The Eurovision Factor

Drumroll please...It's time for the 59th annual Eurovision contest: the Europe-wide hunt for the best, newest, freshest, and undoubtedly cheesiest new song and performer from each country. We have Eurovision to thank (or blame) for ABBA (1974, Sweden, "Waterloo") and Céline Dion (1988, for the song "Ne Partez Pas Sans Moi", representing Switzerland despite being Canadian. I call shenanigans). It's like the Oscars, the X Factor, the Olympics, and the Miss America pageant all rolled together, with more fog machines and floor lighting and almost no commercial breaks (God, I love Europe sometimes!).

 

 

If you're feeling at all fabulous, festive, morbidly curious, or feel the need to see identical twins, dairy maidens, teeter totters, ice skating, Matlese country singers, and/or transvestites. you really need to see the videos and read the scoop at A Year in Fromage.

 

Let's Clear the Air

They say there's something magic in the air in Paris. Well, if so, it's black magic at the moment.
Have you heard that there's an air pollution alert in Paris? I think it hit world news, but if you were here, you would not even need to read the news to know it. Frankly, it's the first time in three years of living here that I've seen the air around me -- actually, physically seen it.

 

While the worst of it seems to be over, we've had a couple relapses even since I posted this over at A Year in Fromage, where you can read and see (or not see -- it's pretty hazy) more about it.

What's Your Arrondissement?

As every Parisian adult knows, and every Parisian school-child learns, the arrondissements in Paris are shaped like a snail, with arrondissements 1-5 forming the heart of the city. Sure, I recently used this same map for a different posting. But I'm finding it's coming in handy yet again...



When we were planning our move to Paris, we had thought of living in the 6th or 7th, where the schools are known to be good, till one of our good friends, a Frenchman who had lived in Paris himself, quietly appraised me and said, "You're not a 6th or 7th sort of person." They're lovely places to live, and it seems like most expats choose these neighborhoods over all others. But he was 100% right; I'm just not 6th or 7th enough.

Every breakdown and guide to Paris' arrondissements I've seen focuses on the tourist sites in each area. But if you live here, what does your arrondissement say about you? The answer's here at A Year in Fromage.


 

It's Not All Romance

When I look out my window or walk around my neighborhood, I see gorgeous old buildings that look just like the Paris of your dreams. But this, too, is Paris...

 

To read more about "inner" vs. "outer" Paris, and to see the not-so-romantic buildings in my life, check out the posting, This Too Is Paris.

And to see everything from Senegal's glorious color to its goats and from the garbage to the giraffes, check out Family In Senegal.

Coffee & Cheese

Forget about coffee & tea, coffee & cream, coffee & donuts. This is the new combo. Yes, it's coffee & stinky cheese.



Remember how I talked about things that are a good deal here in France? That give me sticker joy?Well, dishware is one of those things. Santa brought me some lovely bowls this Christmas, and I just bought mugs to match. I was getting so sick of the mismatched mugs left in this apartment. My friend Sarah has always said she pities me that I don't like coffee, since to her every morning's cup feels like Christmas morning. Well, she shouldn't pity me too much, because that's how I feel about a great cup of tea (ideally, with milk and sugar). The girls and I are fully addicted to a new fancy Mariage Frères flavor, with the unfortunate name of "American Breakfast Tea." There's nothing American about it; it's got hints of malt and caramel, it's strong, and divine.

So that tea in my new mugs? The only thing I can think of more cheerful than writing a big "Yippee!" is a photo of my new mugs and bowls. Click here to read more....

