French radio

You hear the best songs on French radio. Sure, you can hear French songs, but they play the most eclectic mix of American songs mixed in with their own. Everything from Roberta Flack to Simon and Garfunkel to Macy Gray could be heard while shopping at our supermarket, Monoprix.

Two songs that I got a real kick out of hearing lately on our home radio are "Winchester Cathedral" a 1920's sounding song which is kind of hilarious and dates back to the 1960's I think, and Arrested Development's (no, not the TV show- I always think people are talking about the band when they are talking about the TV show which really irks me) "Mr. Wendell" with its laid back funky sound.

"Winchester Cathedral" took me back to my childhood when my little brother and I made up a silly dance to accompany the comical sound and lyrics.

"Mr. Wendell" took me back to dancing with friends until the wee hours of the morning and then eating at Perkins on short Vine. Oh the good ole days.

Escape

We wanted to get out of the city and into the country side and get some fresh air and sunshine. We were hoping to go to Fountainbleau, but time and energy got away from us and we ended up at the Bois de Vincennes, just on the eastern outskirts of Paris.

We picked this destination because it is where the line we were on ended, Chateau de Vincennes. We thought it would be interesting to see the Chateau and walk around the park for a while.

The kids did enjoy the castle, though it lacked a throne, and any other piece of furniture. We'll have to go to Versailles for a Chateau complete with furniture.
However, it did have that other type of throne, which you can have a laugh and look at from Quinn's picture.







After our tour of the Chateau, we wandered to the wooded area, where we enjoyed some green.

Bad influences

As many of you know, our boy Q has been underexposed to media. His world is pretty small, and he's figuring that out. He's wondering why he can't see Rush Hour III, (I don't know why myself- know nothing about it yet).

So yesterday Q is walking home with his buddy M and they are enjoying a song on M's ipod. We had to go our way and Q had to give his earpiece back. He said, "Aw mamma, I love that song". The last song he really was moved by was James Taylor's "Going to Carolina" (in My Mind). He also took an intriguing liking to John Prine's music (glad he didn't understand all the lyrics).

Curious, I asked what song it was. Q couldn't remember the title. He sang some words, something like "white and dirty". He said it was gangster music- does he have any idea what that is, I wonder.

Oh dear. I don't really want him listening to songs where women are referred to as b------ and p----, or that glorify guns and violence.

Turns out he was listening to Weird Al Yankovic's satire of a rap song. Weird Al's version is "white and nerdy". Here it is, if you'd like a listen and a laugh.
http://one.revver.com/watch/65860

So I really do have reason for alarm. My boy likes Weird Al. That's hard to take. Okay, the video is pretty funny, and the tune does get stuck in your head. One of us has been humming a bit of it all weekend- even Maggie. Sometimes we make up our own words based on what we're doing " I want to roll with (pause) my scooter (pause), so I can get to school faster". You get the picture. Not real pretty.

In addition, Weird Al makes fun of chess and segways and Dungeons and Dragons. Enough is enough. I'll have to have a talk with M's parents to see if he has any other suitable songs.

"The Yummerie"

My daughter Mag is a quick study on the French language. When we go to a cheese shop, it's a fromagerie in French. At the butcher, we're at the boucherie. So when we wanted to get a pain au chocolat (a croissant with a couple of delicious sticks of chocolate inside), she asks, "Are we going to the yummerie?" The perfect name for the tasty destination.

Eraserhead

We couldn't resist taking this dude's picture. Yeah, we're that kind of jerks. But, at least he doesn't know his picture is being taken thanks to our special "spy camera".

I hope I haven't stolen his soul. But I wouln't mind having a bit of his hair. He was fluffing it on the metro to increase its height. Teens.

Terrior attack

So I was at a meeting where sixty of us were packed into a tiny space. Next to me was a woman with a little doggy on her lap (only in France). The dog seemed a little tense during the meeting as it barked at a few people (or ghosts). As everyone stood to say a closing verse about peace and serenity, the dog leaped over and bit me on the leg. Here's what the bite looked like after the cool Coke took some swelling down:


After some newly made friends looked after me, a nice pair of French people came over to ask me to translate something for them (which also involved peace and serenity). Was there a message? As I did so, they noticed I was injured, and they offered to take me to the clinic or fire department. I declined their kind help, but was intrigued with the idea of going to the fire department for help. And I might actually need to do something about the bite.


