Yes, We're OK

You may have heard the news -- a terrorist shooting in the Marais at the offices of a satire magazine, Charlie Hebdo. While it's true we live in the Marais, we were nowhere near the scene of the crime, so don't worry about us. But not everybody was so lucky. Anthony's boss lives right in that area, and his daughter's school is just buildings away, so he rushed home to be with his family.

 

You may already have read the full posting (and if  not, please visit A Year in Fromage).

 

As for today, here are a few small updates, beyond the signs we see in the windows:

 

 

The city is quieter than usual. And feels a bit weird. The rainy gray morning didn't help matters, but now it's sunny and blue and looks a little cheerier. Still, it's not its normal self.

 

Letters from both of the girls' schools: various security measures put in place. A moment of silence at noon, at which time the Bells of Notre Dame -- and churches around the city (probably the whole country) also ring out. Most flags at half mast.

Last of the 2014 Greetings

I realized I've been remiss about updating this blog. In the last month plus, I was working on completing my Year in Fromage and also getting the surgery to take out the breast cancer and put in the new replacement. Christmas preparations apparently took up the whatever small bit of my brainpower remained, and so I haven't updated here in a while.

Click here for a little glimpse at our year in review, because I still don't have the brainpower to write something at the moment. We're too busy purging old stuff to make room for the new stuff, enjoying the new Christmas toys and books, and meeting up with friends to take a break from our vacation with a cup of tea.

Happy Holidays, and may 2015 bring you health & happiness!
Love,
Kazz

In Case You Haven't Heard

I've been so open, I practically feel like I've advertised it on billboards, but in case you haven't heard, I have a little itty bitty case of not-to-panic breast cancer. You can get all the gory and not-so-gory details at A Year in Fromage -- and also see what cheese I've found to pair with it.

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.

Half-Naked Medical Party

Over at A Year in Fromage, I'm having a half-naked party. That's because it's time for my annual check-up, which means a slightly different dress code here in France. I go to the appointment expecting to strip down and put on the humiliating hospital gown. But in France, I simply strip down -- but only the necessary portion -- and hope the room is heated to my liking.

Click here to continue reading...

Cheesing It Up/ Hamming It Up

In case you haven't signed up yet for A Year in Fromage or haven't remembered to check it out lately, I just thought I'd give you some of the latest cheese highlights of my life. My life has become very, very cheesy indeed:

Where can you buy French cheese outside of France? I've researched some of the best spots in some of the big cities, but you all need to help each other out by adding on your own favorite cheese-store sources in the comments.

How can you be polite about your cheese course? Well, first of all, don't chew with your mouth open. But for more cheese-specific advice, check out the posting.

And what are the most beautiful cheeses in my opinion?

As for these "letters home" from my Family by the Seine, I just wanted to let you know that I've recently crossed over 30,000 views, which actually feels quite satisfying as I sit here typing and overlooking the gray river on a dreary, rainy day.

We are back, safely and happily, from a wonderful trip in Senegal. When we arrived home, my brother and sister-in-law were already installed in our apartment, and we're enjoying their visit quite a lot -- the only downside being that with my brother here, I find myself with very few leftovers to use for my lunch the next day. Except for cheese. Even my brother couldn't finish the massive cheese platter.

It may be a few weeks till I get to filter through the 2000 or so pictures I took in Africa and write up our adventure, but in the meantime, you can sign up at Family in Senegal so that you'll automatically receive the stories once they're posted. But here's a little teaser: Anthony and I were fully jealous of our own daughters, even as we were having the experience with them. We just kept saying to each other, "This is nothing like any New Year's Eve party I ever got to go to as a kid..."

 

 

Shock Before the Culture

We are in Senegal for the last half of Christmas vacation, spending the New Year there. We figure that while we're over in Europe, it's relatively close, so it would be as cheap as it's every going to be. Ha!

In this case, what comes before culture shock is sticker shock. The plane tickets are expensive, despite using mileage for most of them. But that's now what's so shocking. It's the visas (52.50€ each), then the mandatory yellow fever vaccinations (66€) each, and the anti-malaria pills (60€ each).

For our family of four, that comes to:
visas: $288 total
vaccinations: $365 total
anti-malaria pills: $329 total

That's $982 before we even leave France. Yikes! Had we actually realized that before we bought our plane tickets and made our plans, we might have reconsidered. Oh well...as they say, once in a lifetime and all that. But I can think of more enjoyable ways to spend our vacation money than shots, pills, and bureaucracy.