 

Rats Love Farmers' Markets

So those of you who've checked out A Year in Fromage will have noticed that you're already familiar with some of the material. Yup, it's true: You have been my guinea pigs. But not my dead rats. For those, you'll need to check out the new material on A Year in Fromage, but I wanted to make sure you knew about it here:

There are not one but two taxidermy shops right by Pippa's elementary school. Even after two years in Paris, and with her new middle school big-girl status, Gigi still refuses to look in the windows, much less the stores. So I guess I won't be taking her by Aurouze, which Anthony and I happened upon recently while walking through the 1st arrondissement. With twenty gorgeous nearly-antique dead sewer rats hanging in the window from the same number of nearly-antique traps, it's quite a sight to behold. These are 91-year old dead rats, and I know this almost-precisely because the sign proudly proclaims, "Captured around 1925 at Les Halles."



Click here to read more...

And another story that will be new to you, and is much more appetizing:

These pretty pears, with the tips of stems dipped in bright red wax are Passe-Crassane. Why the wax? To cauterize the end and prevent dehydration. They remind me of the beautiful $100 melons I used to occasionally receive as a gift when I lived in Japan, but less uniformly perfect. Forget about the occasional Bosc (how boring), here we buy Guyot Rosée, Comice Extra, Packam, Conference, William Rouge, Abate, and others I can't even name.

 

 

Click here to read more

Chocolate Chip Champion

My friend Mei and I like to champion here in Paris (and abroad) that ugliest but perhaps most delicious of desserts: the American cookie.

The first year of gymnastics regionals, Gigi's team got 13th out of 13. The second year, when she came home with a 9th place, Anthony congratulated her enthusiastically...until she told him there had only been 9 teams. Well, much like this, I fancy myself quite a delicious cookie maker, but then I only have a couple really good non-French friends here, and the only other American's cookies I've tried are Mei's. And, objectively speaking, hers are better than mine. So there may only be two contestants, but I'm the Silver Medal Champion Cookie Maker of My Paris!

And my cookies do whoop the pants off any chocolate chip cookies I've tried that were made by any French person. I have to admit that the cookies I make here also whoop the pants off the cookies I make in San Francisco, and I've figured out the secret: I use all-American ingredients except the butter. French butter has less water in it, and is generally richer and more unctuous, and the cookies are all the better for it.

If you're wondering why there are so many cookies on my counters, and why some of them are upside down, there's a logical explanation for both. Gigi likes me to make her cookies for her class for her birthday. She's in a class of 29 kids, plus a teacher, and I feel like everybody should have at least a couple cookies. So you do the math: that makes a whole lot of cookies, which I must mix by hand -- no KitchenAid stand mixer. It's better than a gym workout for the upper arms, except that I eat more calories worth of raw dough than I burn.

And why upside down? Along with no stand mixer, I also don't have a cooling rack, and I've discovered that putting them bumpy side down allows them to cool without getting soggy, as the steam can find nooks and crannies through which to escape.

Sure, I could buy chocolate chip cookies. There is a cute little shop on our island called "Anne's" which sells single, regular-sized (say, 3" diameter) cookies for 2.7€ -- or about $3.50 -- each. Meanwhile, I can go to Thanksgiving (the store in the nearby Marais neighborhood, not the holiday) and find critically important ingredients for not too much money, including real light brown sugar for under 4€ and baking soda for just a couple more. Still infinitely cheaper than buying at Anne's, where we would need to take out a second mortgage in order to buy a couple dozen cookies.

 

The expensive ingredients are the real liquid vanilla and the chocolate chips, and I have cabinets full of both, thanks to a steady stream of visitors. However, I refuse to make chocolate chip cookies for any of my visitors from the States. I only make them for other ex-pats who need a taste of home and for French-people who, I must tell you, are completely won over by this ugly-but-delicious American dessert.

Coming Home

No, it's not what you're thinking. We're just back from a fall vacation to sunny Spain, and upon our arrival we see the obligatory airport sign that says "Bienvenue à Paris," but we think it should just say "Welcome Home." It certainly feels like we've come home, and I feel it more strongly than ever. Driving through the streets of Paris, it feels familiar, comfortable, and just as much like "home" as any place else to me. We've been here over two years, and I love all the things that have become a normal part of my life: the rippling waters of the Seine from my desk, our neighborhood markets, the view of Notre Dame, the leaves turning yellow along the quai, fresh croissants from the boulangerie, the walk to the metro stop through medieval streets, my dance class, tea with friends, and even -- slightly, affectionately -- the way our water heater occasionally conks out for no known reason while someone's in the middle of a shower (the sound of the scream sends us with matches to reignite the pilot light).