Previously, a nurse had told me that unless the swelling came back, and the leg got hot, I was probably going to be all right, so we decided to carry on with our plans. As we left the building the nice French folk saw me and indicated to go down the street for the fire department. We obliged to make them feel helpful, but then again, curious, I said "let's actually try and find it, they might have something."

In a few minutes we saw the blue and white fire department sign and entered. There was loud techno/dance music playing and they had a variety of mats and gymnastics equipment in the station. I always wanted to be a fire fighter.


I found a fireman and told him my saga, desperate for attention. We all agreed that little dogs are the worst. No offense Pearl or Rosie. I'm sure you two would NEVER bite someone. He pulled out some disinfectant and Sean asked about his gymnastics equipment, obviously impressed, and the fireman, proud of his station, described their workout, then we headed out.

I kept waking in the night wondering if I was foaming at the mouth. So far, so good.

Our first guests

Thursday night, Sean's family from Brussels came to Paris for a visit. It was a fun visit. Their son, J. accompanied Quinn and Maggie to and from school on scooters. During the visit, the three kids had a good time playing hide and seek, making spy plans and playing in the front yard. Hee, hee, we have no front yard. But we do have a very wide sidewalk down below where they can scooter, jump rope, toss and whatever else they dream up.

Our guests were kind enough to drive down with boxes we had sent them. Our only problem now was where to park the car. We needed a special pass for parking which we didn't have, and we had to move the car from its overnight position, so we decided to drive M and K's boxes to their new apartment (which is awesome!) Traffic in Paris was a little rough in their ultrachic neighborhood, but we went ahead and parked illegally while we saw the apartment and tried to figure out what to do with the car next. The logical plan was to park it back in our neighborhood for simplicity's sake.

While stuck in traffic on the rue de Rivoli, we decided to drive down the Champs Elysees (or "Sean's a lee say" as we like to say). I began feeling giddy. I was excited at the possibility of driving down the famous avenue which ends at the most craziest of driving destinations, the Arc de Triomphe.

Ignoring Jane (the bossy GPS voice), we turned onto the Champs Elysees from the Place de la Concorde. We all began to giggle. M, Sean's brother in back, and myself launched some silly shouts out of the car onto passersby. At one point, we realized we better behave somewhat, as we are driving Sean's older and smarter brother , D's car with diplomatic plates.

We moved closer and closer to the arc de Triophe, and I know Sean was going to make the most of it. He is the only person on earth, other than random tax and bus drivers, that I would drive around the Arc de Triomphe with.

We boldly approached the circle of traffic that constantly surrounds the Arc. Amazingly, as we pull straight into this busy circle, the cars to the left slow or stop and allow us to enter the circle, except for one van to which we come extremely close. We buzz excitedly around the circle. As we try to get to the outside of the circle, it gets trickier. A woman reading a menu and talking on the phone while driving barely scrapes by without incident. Unbelievable. As there are 8 streets that head outward from the ARc, we had to pay close attention to the street signs. Thank goodness for the good reader in the back, M.

We head away from Etoile and contine our trip without incident to our neighborhood where we were lucky to find a spot. I finally figure out that you have to buy the special parking permit at the "tabac" where alchohol, coffee and cigarettes are sold. Go figure.

We all had dinner together at our apartment, and all shared about our day.

Saturday morning had (almost) everyone packed into the station wagon again, this time to see M. play soccer. After an agressive game, her team tied, and M. collapsed on our couch for the next few hours while the kids played around the apartment. The adults and M. went to experience M and K's new neighborhood, as well as experience Nuit Blanche. As far as I can tell, Nuit Blanche was a night where galleries were open late, and there were cultural and art activities taking place in various locations.

At one point, we lined up to get into a Catholic church (my mother's dream- people waiting in line to get into a Catholic church) to have a multisensory experience. People were chanting(?), there was a light show on the altar and ceiling. Bodies were stretched out on carpet taking it all in, which was a cool way to experience it (and a good way to raise my leg from my dog bite-see future post).