Happy New Year (and may your unpleasant incidentals come to far less than this...)!

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

Worst Parent Ever (Me)

I just did the WORST PARENTING MOVE EVER -- crossed a street with the girls through (stopped) traffic and not at the cross walk -- and watched Pippa get hit by a motorcycle. Oh how I wish I were kidding. Before you panic, she is fine. Nothing broken. No permanent damage. She does have a little neck-ache, though.

 

The motorcycle was going about 5-10mph between a row of stopped cars, and she mostly just bounced off the plastic on the side. She did not hit her head, and got up immediately, without a bruise on her body. It frankly seems less severe than the time she hurt her neck doing the vault at gymnastics, about a month ago. When distracted, she doesn't seem that bad off, but still, she does have a stiff neck. She is SO angry at me. And with good reason. Anthony and myself are so angry at me, too.

I am normally extremely safety conscious, so this was out of character and just beyond stupid. When it happened last night, I was somewhat numb, because the self-loathing that was completely flooding me was neutralized by the simultaneous relief and joy in seeing that she wasn't hurt in any major way. Around 5:30 this morning, however, what I mostly felt was the self-loathing.

We made it through last night. She woke up briefly a couple times because of her neck, so I'm the one who got the bad night sleep. Pretty hard to sleep like a baby when you almost got your own baby killed. Yikes. That means that today I am exhausted, and guilt-ridden, but also nearly ecstatic. Given my theory of alternate universes, I am so, so, so thrilled that I get to live in the universe where my daughter is in the next room singing, playing, laughing, and goofing off with a long-lost San Francisco friend. She's twisting and moving and not even thinking of her neck -- when I'm not around, that is. But I really can't begrudge my most dramatic child any amount of rubbing it in when I am around. Needless to say, I am in the doghouse, and she's a big fan of Daddy for the moment.

So since this isn't funny and doesn't do much to enlighten you about Paris (other than to warn you that this is a city where you really should cross with the light at the crosswalks!), why am I publicly shaming myself by telling you this story? A) to give you the news B) to serve as a cautionary tale, and C) because I know I fully deserve it.

 

Sticker Shock/ Sticker Joy

I go to the local dry-cleaner/tailor and am quoted 78€ (about $100) to replace the zipper on a kid's denim jacket. It's as if I suddenly don't speak French, because I have to ask, re-ask, and repeat the number half a dozen times. Finally, needing to confirm that I'm not just misunderstanding something, I ask, "Soixante-dix-huit? The digits 7 then 8?" The jacket itself probably didn't cost me more than $3, because I'm pretty sure I bought it at Goodwill in the first place.

So what else causes Sticker Shock in Paris, even after a couple years here?:

Children's shoes: boots, for example -- the kind a girl might wear with leggings and a dress, leather-style (though probably not real leather) and not super-well made -- start around 80€, over $110, in the stores, and many hover at 100€ or about $135. In the U.S., for $80, I could get the girls a much better-made pair. But this isn't the sort of thing that can easily be bought over the internet and brought in somebody's luggage. They need to try it on and like it.

Granted, I live in an expensive area, but still, does 6€, or about $8 for a cup of tea seem reasonable? We are talking, after all, about a cup of hot water, with a tea bag that costs less than 10¢ at full retail price (so, what, 5¢ wholesale?). I don't like coffee, so I'm always stuck when we stop at the café ordering an $8 cup of tea, hot milk, or hot chocolate.

Housing: This is Paris, after all. At the moment, places in good neighborhoods rent for around 36€ per square meter, which works out to about $5/sq. ft per month. This is less shocking when moving to Paris from San Francisco, frankly, where places rent for about $3.70 (measured against averages at one point during 2013). But even we are a little stunned by the prices to buy something. About $800,000 for a 400 sq. ft. studio? But I want three bedrooms. Uh, maybe in the next life.

And let's not even get into fish pills (seen at over $100 for a small bottle), dental floss (about $7 at the admittedly overpriced pharmacy below us), or chocolate chips (about $5 for 100g, which is about 1/2 cup, or only half as much as I need to bake a batch of cookies). Seen below is the approximately $205 worth of Costco-sized chocolate chip bags that people have brought to us from the US. Actual Costco total for both: $23. And now you know why we've asked you to bring these in your luggage.

