Find a lovely, odiferous cheese shop on the Ile St. Louis, and stop in to show the girls how many more varieties of what we lovingly call "stinky cheese" they will find here in Paris. The proprieter gives us many free cheese samples, moving from a young comte up to a much more aged and pungeunt version. There is also a rabbit sausage that G, our near vegetarian, spits out when he's not looking.
Every time I am standing there tasting the cheese with the family, he suddenly pops up from behind me with his face mere inches (centimetres, that is) from mine. He has brown teeth -- so very far from the North American dental variety. I squawk every time, and fear he may actually kiss my earlobe. When I have thought of the romance of Paris, Creepy-Man-in-a-Stinky-Cheese-Shop is not usually the first image that springs to mind. Not only does my husband never come to my rescue, he finds the entire thing hysterically funny. Then again, Anthony is the same guy who once slipped a couple twenties to two oil-slathered Vegas male strippers to make me a banana hammock sandwich, then laughed till he cried.
We buy some cheese anyway, and the girls get free postcards. I am happy to report leaving the store without a free case of genital herpes.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Romanescu
Have finally gone shopping so that we don't have to survive on just pastries and cafes alone. Thought we'd share our favorite new produce with you. Friends and family, meet the Romanescu. Approximately $4 worth of a cousin to broccoli and cauliflower. Edible raw, but not so delicious (frankly, neither are broccoli or cauliflower...). But quite delicious sauteed in butter and garlic. And possibly the all-time winner for most beautiful produce.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Our New 'Hood
Today is a day to get things done. First we go back to our friend's office by Bois de Boulogne and reverse the hauling of our stored luggage back to our new temporary apartment. Visit the bank to get our French checkbooks, then off to the girls' school to pay our fees and also tour them around. They are so excited to go to school and meet some new friends! I realize that we left SF to go to the East Coast at the end of June, and with the exception of a few visits with cousins, basically the girls have had only each other as playmates for almost 2 solid months. It's quite remarkable now that I think of it that they're still getting along at all. Of course, the silliness and hyper factor have ratcheted up, and I have been with them nearly 24/7 for those two months, so I can't wait till they go to school and meet some new friends, too.
It is a beautiful walk from the apartment to the school -- crossing two bridges over the Seine and via Isle St. Louis -- and with a fabulous view of the back of Notre Dame, the side with the famous flying buttresses, that is. The girls have never seen the Disney Hunchback movie but are impressed nevertheless. This will make an unbeatable first-day-of-school photo.
Even more impressive: right across the tiny street from our new temporary apartment is a lovely "Boulangerie/Patisserie." Since we have no other food yet, we are happy to have treats for breakfast. Finally, P gets to try her first real French pastry: a pain au chocolat, if you must know. This is the view from our window:
The apartment is 70 square meters, about 750 square feet, and very old. Our house in SF is also very old, by SF standards, at 120 years old. But this is about 500 years or so. The windows are more like an idea of something that separates you from outside noise and temperature than any actual barrier. I am just grateful the kitchen and bathroom have been redone in recent centuries.
It is a beautiful walk from the apartment to the school -- crossing two bridges over the Seine and via Isle St. Louis -- and with a fabulous view of the back of Notre Dame, the side with the famous flying buttresses, that is. The girls have never seen the Disney Hunchback movie but are impressed nevertheless. This will make an unbeatable first-day-of-school photo.
Even more impressive: right across the tiny street from our new temporary apartment is a lovely "Boulangerie/Patisserie." Since we have no other food yet, we are happy to have treats for breakfast. Finally, P gets to try her first real French pastry: a pain au chocolat, if you must know. This is the view from our window:
The apartment is 70 square meters, about 750 square feet, and very old. Our house in SF is also very old, by SF standards, at 120 years old. But this is about 500 years or so. The windows are more like an idea of something that separates you from outside noise and temperature than any actual barrier. I am just grateful the kitchen and bathroom have been redone in recent centuries.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
The Magic of Paris
Walk along the Paris plage (beach), which is when they block off trafffic, truck in a whole lotta sand, and make a fake beach along the Seine. G begs for a balloon, but we refuse to cave, feeling like our children are going to be spoiled if they always get what they want. Naturally, we then find a magician show for children, and G is called up onstage and given a little prize of, you guessed it, a balloon. It is impossible to teach these girls a lesson. Later, on our walk away from the Seine, a construction worker calls the girls over and hands them a bunny balloon on a stick. Why he has a bunny balloon on a stick, in a hard-hat and on the job site, will forever remain a mystery. I believe the whole thing was put there just to thwart our parenting attempts.