The next day, our Brussels family took off in the wagon, with our children waving and chasing the car down the street. Quinn was very sad to see J. go. We're hoping to visit in November when spirits may be sagging. Nothing like the town of Tintin and seeing cousins to cheer up a couple of kids.

Allez les Bleus!!

We were out on the town exploring Nuit Blanche, when I remembered that the deciding match between New Zealand and France was on. I made haste with Sean to Hotel de Ville to join the tens of thousands of people watchcing the game on a huge screen in front of city hall complete with astroturf.

As we approached, shouting and cheering from the streets greeted us. I love the excitement of people gathered and cheering on "the team". We hopped up on some sculpture to get a good shot of the crowd. The crowd was so thick, it was hard to move. The entire place was packed, including all the surrounding streets. More shouting and then flares and smoke began to appear.

We found a better place with a good view, but there was a youth in the crowd shouting "All Blacks!" in favor of New Zealand. As close at the game was, we were afraid a fight might break out around this guy. Me moved on.

We finally found a post near the edge of the crowd, where we could see the screen and watch people pulling each other up on the newstand to get a better view. Yikes. It was crowded up there.


The score was 13 to 13 for a while when one of Les Bleus busted out and made a "touchdown". (I'll try to add our vidoe of this soon.) The crowd went wild. The score went back and forth for the last 10 minutes of the game. It was thrilling. The crowd was shouting "Allez les Bleus!" The young man in front of me kept answering my pesky questions about the score and minutes remaining.

I was excited for France. They were definitely the underdogs in weight and were expected to lose. The All BLacks were a shoe in for the victory.

But not tonight. France leaps to a 28-18 victory, and can now continue the fight for the World Rugby Cup. Even if they don't get the cup, they certainly took down the giants tonight.

A little time alone

What do I do when I find myself with a little time to myself alone in the apartment?
I decide to explore this little bathroom feature.


It looks unassuming. It's name is simple. Bidet. It sits in the corner behind our laundry rack which is in constant use. Sadly, I recently researched how to use it because frankly, though francophile with a few trip to France behind me, I've never actually used one.

The other women in my family have. My mom loved to soak her feet in one when she visited in 1986. "This is the best way to end the day" she'd say. My daughter has recently used it to wash her feet after a day in her Crocs on the dirty streets of Paris. Actually, I HAVE actually used it once to epilate my legs.

It seems that we have all had the wrong body parts interacting with the bidet.
As the instructions indicate...

So, finding myself alone for an hour or so, and having the laundry rack set in front of a sunny window allowed the moment to happen. I didn't want a child to come in, see me naked on this little white bathtub and say, "mamma, what are you doing?" As many of you know, there is no privacy with children. The worst part of this imagined scene would be the fact that I truly don't know what I'm doing. But it's time to find out.

I perch on the edge of the little porcelain "tub" facing the faucet. I believe that's what the directions say, but the water doesn't reach anywhere near me. I turn the other way, and still no contact with the water. The temperature of the water, by the way can be controlled by the hot/cold faucets.

Then I realize that I have only slightly turned the faucets on. I turn them on more, and finally the water hits the intended parts. A curious comfortable tingly sensation.

French women are smart. This little appliance should have a more royal name and place in the apartment, but for now it retains it's humble demeaner in the corner of the bathroom. I agree with my mother. It is the best way to end the day.

An outing with Madame B.

Late Thursday night, we checked in Maggie's man bag for school, and there is a note marked "urgent" from Madame B.. Dread. What now? Has someone already gone and thrown themselves down the stairs? It's only the end of September.

We read the note. Mme. B. would like to take the kids on a field trip to see fruits and vegetables made into works of art. They need two bus tickets and she is hoping for two chaperones in order to make the trip. Great, they're going to go exploring Paris a little, and this is my chance to go along and "spy" on the class.

