fact, been in line from the beginning. This put the kabosh on line-jumpers.] We were soon in possession of our own yellow ticket – number 47. We just made it! Slowly the line advanced toward the door.
Another hour passed as Will and Andrew made friends with Daniel from Australia (age 15). Eventually, the two kids in front of us (French but having just moved from Naples where they attended an American school) also joined the English conversation.
What happened in this line is what often happens when people with something in common are stuck in close proximity – they bond quickly. By the end of our almost four hour wait in the line, I had made friends with the two parents and the kids had all exchanged contact information and made plans to go to a movie later that night.
About 12:30 we finally were ushered into the office and the children were whisked away for testing. Parents whisked into an office filled with many, many other parents waiting with documents in hand ready to establish the “dossier.” We waited. I got to know Daniel’s father Morie really well. We waited some more. Finally, it was my turn. In no time flat, I’d given them all the documents they needed, the self-addressed stamped envelopes, the two passport photos. Voila! Will and Andrew were official.
The kids came back with big smiles, happy the testing was done. After asking a few questions, I found out that the kids would probably be placed in a college relatively near us in the 14th arrondissement. Will would be in a “Welcome Class” and Andrew in an “Intensive French Class.” Eventually, they would be fully integrated into a regular French class. Learning the name of the school, Lycee-College Francois Villon, we went happily off toward a much need lunch and home.
Without exception, everybody associated with CASNAV was efficient, helpful, and welcoming, including the security guard. True to the word of the law (which we had checked out ahead of time) the French school system never asked us for proof of legal residency and scrupulously did not look in the visa section of our passports to see if we were here legally. While the wait was long and the day was exhausting, we were treated fairly in every way. Plus, we somehow miraculously placed ourselves in line right in between the only other English speakers in the whole place and we made new friends. It was a satisfying day in every way.
That was good. This was not. Later that evening, through researching the Lycee-College Francois Villon through Google, we discovered that Lycee Francois Villon is “L’un des plus mauvais lycees de France.” For you non-French speakers, “One of the worst lycees in France.” In fact, according to the article we found, in the "classement publié en janvier dernier par le magazine L’Etudiant[,] François-Villon se trouve à la 1 862e place sur 1 865 lycées passés au banc d’essai en France!" That means that out of 1,865 lycees (high schools) in France, François-Villon ranked 1,862. We also found articles quoting parents worried about the security of their kids at François-Villon.
A parental freak out ensued. What to do? Stay tuned....
The dreaded day had arrived when the kids would be tested to be placed in the French public school system. In Paris there is a department of the schools ("L'académie de Paris"). called CASNAV (the "Centre Académique pour la Scolarisation des Nouveaux Arrivants et des enfants du Voyage") designed to welcome, test and place foreigners and others entering the French public schools. We had gone to this office in early July, directed there by a local school official, only to learn that we had just missed the testing (it had ended that morning). Testing would resume in late August. The first 50 families to arrive each day at the CASNAV office are tested. Others must come back the next day. So this day had been hanging over us all summer. As we knew it was coming, it gave us plenty of time to look forward to the bureaucratic hassles to come, not to mention the usual exam dread that teenagers inevitably have.
Up early, café (me) and chocolat chaud (the kids) with cereal. Out early, long-long metro ride to a distant suburb, then a long walk. We arrived at 8:30 a.m., a good half hour before the 9:00 a.m. opening time. To our horror we saw a throng of people outside of the CASNAV office. An efficient security guard from the Mairie de Paris was posted out front to do crowd control. The line of parents with their children started outside the office and stretched down the block and around the corner.
We had expected that a lot of people would arrive on the first day of testing after “les grandes vancances.” But we hadn’t expected something that looked like a crowd gathered outside the doors to a rock concert, with the usual jerks trying to push their way into the front of the line. With resignation, we took our place at the end of the line and were soon joined by even later-comers. We started what looked to be a very, very long wait.
We waited, and we waited. We drank a few sips of water (not too much for fear of needing a toilet). We ate a cracker (not too many for fear of being thirsty.) We talked. We speculated about when the line would start moving. We worried about all the people pushing in at the front of the line. Would we be in the first 50? Would we have to come back tomorrow and do this all over again? We drank another sip of water. Eventually boredom forced us to strike up a conversation with the (clearly) American man and his daughter who were directly behind us. This helped to pass the time and the hours (literally) slipped away. After a while, a man and his son from Australia, fighting their own boredom, joined our conversation.