The magician is truly crap, by the way, but in a way that is oh so French. One of his acts involves lighting up a cigarette, smoking it a for a while in front of all the children, then taking a scarf from a woman in the audience (and in France, you can always count on some woman in the audience having a scarf) and appearing to burn a hole in it. Then of course he whips off the scarf and, sacre bleu!, it is not burned. Afterwards, he drops the cigarette, still smoking, to the floor, and leaves it there to litter the ground and simultaneously pollute the children with second-hand smoke. Another act involves him finding coins in various places and, in one such instance, finding one in his tobacco-stained, partially-toothless mouth and spitting it directly into a little girl's hand. Thankfully, G was not on stage for that one. If I were her mother, I would have sterilized the heck out of that. When G was called up, it was for something moronic but harmless, and the most interesting part of her being up there was that he could not say her name, thought the French translation of her name made no sense as a name, and I finally had to scream out "Gigi" as a nickname the French could wrap their brains, and tongues, around.
Ups and Downs
Today, we are finally able to find an open patisserie. G is like a kid in a candy store, or rather, like a kid in a pastry store. After much hemming and hawing, she finally chooses a cream puff, but only after we assure her that it will be real cream, and not too sweet, since she is very sophisticated in her dislike of goopy, fake whipped cream products.
Rather shockingly, P -- who is the biggest treat eater in our house (well, next to Anthony, who depletes desserts by half and then denies it) -- decides after 6 months of build-up and 3 days of intense pastry-hunting that she wants....a can of orange juice from the grocery store next door. I find myself in an odd argument where I am trying to convince her to buy something sugary, but she insists her treat will be better because it is orange juice. In a can. Evidently, we deprive our children of packaged soft drinks.
At the Jardin des Tuileries, they are having their annual summer fete, and this means we get to pay 12 euros per adult, and 8 per child, to ride the famous ferris wheel. The view is priceless, as long as you don't translate 40 euros into dollars. If you do, then the view is worth approximately $60. The girls quickly deplete our cash, and most of our retirement savings, in order to go on various rides. Anthony and I run into somebody we both knew at Princeton here; I have been in the country for about 48 hours so this is twice as long as it took me the last time I was in Paris to run into a friend.
But certainly, the most memorable part of the day is the very beginning, when G & P spend breakfast clean-up time running up and down the stairs and playing with the elevator, until P comes back up alone and solemnly informs us, "G is stuck in the elevator." Stuck between floors, G finally gets to fulfill every child's fantasy of pushing the emergency call button. She is remarkably calm and cheerful, and speaks with the call-button lady in French, nice as can be. I am waiting at the bottom for the repair guy till Anthony comes down and tells me an elderly lady on the 4th floor (that's floor 5 to you and me) is waiting for the elevator. I run up to apologize to her in French, only to find out she is not waiting to descend, but rather to chew out a French-speaker for letting our children play in the elevator, which is a no-no. For obvious reasons. Well, sure. We know that now. In mid scolding, she looks down and says in shock, "Mais Madame! Vous avez les pieds nus!", "But Madame! You are bare-footed!" I point to my outfit and say, "Well, that's because I'm still in my pajamas. I haven't dressed yet." She shakes her head in disgust, then turns around and heads back into her apartment. I had felt pretty guilty about my children breaking the elevator, so I'm quite pleased to find out that it is actually a minor offense when compared to slovenly dressing.
The elevator is still broken later this afternoon, when we have to move 10 large pieces of luggage from our 6th floor apartment (that's 5th floor to the French) to a friend's office on the opposite side of the city. Why? Because it's the only place we could find to store it while we go off for a 2 week vacation to Croatia. So now that our own children broke the elevator, and we have to haul it down by hand, it's that old lady who gets the last laugh.