Friday morning I deliver Maggie and ask Mme. B. if she needs a chaperone. Yes, you are the first here, and I need at least two. Okay, I'll go. I say that she can call my husband if she is in a bind. (Aside: Mme. B sneaks a phone call to Sean in a whisper. The main teachers have all told the students they don't understand or speak English, and only speak French to the parents in front of the children. I actually think this is a good idea. So Sean cracks up because here is Mme. B. calling him at home and whispering for him in perfect English to come on the field trip with us. It turns out later that there are two other mothers and Sean is not needed. He is relieved.)

I tell her I'll try to be on time, but I may be a few minutes late. We decide if they are not at school, I'll meet them at the bus stop. The little pumpkins were already at the bus stop and had already let one bus go by in order to wait for me- very kind of Mme. B. and the kids. We wait for 15 more minutes for the next bus and the kids are getting a little restless.

"I don't know if we can do a field trip again," says Mme. B. solemnly, "they get very restless wating". Oh my goodness, the success of future field trips depends on this.

I kick into Mary Pat M. (or Elizabeth Edwards) mode and suggest we sing a song. Mme. B. started singing a song she taught the kids that morning about firemen and the kids joined in. Quite cute to hear the little darlings singing French. I also like to know that Mme B. is singing happy little children's songs.

The bus comes and we hop on and head to Jardins du Luxembourg where the exhibit is on display in the Orangerie. The kids are a little rowdy on the bus, but another parent, J. and I have no problem telling them to sit or assigning them new places. The success of future trips depends on this, I think.


We enter the building and enter a gallery of art made with fruits, vegetables and natural objects. It is light and easy to move around. There are faces, people and paintings made out of produce. Mme. B. is full of enthusiasm and the children love it.

One man is carving beautiful designs in squash and another is creating little mice and other creatures out of radishes and tomatoes. There is also a demonstation of a magimix juicer from which we got to try fresh carrot and apple juice. Quite tasty. We also tried tomato juice with mozzarella at another stand. Art and tasty snacks all at one exhibit. I'm starting to like this Mme. B..



As a way to find out if she is reading french books to the class, I tell her there are some fun books for kids about fruits and vegetables at the exhibit if she reads to the children and is interested. Oh yes, she reads many books to the children, but appreciates the tip and has a look while I watch the kids. We're a team.

We look around the exhibit once more and then head for the bus. This time we're on in a pinch. Mme B. pointed out a great kids bookstore along the way. She mentioned that one day, she intends to take the kids to the market and buy a few things. "Oh and then go back to school and make a soup?" I quip in my usual smart a-- way. "Yes", she affirms "a potage". Excellent.


The year is looking a lot brighter already. I'm glad I went on the field trip. Not only to see the children safely on and off the bus (I worry), but to experience Maggie with her class. She had a couple of girls who stayed close to her which was nice to see. Mostly, it allowed me time to spend with Mme. B. and see a lighter side of her.

She again thanked me this morning for going on the field trip and said that J. and I were very professional and did a great job, and hoped we'd be at the next field trip. We passed! Yeah! There'll be another field trip!

Vouching

I don't know about you, but I have always loved getting bumped off a plane if it meant getting a free night's lodging and a few meals paid for (this was before children, of course). During our honeymoon, Sean and I were bumped off a London flight and just such a scenario ensued. A night at a hotel that was nicer than we would have chosen, and three meals paid for. A free and fancy "three hots and a cot". I felt like we were living large.

Today I again ran into such luck. I was headed to a cooking course at the Cordon Bleu that I thought I had signed up for last night via internet. But alas, my name wasn't on the list and they were full. Durn. Autumn pastries and cakes was the theme of the workshop for which I was willing to dole out some Euros. The kids were looking forward to the tasty treats when I got home.

Seeing the disappointed look on my face, the secretary invited me to join a cooking presentation. I was hardly interested. What can you learn by watching? What are they going to cook? What are the hours? What does it cost?

Turns out they are going to demonstrate a recipe for filet de Daurade Royale. Hmmm, no idea what that is. Again, reading my face, the secretary (accompanied by translator) translated the dish into English, "gilt head sea bream" (that's the translation?!).



"Poisson?" I ask as it is the only edible item that has so many varieties I've never heard of.

"Oui" the pair respond.

"Hmmmm. Le cours coute combien?" I ask suspiciously. I don't want to be trapped into a silly class just to make them a few more Euro.