Eventually, the efficient and friendly security guard came down the line handing out numbered tickets. After assuring himself that each family had a rightful place in line and hand not pushed their way in, he handed them a numbered ticket. [Editor's note: As Suzie described it to me, this involved the security guard verifying everyone's place in line by asking the few folks in front of them whether the people had, in fact, been in line from the beginning. This put the kabosh on line-jumpers.] We were soon in possession of our own yellow ticket – number 47. We just made it! Slowly the line advanced toward the door.
Another hour passed as Will and Andrew made friends with Daniel from Australia (age 15). Eventually, the two kids in front of us (French but having just moved from Naples where they attended an American school) also joined the English conversation.
What happened in this line is what often happens when people with something in common are stuck in close proximity – they bond quickly. By the end of our almost four hour wait in the line, I had made friends with the two parents and the kids had all exchanged contact information and made plans to go to a movie later that night.
About 12:30 we finally were ushered into the office and the children were whisked away for testing. Parents whisked into an office filled with many, many other parents waiting with documents in hand ready to establish the “dossier.” We waited. I got to know Daniel’s father Morie really well. We waited some more. Finally, it was my turn. In no time flat, I’d given them all the documents they needed, the self-addressed stamped envelopes, the two passport photos. Voila! Will and Andrew were official.
The kids came back with big smiles, happy the testing was done. After asking a few questions, I found out that the kids would probably be placed in a college relatively near us in the 14th arrondissement. Will would be in a “Welcome Class” and Andrew in an “Intensive French Class.” Eventually, they would be fully integrated into a regular French class. Learning the name of the school, Lycee-College Francois Villon, we went happily off toward a much need lunch and home.
Without exception, everybody associated with CASNAV was efficient, helpful, and welcoming, including the security guard. True to the word of the law (which we had checked out ahead of time) the French school system never asked us for proof of legal residency and scrupulously did not look in the visa section of our passports to see if we were here legally. While the wait was long and the day was exhausting, we were treated fairly in every way. Plus, we somehow miraculously placed ourselves in line right in between the only other English speakers in the whole place and we made new friends. It was a satisfying day in every way.
That was good. This was not. Later that evening, through researching the Lycee-College Francois Villon through Google, we discovered that Lycee Francois Villon is “L’un des plus mauvais lycees de France.” For you non-French speakers, “One of the worst lycees in France.” In fact, according to the article we found, in the "classement publié en janvier dernier par le magazine L’Etudiant[,] François-Villon se trouve à la 1 862e place sur 1 865 lycées passés au banc d’essai en France!" That means that out of 1,865 lycees (high schools) in France, François-Villon ranked 1,862. We also found articles quoting parents worried about the security of their kids at François-Villon.
A parental freak out ensued. What to do? Stay tuned....
Sunday, August 24, 2008
La Bonne Vie a Paris
It rained Friday in Paris, a comfortable, cool, gentle, light rain, with no wind, which made it easy and delightful to walk around the city with an umbrella. It also made for a great day for sleeping in, the clouds veiling the sun and the the rain veiling the sounds of the city. So we stayed in bed a long time, then got up and drank coffee and watched the Olympics on French TV. (The big news here is the gold medal won by the French handball team. I'd never heard of team handball before, but it's an interesting sport to watch, sort of a combination of basketball and soccer without the feet. I kept thinking as I was watching what would happen if you had the likes of LeBron James and Kobe Bryant playing handball; I think Les Bleues would not know what hit them.) In the afternoon we went in search of a book that Will needs for his English class at Newman in Santa Rosa, a search that was difficult and ultimately fruitless, but which took us all through the picturesque quarter across the Seine from Notre Dame, charming in the rain (which cut down considerably on the tourists). We were also unsuccessful in finding Andrew new shoes (none under 50 euros appeal to him, and that's a nonstarter as far as Dad is concerned), but nevertheless we had a very relaxing, enjoyable rainy day.
Saturday was wonderful. The morning arrived sunny, the rain having passed through during the night and left in its place a cool, fresh, clean, clear day that seemed just like autumn, especially because, two months after the summer equinox, the sun is lower now in the sky, casting longer shadows even in midday. But more even than the weather, Saturday was wonderful because (1) we accomplished something pretty cool in the morning and (2) we had an excellent excursion around Paris -- sans enfants! -- in the afternoon.