(note from G): Back in SF the cream was too sweet for me
and I did not trust it but now I trust it more.
and I did not trust it but now I trust it more.
Rather shockingly, P -- who is the biggest treat eater in our house (well, next to Anthony, who depletes desserts by half and then denies it) -- decides after 6 months of build-up and 3 days of intense pastry-hunting that she wants....a can of orange juice from the grocery store next door. I find myself in an odd argument where I am trying to convince her to buy something sugary, but she insists her treat will be better because it is orange juice. In a can. Evidently, we deprive our children of packaged soft drinks.
At the Jardin des Tuileries, they are having their annual summer fete, and this means we get to pay 12 euros per adult, and 8 per child, to ride the famous ferris wheel. The view is priceless, as long as you don't translate 40 euros into dollars. If you do, then the view is worth approximately $60. The girls quickly deplete our cash, and most of our retirement savings, in order to go on various rides. Anthony and I run into somebody we both knew at Princeton here; I have been in the country for about 48 hours so this is twice as long as it took me the last time I was in Paris to run into a friend.
(note from G): Today at the Louvre, there was a carnival so of course we went
to the carnival and went on: 1 Ferris wheel, 1 round of bungy jumping,
1 water floom and 2 fun houses they were all super fun!!
But certainly, the most memorable part of the day is the very beginning, when G & P spend breakfast clean-up time running up and down the stairs and playing with the elevator, until P comes back up alone and solemnly informs us, "G is stuck in the elevator." Stuck between floors, G finally gets to fulfill every child's fantasy of pushing the emergency call button. She is remarkably calm and cheerful, and speaks with the call-button lady in French, nice as can be. I am waiting at the bottom for the repair guy till Anthony comes down and tells me an elderly lady on the 4th floor (that's floor 5 to you and me) is waiting for the elevator. I run up to apologize to her in French, only to find out she is not waiting to descend, but rather to chew out a French-speaker for letting our children play in the elevator, which is a no-no. For obvious reasons. Well, sure. We know that now. In mid scolding, she looks down and says in shock, "Mais Madame! Vous avez les pieds nus!", "But Madame! You are bare-footed!" I point to my outfit and say, "Well, that's because I'm still in my pajamas. I haven't dressed yet." She shakes her head in disgust, then turns around and heads back into her apartment. I had felt pretty guilty about my children breaking the elevator, so I'm quite pleased to find out that it is actually a minor offense when compared to slovenly dressing.
(note from G): I’m in Paris on a little street in a tiny apartment. Me and Phoebe
were playing in the elevator so much that I broke the elevator plus I got stuck in it and had to call for help!
The elevator is still broken later this afternoon, when we have to move 10 large pieces of luggage from our 6th floor apartment (that's 5th floor to the French) to a friend's office on the opposite side of the city. Why? Because it's the only place we could find to store it while we go off for a 2 week vacation to Croatia. So now that our own children broke the elevator, and we have to haul it down by hand, it's that old lady who gets the last laugh.
Monday, August 15, 2011
First Full Day, Eiffel Tower
We wake up to a glorious summer day in Paris and, this time we make it successfully to the Eiffel Tower. As soon as it comes into sight, the girls are completely energized and enraptured. It takes us twenty minutes just to walk a few feet on the Champ-de-Mars, the field in front of the Tower, because first Gigi must take out the new digital camera she got for her birthday and take a picture of the tower, then of her sister in front of the tower, then of her parents, then one of herself. But not to be outdone, Pippa must also take out her new birthday-present-digital camera and pose everybody in varying combinations in front of the tower. Anthony of course needs to take out our high-end digital SLR camera from the snazzy new sling-bag, for which he has just shelled out big bucks, and take photos of the girls and myself in front of this incredible back drop. And after a 12-year marriage of being the photographer in my family, I now find myself in the oddly unsettling position of being the only one not taking pictures. I suppose it's nice that there will finally be photographic proof that I am part of my own family, except that now I will have to brush my hair, since I am the only one available for posing.
