Spectacle Debacle, Act II

It is the nearing the end of the school year, and that can only mean one thing: a seemingly endless string of performances for which we are ill-prepared. Of course I love every second of the half dozen 3-hour shows in which my child appears for a total of 2 minutes and 40 seconds.

This year, we know better than to plan trips during this time, since many of the dates will be conveyed to us by the directors (or our own children) only at the last moment. For instance, I am writing this very sentence on June 25, with only 6 school days left, and I am just realizing that I have no idea when Gigi's theater class production will be. [Ed. update: it's tomorrow, on June 27, so at least she hasn't missed it.]

Gigi gets in a panic over costumes for a dance performance at school, for which she's been choreographing and rehearsing for three months, yet somehow the night before the dress rehearsal, we are still scrounging for costumes. And, oddly, you would be amazed at how difficult/impossible it is to find plain white T-shirts for kids in Paris, even at the kind of stores that sell cheap basics. I am told, "Ah, we are out of white T-shirts, because it is no longer T-shirt season. It is tank top season." Pause. "Plus, all the children who need them for end-of-year costumes have bought them out." Yes. Those would be the families who did not wait till the last second. Thanks for rubbing that in.

In the end, we find her a white tank top she can write "Les Trois Girls" on for her performance (because it's much cooler than the true French "Les Trois Filles"), after she gives away to her fellow dancers the two good T-shirts that I had managed to find. For the second plain white T-shirt she needs, she therefore wears the rather tight size 4-5 T-shirt found at the bottom of her little sister's drawer.

 

At the school performance, Anthony gets an extra special show when the mother sitting right in front of him holds up her smartphone in camera mode to take pictures, but accidentally clicks on an album of naked photos of her crotch. My husband tells me he's not sure who she is, but he is sure she isn't the kind of person whose private parts he really wants to see in public -- or private, for that matter. After the unwanted groinal exposure (in a Catholic school no less), he goes on to enjoy Gigi and her classmates in a West Side Story medley. "I Want to Live in  America" sung in real French accents with fake Puerto Rican accents is my particular favorite. And, if you've ever had the thought while watching the Jets fight the Sharks that a bunch of theater boys dancing and singing is not the most terrifying of gang conflicts, you should see the entire thing staged by a bunch of fifth graders, including four in glasses, one slightly Aspberger's spelling savant, one on crutches, and one in a wheelchair.



The day before the free, outdoor hip hop show that the girls do for the Fête de la Musique on June 21st, we find out what the rest of the families have known all along, somehow: that there is another hip hop performance on the 30th. We are currently scrambling to get tickets, add it to our schedule, and figure out how to gracefully avoid going to the mandatory rehearsal on the 29th for which they have schedule conflicts.

 

At kermesse -- the end of year school carnival, I do some face painting, Gigi does her West Side Story medley and "Les Trois Girls" routine, and Pippa does her own class song and dance performance. We then literally run from the school over to the gymnastics gala, where they both perform. Pippa's group does a tango number which uses plastic roses I searched for in a panic a week ago and finally found at a local funeral home. Then we run home to rest up so Pippa can do a gymnastics competition early the next morning (and yes, thanks for asking, she does very well; she has improved so much from last year she is now one of the strongest, on a more advanced team).



I know we're not done yet, since there's still one more hip hop show, Gigi's theater class performance, and my own hula show at a restaurant (though I have to miss two other hula performances this week because of conflicts). Let's add in four birthday parties, visiting cousins, the final week of school, and last-minute summer vacation planning, and now it's a real Spectacle Debacle.

Old School

Once again, I chaperone kids up to the mairie (mayoral building) of the 5th arrondissement. This time, it is to bring Gigi's class to a celebration for finishing elementary school, a rite of passage in which they follow the time-honored French tradition of receiving a giant Le Robert book, which is mostly dictionary with elements of an encyclopedia and atlas as well. This is something nearly every French person has owned and used at some point.

Once again, the arrondissement puts out a spread (this time, the mayor informs us that everything is organic. Times, they are a changin', even in Paris). Since it is the children's goûter (snack), it is composed of sugary breads and chocolates. Woe to the gluten-intolerant Frenchman.

 

Once again, they are received in a grand hall but, unlike at Christmas or Mother's Day, this is the first time I have ever been here and heard absolutely no reference to anything Walt Disney. The mayor (not of Paris, but of the 5th, and none of the kids knows his name, mind you) is treated like a rock star and asked to sign many autographs.

 

Besides mentioning the organic origins of the snack, the other nod to modern life is that the mayor acknowledges the internet is a decent source for information; still, he is emphatic that there's nothing that can replace a reference book. And, truly, one of the nicest things about it is that it's something tangible they can take with them in the following steps. I have to admit I am finding it one of the coolest souvenirs of our time here. I can imagine Gigi with it on her shelves in college, or as a young adult. And while she may never need it, and it's impractically heavy, I bet she'll look up at least one word in there anyway and remember her elementary school in Paris.