I have to say that I feel more at home in Paris than anyplace else I've ever lived, with the exception of San Francisco. Even having spent around six years in Tokyo in my twenties, I never felt like that was home in the same way. That's understandable, perhaps, given the linguistic, cultural, and racial barriers, and also because I was there when I was young and single. Here, I've got a real family life, and friends and community through schools, activities, work, and neighborhood.

Home is where the heart is, where the family is, and where the comfortable pillow is. Vacations to exotic places are wonderful, but it's also nice coming back to our simple ole' home by the Seine.

Absolutely, Postively Overnight

"When it absolutely, positively has to be there overnight," says the classic Fed-Ex slogan. Or, in this case, when it absolutely, positively has to get there, sometime, or perhaps not at all.

Several weeks after Anthony was FedExed an important check from a lawyer in the US to close out his father's accounts, he called to find out where it could possibly be. It was traced to Paris, where it appeared to be languishing in some depot for weeks. Finally, they were able to track it down: It had arrived in Paris and been given to the third-party delivery messenger, who had promptly been carjacked but failed to report it back to FedEx. Whether he was carjacked or "carjacked", the check has since been canceled, and for attempt #2, the money will just be wired.

While being carjacked is, indeed, a fluke, our mail failing to arrive is not a fluke. Mail -- even registered mail -- has disappeared on us several times before. On the other hand, when Anthony accidentally returned to France with my passport, he was able to overnight it back to me at a remote former-monastery outside of Florence.

It's a sad day when rural Italian infrastructure beats out that of urban Paris. So FedEx can get here:

 

But not here?:

 

Needless to say, our junk mail and all the donation solicitations from Princeton are arriving like clockwork.

Faster than a Bullet

It's a plane! It's a train! Actually, it is a train. And it's not really faster than a bullet. Or even a bullet train. But it is, in fact, very super. It's the train system throughout France, and Europe, and we've made good use of it, especially thanks to our "Carte Enfant +" which is a card we buy in Pippa's name for 70€. It lasts one year, can be re-purchased annually till she's 12, and means that up to four people who travel with her by train get a discount -- minimum 25% and often 50% -- on rides in France. There are other discount tickets available (frequent business traveler, retiree, large family, etc). The prices can be so low, they're shocking.

 

For example, our two hour train ride to Normandy costs me and the girls about 30€. They're not all this cheap, of course, but it's still a great way to travel -- and nearly always cheaper and faster than going by car. Just this summer alone, the girls and I trained to Normandy, Paris, Avignon, Cinque Terre Italy, Florence, night train back from Munich to Paris, Auxerre Burgundy, Joigny Burgundy, Paris, Bretagne, Paris, Aigle Switzerland, and one final trip back to Paris. Anthony flew or trained to meet us and travel with us for various parts of it, but had to work, so we often came through Paris for the weekends he couldn't join us. It was a confusing and utterly exhausting summer, to say the least.

 

 

All that train time means snacks at the train station, snacks on the train, card games, story time, snuggle time, sleep time, video games, and even the occasional (mild) motion sickness.

 

 

While most of our trips are on the high-speed TGV (in general running up to 320kmph or 200mph), our trip to Avignon is on the new Ouigo train. It's equally high-speed, is owned by the national train lines, but is being positioned as the People's Express/Southwest Airlines of French trains in terms of pricing. The downside of the Ouigo is that the "local" station is not actually in Paris but rather a half hour train ride outside of the city at Disneyland, and you have to wait on a long line to check in. It only runs to a few cities, but they are key ones down South. The upside is the price of the tickets: the trains are clean, fast, and comfortable, children cost 5€ each at all times, and my ticket costs 30€ -- for a 3-hour high speed train ride all the way across the country. My ticket would only have cost 10€ if I hadn't been picky about the time and day.