Finally, it gets to be too much, and I can no longer resist the urge to take out the spare, smaller digital camera from the fancy bag and start shooting, some of the Eiffel Tower, but mostly of my family taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower, and some of my family taking pictures of other members of my family taking pictures. It's a true DNA moment, having grown up in a family where Kodak was officially referred to as "the great yellow father." This, however, sends Anthony over the edge, and we finally make it to the Eiffel tower....after we stop for an ice cream. And then, this time really, we are there, waiting in the enormous lines. We choose the stairs option, mainly because the line is shorter. Climb, climb, climb, then elevator up, and we are on the top deck of the Tower. I was determined that this would be the girl's first experience in Paris -- touristy, yes, but also iconic and memorable. And we have the photos to prove it.
Over the Seine to the Trocadero, where the fountains are on in full force. Gigi gets herself soaked then back to our little apartment on the 6th floor to dry off and have dinner. We are eating in, though we have few ingredients, for a few reasons. One is that it is August, and virtually everything is closed. The girls now firmly believe that Paris is a super quiet, unpopulated city, where it is almost impossible to find something to eat. Though we have promised pastries -- not just today or yesterday, but for months leading up to this move -- we are unable to deliver. We cannot find an open pรขtisserie! Also, the one cafe we did find that was open, where we ended up having a lunch yesterday, was probably meant for tourists. Or it just wasn't very good. Sacrilege alert: I think the food in most French cafes is pretty awful. Perhaps I am ordering the wrong things, or going to the wrong cafes, but I find that picking one at random almost never gets me a good meal. But I have to pay for it, dearly.
From our apartment, we can see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night. A perfect ending to our first real day! Naturally, the girls and Anthony cannot stop sticking their heads out the window and taking photos.
Finally, it gets to be too much, and I can no longer resist the urge to take out the spare, smaller digital camera from the fancy bag and start shooting, some of the Eiffel Tower, but mostly of my family taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower, and some of my family taking pictures of other members of my family taking pictures. It's a true DNA moment, having grown up in a family where Kodak was officially referred to as "the great yellow father." This, however, sends Anthony over the edge, and we finally make it to the Eiffel tower....after we stop for an ice cream. And then, this time really, we are there, waiting in the enormous lines. We choose the stairs option, mainly because the line is shorter. Climb, climb, climb, then elevator up, and we are on the top deck of the Tower. I was determined that this would be the girl's first experience in Paris -- touristy, yes, but also iconic and memorable. And we have the photos to prove it.
Over the Seine to the Trocadero, where the fountains are on in full force. Gigi gets herself soaked then back to our little apartment on the 6th floor to dry off and have dinner. We are eating in, though we have few ingredients, for a few reasons. One is that it is August, and virtually everything is closed. The girls now firmly believe that Paris is a super quiet, unpopulated city, where it is almost impossible to find something to eat. Though we have promised pastries -- not just today or yesterday, but for months leading up to this move -- we are unable to deliver. We cannot find an open pรขtisserie! Also, the one cafe we did find that was open, where we ended up having a lunch yesterday, was probably meant for tourists. Or it just wasn't very good. Sacrilege alert: I think the food in most French cafes is pretty awful. Perhaps I am ordering the wrong things, or going to the wrong cafes, but I find that picking one at random almost never gets me a good meal. But I have to pay for it, dearly.
From our apartment, we can see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night. A perfect ending to our first real day! Naturally, the girls and Anthony cannot stop sticking their heads out the window and taking photos.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Arrival in Paris
Walk nearly to the Eiffel Tower on our first day, only to get so overcome by jet-lag that we have to drag ourselves back to the little rental apartment on the French 5th floor (that's 6th floor to you and me). The girls can barely walk back. Then while Anthony and I try to take a nap, the girls are hit with a bizarre second wind and spend the entire hour running up and down the six flights of stairs and trying out the miniature elevator which, it turns out, is pretty typical of these old, retro-fitted French buildings. After doing enough stairs to train a soccer player, and doing it so loudly that there is no hope of us actually napping, we all give up and go to the grocery store where P (our 6 year old) almost instantly falls asleep on Anthony's shoulder. It is about 5pm (or 17h, as they say...), so we have to wake her up most cruelly in time to eat, at which point G (the 7-almost-8 year old) falls asleep at the table. Tomorrow will be better...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)