"You can be our guest," the secretary responds. She shows me the menu and it includes a poached egg served with mushroom puree and sorrel cream (one can not have too many sauces in a french meal).

I love mushrooms, eggs and most sauces, and have been hoping to learn a little more about cooking fish for those Omega 3s. The menu, and the fact that it is FREE had me signed up for the class.

After having a FREE petit dejeuner of croissant, juice and coffee (I didn't drink the coffee, just want to show all that I could have gotten for FREE), we enter the studio. We sit in rows of seats that face the chef and his environment. He has several ovens behind him and in front of him is a huge island with a stovetop, a million pots and pans and all the ingredients just waiting for him.

We meet his funny British sidekick chef who translates the instructions of Chef (that's what everyone called him) into English.

Chef was very amiable and took questions while he cooked. We were given the ingredients for the meal in a hand out, but it didn't include the directions, so I was writing furiously as he spoke. (It's too impossible to remember later, even though you think you can.)

My goodness, the amount of labor that goes into a meal. Truly a spectacle. While the zucchini are blanching and the tomatoes are drying in the oven, chef is reducing the mushrooms in butter and shallots and a touch of cream, while keeping an eye on the eggs he has recently cracked into a pot of boiling water for poaching.


At the end of all this activity, his helper pulls out six white plates. Could it be? Chef demonstrates how to "plate" the fish with the tomato confit and zucchini, as well as the poached egg with the mushroom puree and sorrel cream sauce on another dish. It is a beautiful presentation, but more importantly, we all get to share in Chef's hard work. It was the tastiest meal I've ever had in Paris, totally prepared fresh and in front of our eyes. And all for Free! Yippee!

Adieu Marcel

Mimes.

The only person I know who admittedly loves mimes is my mother. They crack her up. It's their silliness (and probably the fact that they don't talk- enough chatter having had eight kids) that gets her. I have a great picture of a mime curled up on a wall nestled next to my mother at the Arc du Carrousel near the Louvre. He must have sensed her appreciation of the art form and it was his way of saying "thanks". There is a big smile on her face.

Does she know that Marcel Marceau passed on to an even quieter existence? She will be crushed. 84 years old he was. Sixty years of saying nothing, and yet speaking to people wordlwide through the language of laughter.

Adieu, Marcel, et Merci.

Zazie dans le metro

A 21st century "Zazie dans le metro" as seen in the St. Lazare metro stop on September 20, 2007. This Zazie is a French songwriter born shortly after the book was written. (Her original name is Isabelle.)

The original "Zazie dans le metro", a movie based on the story by Raymond Queneau about a girl, Zazie, who explores Paris in a nonconventional way, despite the fact that the metro is shut down due to a strike (does anything change?) Despite its cute poster, the movie is definitely not for kids. But check out the youtube trailer of the film based on the book. Some hilarious scenes and some good footage of Paris, including an actor riding on the top of the elevator of the Eiffel Tower.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KErxgIEwdoA (you need to cut and paste- it's worth it!)

About town

Nothing says Paris quite like this metro sign.


Don't sit here!


Marie's goal was to end sexism. A hundred years later, are we there?



"A defense budget to defend us or to attack the countries Bush doesn't like?" It was a great opener for dialogue on the metro.

Emoticons

Skyping is great because you can talk and see people all over the world for free. But the best part of all........... drumroll please......... is the emoticons.

It may sound silly, but my friend, who I'll refer to as Mary, and I were having a "visit" on skype when we were playing with the type features. We giggled when we saw the emoticons. Note: emoticons are the little faces and figures that can be sent to visually enhance a typed message in order to send an "emotion" with the message. Normally, I would have written these off as totally queer, but then Mary sent me a message with the dancing man. She giggled her wonderful giggle and then I got the message and totally cracked up. We must have sent a flurry of 20 senseless messages to and fro just to use the emoticons.

And we're not teenagers. It was the best laugh I'd had in a while. Maybe the fact that it was midnight, or I had been too cooped up in a tiny apartment with the family, or I just needed a good dose of "friend", but I tell you, it was a great time. I feel cheated now when I type a message for an email or a blog and there is no "emoticon", it feels so empty.