The cool thing we did in the morning involved our television. Our apartment came with a TV that has a pathetically tiny screen. It was so small, and the sound coming out of it was so bad, that watching TV had become a chore; you couldn't seem to get close enough to it to really see anything. So we had for a week or so been looking for a used TV, mostly on the Paris 'Craigslist' site (yes, there is one, it's here). Early on Friday morning I had gone on the site and, voila, there was a brand new listing for someone selling a used 19 inch color TV for 25 euros. I e-mailed the guy, he called me right back, and I arranged to come to his apartment in the 7th arrondissement at 11:00 a.m. to pick it up.
But we had a problem -- a transport problem or, rather, a lack-of-transport problem. It would be possible to carry the TV onto the Metro and transport it that way, but that would be difficult (especially with the stairs and the small turnstyles) and would look stupid also. But I came up with a solution -- I thought that a 19 inch TV would just fit into one of our larger soft-sided suitcases, which had a set of wheels on one end that we could use to roll the TV around rather than carry it. I also concluded that if push came to shove, we could simply take a taxi back, and avoid the difficulty of carting the TV into and out of the Metro.
So we set off for the 7th, on a glorious, glorious morning, arriving at the apartment (a gorgeous building in an upscale part of Paris, which lessed considerably our concern that we might be dealing with stolen property [also, as Suzie pointed out, the TV came with its instruction manual, which negates the possibility of a theft, unless the theves were very, very good indeed]). We called the seller and he came down several minutes later with the TV, which, although bigger than I thought it would be, did in fact just barely fit into the bag with the wheels on it. However, it was immediately evident that the Metro wasn't going to happen; the TV was just too heavy and too unwieldy in the bag. But, I had also located ahead of time the nearest taxi stand, which was only 3 blocks away, so we wheeled the bag with the TV in it, me on one side and Suzie on the other, down the Parisian sidewalks, drawing not as many looks as we would have expected. There were taxis waiting at the taxi stand (even though you hear constantly about the dearth of taxis in Paris), and the trip back to our apartment was quick and cheap -- 7.50 euros. We took the TV up the elevator (which at first we thought might be non-operational yet again), hooked it up to the Livebox, plugged it in, and got it to work. The picture is great, the sound is great, and we were very satisfied with ourselves for having acquired something that will greatly improve our remaining time here for 32.50 euros.
The boys wanted to go off on their own, so we gave them Metro tickets and sent them on their way (Andrew skateboarding, Will filming). This left the afternoon -- the sunny, cool, bright afternoon -- to me and Suzie alone, so we decided to randomly explore an area of Paris that we'd never seen before. On the Metro at Denfert-Rochereau, off the Metro at Reaumur-Sebastopol, we walked north toward the 10th, through a neighborhood that seemed to be somewhat transitional. We saw unexpected things: an oversized arch monument, a pretty church on a hill.
On our way to the latter, we stopped in a small restaurant and had a pleasant, slow lunch (pesto pizza for me, simple but delicious, a salad for Suzie, not the best, too much dressing). And the entire time, we were speaking in French, or at least we were using French words all the time (a Frenchman overhearing us might have a cause of action against us for our gross violations against his native language). A very good exercise, enjoyable also, and we were able (remarkably) to communicate quite a bit.
After lunch, we walked southwest, though a very pretty neighborhood.
On our way, we saw something that I'd noticed a number of times before, but never understood. Often when walking around Paris, there would be times when there would be water gushing out of metallic openings on the curb, then running down the gutter.
<
I always thought that it was some sort of unintentional overflow, but on Saturday I found its purpose. This is the way the sidewalks get cleaned! The worker sweeps debris over the curb, into the running water, which carries it away who-knows-where.
Now in defense of the Ville de Paris, there seems to be no shortage of water around here, and it should be noted that the label on the outlet on the curb says "Eau Non Potable" (and where does that come from?). But still, it seems a strange way to clean the sidewalks.
As we continued our walk, we saw a couple of other strange things. This, for instance:
Suzie and I couldn't decide if this box-on-stilts was replacement housing for the residents of the building (my idea) or housing and construction-space for the workers on the project (Suzie's idea), but in either case I haven't seen anything like this before.
Then there was this sign -- the Milk House!
We ended our trip at another pretty place we'd never seen -- the Place d'Estienne d'Ovres, and its green, wooded plaza surrounding the Trinity Church.
That ended our very pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Suzie and I both ended the day very happy, thinking that we have a very good life in Paris. At least on this day.
Saturday was wonderful. The morning arrived sunny, the rain having passed through during the night and left in its place a cool, fresh, clean, clear day that seemed just like autumn, especially because, two months after the summer equinox, the sun is lower now in the sky, casting longer shadows even in midday. But more even than the weather, Saturday was wonderful because (1) we accomplished something pretty cool in the morning and (2) we had an excellent excursion around Paris -- sans enfants! -- in the afternoon.