 

 

20/20 Revision

When my daughters come home with 20/20 on a test or assignment, I think of it as 100%. And that's a fine comparison, but it stops there. Because when they come back with a 19/20, it is not the same as a 95%, and when they come back with a 10/20, it is not a 50% failing grade, either.

Throughout France, at all levels of schooling, a perfect grade starts at 20. For each mistake made, a point is taken off. At the teacher's discretion, minor errors (such as a forgotten accent on a word) might only merit half of a point deduction. So a 14 on my daughter's test means that she has made six errors, and it might be well above average, despite the fact that it looks like a C-. And in case you're wondering, the circled words are not errors, but rather conjugated verbs.

Gigi comes home the other day and informs me very excitedly that the class clown got a 3 on a test. The teacher was so proud of him, she gave him a candy reward. She tells me the whole class was excited for him when the scores were read out, because he normally gets a zero. I know: this introduces a few new concepts. Yes, scores can get down to zero. No matter how many things he gets right, he gets enough wrong to get down to nothing, and he's not the only one. Grades in the single digits are not at all uncommon. Sometimes, kids are allowed to correct their mistakes and earn back half the points lost.

The other thing about this that is very foreign, of course, is the reading out of scores. This would be so taboo in the US, but here it's just par for the course. Almost always, all of the children know what all of the other children receive as grades, in just about everything.

French Bull(dogs) and More

It's finally official: French kissing is now French. As of this year, it has finally made it into the French dictionary as its own word -- "galocher". French people are quick to point out that just because there wasn't a word for it before, it doesn't mean people didn't actually do it anyway.

But that begs the question: What other so-called "French" things are really French?

French Toast:

My aunt came to Paris and wanted French toast. It was remarkably difficult to translate, first of all. She tried "pain français" and "toast français" to no avail, since these translate in a French person's mind as simply French bread or plain old toast. What we call French toast is based on basically a bread-pudding thing the French make to use up stale bread. Hence the name "pain perdu" which means, literally "lost bread". While pain perdu is a real French thing, you rarely if ever, actually see it on a menu or in a bakery, and when you do, it's normally as a dessert, served with crème anglaise (English cream, which may or not be English).

French Dressing:

The sweet orange stuff that comes in a bottle and goes on your salad? Not French. (And, in my mind, not really dressing, either.) Actual French dressing -- as in the thing that usually covers the greens on your salad in a restaurant -- is a vinaigrette of oil and vinegar, maybe some Dijon mustard and herbs.

French Bulldogs, and while we're at it, French Poodles:

French bulldogs are bred from small, reject English bulldogs that came over with a wave of workers to Normandy in the 1800s. We almost never see French bulldogs here in Paris, though there must be some, somewhere, beyond this guy in his mariner shirt and beret. What we do see are a lot of Bichon Frisés, Shih Tzus, Beagles, and a few French Poodles, especially miniature, though these are not currently in fashion. These days, the main criteria for a Paris dog is that it's small, cute, and ideally fluffy. Or else, it's a Chihuahua.

 

 

Bulldog photo from: http://www.womansday.com/home/craft-ideas/darling-diy-dog-costumes-18403

French Braids:

Braids are called "traisses" here, and yes, the girls wear them, especially little girls and especially on the day they have swim class at school, when they have to put their own hair up into the swim caps. Mostly, they do not actually do French braids here but, rather, regular old braids à la Little House on the Prairie. Still, we do sometimes see (and do) French braids, and they are called, simply, "braids".

French Fries:

Gone may be the days of Freedom Fries, but French fries are here to stay. Yes, the French really do eat them. Of course, here they are simply called "fries". They are served at nearly every restaurant, with seemingly every meal. Okay, I exaggerate. But the point is, if you want a "steak-frites" (the classic meal of steak and fries), you won't have to look far. Most likely, any restaurant you choose will serve you fries. But not ketchup.

French Bread:

Of course it's French, but here it's just called "bread". The classic loaf that we call French bread can be ordered as a "baguette" which actually means stick (and, for example, is also used in the phrase "baguette magique" or "magic wand" and can also be used for "chopsticks"), and refers to the shape of the crusty bread, sticking out of its telltale paper bag.

French Press and, while we're at it, French Roast:

French roast is not actually French. It's just dark coffee that's named after the French, probably to invoke the romance of sitting in a café drinking coffee. Ironically, I am told by my most avid coffee-loving friends that French coffee is nothing to write home about. So, when they're using their subpar coffee beans to make their mediocre coffee, do they actually use a French press? I've never seen one, except the one at our own apartment that we brought with us from San Francisco. Pretty much everything here is espresso, made with espresso machines. So the French are not drinking French roast out of French presses, but rather Italian coffee out of Italian machines.
 