 

As we train around Europe, our girls recognize many of the names from one of our favorite board games. We call it "the Train Game," but its real name in English is "Ticket to Ride," and the French name is "Les Aventuriers du Rail" (Adventurers by Rail).

 

 

After all those train rides, we feel like we really need a vacation from our vacation. But exhausting and exhaustive as our summer travels are, we remain thrilled by how much better it is to travel by train than by plane. Even in 2nd class, we're traveling in style.

Swanny River

The "Ile aux Cygnes," which means Swan Island, sits in the middle of the Seine, on the Western edge of Paris, between the 15th and 16th arrondissements. If you want to see our local Statue of Liberty, that's the place to go. But if it's the swans you're looking for, you should come by our island -- Ile Saint Louis.

 

I know, I know, don't feed the birds, but I have to say that the kids love coming here with stale bread chunks.

 

Once walking on the right bank, I see six swans flying in formation over our island, winging their way over the Seine. Even the Parisian friend I'm walking with says, "I've never seen that before." And that's saying something.
 

In With a Bang

In with a squirt: Pippa welcomes our Bay Area friends to Paris, and France, and Europe by squirting them from our balcony with a water gun upon their arrival one hot afternoon. James and Trina dub it the "Best Welcome Ever," but, alas, Pippa is to hold the crown for less than 24 hours.

In with a bang: The morning after their arrival, we train down to Avignon together, where we will be staying as the guests at the rather wonderful villa of James and Trina's business associates/new friends. We arrive not only to a beautiful villa with a swimming pool, but also to three succulent chickens roasting on the grill, served with some great local cheeses and wine and sparkling conversation. After dinner, the villa's owners drive away, leaving us as kings of the castle. It's heaven and, upon reflection, slightly outshines a water gun and a fold-out sofa bed.

  

In with a thwack: From the villa, it's a quick drive to the medieval Château des Baux, where we all try shooting crossbows. The arrows go in with a satisfying thwack, and nearly all of us at least hit the target.

 

Out with a bang: At the 1100 year-old château, James gets to help wind up the second largest trebuchet in the world (the first being by Loch Ness in Scotland) and then be the one to pull the "trigger" rope, sending a volleyball to its untimely and rather explosive end. He volunteers extremely enthusiastically -- and explains medieval armature to Trina, myself, and the children in such detail -- that I am once again reminded of the difference between boys and girls. As with Anthony in la Dordogne last year, it's also fun to see James'  12-year old self emerge at the prospect of a day spent as a knight.

In with a clang: After the château, we continue our day of testosterone at the 2000 year-old Roman arena in Arles, where the clanging and grunting and sweating (and even occasional bleeding) of gladiators is alive and well. It's fun to think that this was already a thousand year old ruin when the thousand year old château was just being built.

 

 

While there are no deaths, we do notice at the meet-and-greet-and-try-on-equipment afterwards that the main gladiator (the guy holding the pitchfork in the photo) has a mangled, swollen, and bloody hand. All of them have battle scars on their backs, legs, and arms. They take this seriously.

 

 

 

In with a splash: 2000 years ago, while gladiators were battling it out in the arena, the Romans also built this amazing aqueduct, the Pont du Gard. The engineering is impressive for any era: It is the highest of all existing Roman aqueducts. It drops 2.5cm, or just under one inch, over the span of the bridge, and just 17m (56ft) over the entire span from neighboring village Uzès to its ultimate goal in Nîmes about 50km (31 miles) away.



The bridge was built to bring water to the people, but two millennia later, it's bringing people to the water. Besides boatloads of kayakers -- both literally and figuratively -- there are also swimmers and cliff-jumpers. It's hard to beat this as a backdrop for a place to cool off in a heat wave. I wonder what the Romans would think of it all?