The cool thing we did in the morning involved our television. Our apartment came with a TV that has a pathetically tiny screen. It was so small, and the sound coming out of it was so bad, that watching TV had become a chore; you couldn't seem to get close enough to it to really see anything. So we had for a week or so been looking for a used TV, mostly on the Paris 'Craigslist' site (yes, there is one, it's here). Early on Friday morning I had gone on the site and, voila, there was a brand new listing for someone selling a used 19 inch color TV for 25 euros. I e-mailed the guy, he called me right back, and I arranged to come to his apartment in the 7th arrondissement at 11:00 a.m. to pick it up.
But we had a problem -- a transport problem or, rather, a lack-of-transport problem. It would be possible to carry the TV onto the Metro and transport it that way, but that would be difficult (especially with the stairs and the small turnstyles) and would look stupid also. But I came up with a solution -- I thought that a 19 inch TV would just fit into one of our larger soft-sided suitcases, which had a set of wheels on one end that we could use to roll the TV around rather than carry it. I also concluded that if push came to shove, we could simply take a taxi back, and avoid the difficulty of carting the TV into and out of the Metro.
So we set off for the 7th, on a glorious, glorious morning, arriving at the apartment (a gorgeous building in an upscale part of Paris, which lessed considerably our concern that we might be dealing with stolen property [also, as Suzie pointed out, the TV came with its instruction manual, which negates the possibility of a theft, unless the theves were very, very good indeed]). We called the seller and he came down several minutes later with the TV, which, although bigger than I thought it would be, did in fact just barely fit into the bag with the wheels on it. However, it was immediately evident that the Metro wasn't going to happen; the TV was just too heavy and too unwieldy in the bag. But, I had also located ahead of time the nearest taxi stand, which was only 3 blocks away, so we wheeled the bag with the TV in it, me on one side and Suzie on the other, down the Parisian sidewalks, drawing not as many looks as we would have expected. There were taxis waiting at the taxi stand (even though you hear constantly about the dearth of taxis in Paris), and the trip back to our apartment was quick and cheap -- 7.50 euros. We took the TV up the elevator (which at first we thought might be non-operational yet again), hooked it up to the Livebox, plugged it in, and got it to work. The picture is great, the sound is great, and we were very satisfied with ourselves for having acquired something that will greatly improve our remaining time here for 32.50 euros.
The boys wanted to go off on their own, so we gave them Metro tickets and sent them on their way (Andrew skateboarding, Will filming). This left the afternoon -- the sunny, cool, bright afternoon -- to me and Suzie alone, so we decided to randomly explore an area of Paris that we'd never seen before. On the Metro at Denfert-Rochereau, off the Metro at Reaumur-Sebastopol, we walked north toward the 10th, through a neighborhood that seemed to be somewhat transitional. We saw unexpected things: an oversized arch monument, a pretty church on a hill.
On our way to the latter, we stopped in a small restaurant and had a pleasant, slow lunch (pesto pizza for me, simple but delicious, a salad for Suzie, not the best, too much dressing). And the entire time, we were speaking in French, or at least we were using French words all the time (a Frenchman overhearing us might have a cause of action against us for our gross violations against his native language). A very good exercise, enjoyable also, and we were able (remarkably) to communicate quite a bit.
After lunch, we walked southwest, though a very pretty neighborhood.
On our way, we saw something that I'd noticed a number of times before, but never understood. Often when walking around Paris, there would be times when there would be water gushing out of metallic openings on the curb, then running down the gutter.
<
I always thought that it was some sort of unintentional overflow, but on Saturday I found its purpose. This is the way the sidewalks get cleaned! The worker sweeps debris over the curb, into the running water, which carries it away who-knows-where.
Now in defense of the Ville de Paris, there seems to be no shortage of water around here, and it should be noted that the label on the outlet on the curb says "Eau Non Potable" (and where does that come from?). But still, it seems a strange way to clean the sidewalks.
As we continued our walk, we saw a couple of other strange things. This, for instance:
Suzie and I couldn't decide if this box-on-stilts was replacement housing for the residents of the building (my idea) or housing and construction-space for the workers on the project (Suzie's idea), but in either case I haven't seen anything like this before.
Then there was this sign -- the Milk House!
We ended our trip at another pretty place we'd never seen -- the Place d'Estienne d'Ovres, and its green, wooded plaza surrounding the Trinity Church.
That ended our very pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Suzie and I both ended the day very happy, thinking that we have a very good life in Paris. At least on this day.
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