Chez Restaurant Simon Montpelier

This is a good indication our children have crossed over...to the French side. After so much traveling and eating out, they develop an obsession with restaurants and decide to create one in our house: Restaurant Simon Montpelier (named after a ghost in one of their favorite books, Which Witch?).

They create an elaborate menu that proves a high level of Frenchification and some serious innate foodieness. The girls actually make about 90% of the meal by themselves. And the service -- en français -- is like the friendliest, most adorable, but French-est waiters ever, complete with perfect accents, Gallic shoulder shrugs, and pouty lips. There's even a bread basket. Though I must admit that the kids are total crap when it comes to opening a wine bottle.

 

 

 

What's on the menu? It's long, and both abridged and translated here from the original French:

Menu Notre Dame:       Children's Menu:                             Menu Charlemagne:
Vegetable plate              Grilled salmon with thyme, walnuts   Foie gras with vinegar sauce
Chicken&gravy, potato  Onion soup                                         Duck confit, grated carrots, potato
Cheese plate                  2 scoops of ice cream                        Apple tart, berries, chocolate sauce

However, if you ever manage to get a coveted reservation here, we recommend the Menu Gastronome, as it is the only one offered with real -- instead of plastic/paper -- food:

The Menu Gastronome starts with the playfully named and executed entrée, conceived entirely by Gigi: a vegetable "tagliatelli" of cucumber and carrot, offered in rosettes with a honey dressing:

For the plat, served family style: lemony flounder filets breaded in a crunchy matzah-meal crust (finally! something to do with all that leftover matzah):

And for le dessert: chocolate fondue with fresh seasonal, organic fruit:

After a wonderful date night, Anthony and I rate the Restaurant Simon Montpelier 4.5 stars. On the plus side, the ambiance is lovely, with pleasant music played not too loudly and a great view. The meal is delicious -- truly. And the price can't be beat, as there is no bill. However, we do have to withhold half a star since in lieu of payment, the guests have to do the dishes.

 

Four Cs of Languedoc

If Normandy and the Dordogne can both be defined by their four Cs, why not Languedoc, in Southern France? It's the land of Carcassonne, Catharism, Collioure, and Catalan.

Catalan:

Our next Cathar fortress -- Salses -- doesn't have the pizazz of Carcassonne, especially since we are forced to take an hour-long tour in a French so thickly accented with Catalan that not even the girls or I can understand it. Well, we're pretty sure it's French.

 

In architecture as well as language, there's a definite Spanish/Moorish flavor here. I love the arches and doors at the 11th century Abbey de Fontfroide, where the assassination of a monk was the catalyst for the crusade that wiped out the Cathars (they were Christian -- just not Catholic):

    

Cathar castles:

 

Suffering from castle-overload, we only have the heart to visit one real Cathar castle, but it's a doozy -- the nearly unpronounceable Peyrepertuse, which was built high in the Pyrénées Orientales starting in the 11th century. It's pretty easy to see why it was a good defensive spot. It's practically impenetrable even with a car and admission tickets. In order to get up to the top, there is sweating, and some whining, involved.

 

 

Collioure:

The girls' favorite part of the whole trip is at the end: two really magical days in the Mediterranean beach town of Collioure. Anthony works on all-important rock-skimming techniques with the girls, and Pippa decides it is of utmost importance to collect every possible piece of sea glass. She goes at this task with the dedication of an athlete training for the Olympics. She is a champion sea-glass-finder. It's a charming town and, frankly, we are glad for the respite from education and castles -- so much so that we never even manage to step in the 800-year old Château Royal here, though we walk by it dozens of times and certainly photograph it enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SOME BONUS Cs: COLD & CLASSMATES:

In this unbelievably rainy and cold spring (throughout all of France), Collioure is a bright spot, quite literally. It's warm enough to hang out on the beach, but only a child could go further in the water than their ankles. I once got hypothermia (true, profound hypothermia) by scuba diving just a tiny bit further south from here in a Spanish small town with a big name -- Torroella de Montgrí i l'Estartit. And I'm not about to make that mistake twice. Don't believe what anybody says about the Mediterranean; if you want to swim, it's South Pacific all the way, baby. This sea is cold!

We are starting to feel like real Frenchies: We are about as far south as one can go and still be in France, over 800km from Paris, yet Gigi runs into a former Parisian classmate on the beach.

   

And now goodbye to the cultural Cs and the cold seas, and we're on our way back to the land of the four Ps: Paris, pollution, and pavement. Yes, I know that's only three.