On the other hand:

There's private school. When I sign Gigi up for her new school next year, they tell me that in addition to the $1800 private school annual tuition, there is an extra $1800 fee for the special program they offer for native English speakers (extra hours, at native Anglophone level, paid entirely by parents of the children in the program). Apparently, my face registers no shock, horror, or concern over the additional annual fee, so they assume I don't understand and keep repeating the amount to me: total $3600 -- annually. The same $3600 would be approximately the monthly charge for private school in San Francisco, per child. This is Sticker Shock in reverse. It's Sticker Joy.

The girls' gymnastics program also gives me Sticker Joy. For 730€, or just under $1000, both girls will do three days per week, plus competitions, for the whole school year. Pippa will be doing 7-9 hours per week, and Gigi will be at 6, and there are 35 weeks, with a few days off thrown in, so roughly 475 gym hours total. For just $1000. What will $2 per hour buy for child care and children's activities (especially good quality ones) in the U.S.? I don't know: I think you'd have to go back to 1964 to find out.

Other things that cost shockingly, joyfully little:

Babysitters -- roughly $10/hour, vs. $15-20 in San Francisco, which is, officially, the most expensive city in the U.S. for babysitting.

Kids' clothing -- lovely French fashion, and while prices can, of course, be astronomical for high-fashion, the basic play-clothes kind of stores are no more expensive than the U.S. And with sales, prices get quite low indeed (3-7€ for regular play/school clothes, for example, by the end of the sales).

 

Medical care -- Pippa hurts her foot badly enough at one point that we decide to get it X-rayed for stress fractures (none, it turns out). Before any insurance reimbursements, the full cost we pay for it is 75€, around $100. Quite affordable. And then we get nearly all of it back from the insurance company, anyway. And a month of prescription levothyroxine which costs $10 in the U.S. after insurance costs only $3 here at full price.

Coffee -- if only I liked it. Quick coffee (espresso) nearly anywhere is 1.5 - 2€. A slow, lingering espresso at a lovely French café? About 2 - 2.5€.

Bread -- roughly 1.5€ ($2) for an incredibly great loaf of bread, and less than that for a fabulous pain au chocolat or croissant. Bread products here are subsidized by the government in the way that milk is in the U.S., to keep prices reasonable (and regulated). Better and cheaper than in America. Sigh.




 

All Aboard the Penmanship

If you're American, then like me, you probably remember learning how to write your cursive letters in 3rd grade. That's what they do in California public schools still today, to a lesser degree. But in some US states, they no longer teach cursive at all; according to a recent article that went out on the AP wire, 45 states are considering standards that don't require cursive at all.

Well, in France, it starts in kindergarten (Grande Section) -- and remember that children are younger here in each grade, since the cutoff is Dec 31 (with no redshirting, or voluntary holding back of the younger children). That means that children go into kindergarten as young as 4 years and 9 months, and during that school year, they are expected learn some cursive, certainly at least enough to write their own names. By the end of 1st grade (called CP), they are writing exclusively in cursive for their assignments.

What makes it even more challenging for our girls is that they are not always writing their cursive homework with ballpoint pens. Often, they use calligraphy-style pens with ink cartridges and nibs. This is not by choice; it's a school requirement, beginning in the middle of 2nd grade (called CE1).

 

 

The French are very exacting about how cursive is learned and written; thus, there is a very distinctive French penmanship. I can tell French handwriting at a single glance. My own is most definitely American. There are some letters that were taught to me differently than how my daughters learn them. There are other letters where I just do whatever comes fastest and easiest, whether it's "official" cursive or not.

For the letters, the girls' writing looks French, but it's universally legible. For the numbers, however, they have to worry about the fact that their 1s look like American 7s. It's a problem when writing out phone numbers or numbers. Then again, it's all a matter of perspective; they think some of my own letters are bizarre. Notice the differences between the French (top chart) and American (bottom chart) uppercase A, G, H, I, J, N, Q, S, X, and Z, along with the lowercase P and number 1.

 

For people who say kids younger than 3rd grade are too young for cursive, here is an assignment written at age 7 and 1/2 (and yes, the francophones among you will notice many errors, but see how pretty it looks!):

 

My mother, who used to teach at the university level (in the school of education, forming future teachers), said that she was stunned at the block-printing her students would use for essays. Not only did it look childish, it also was slow and laborious. For notetaking, it's a complete disaster.

 

I've always thought that our girls learning cursive is a great thing; I had my own completely unfounded opinion that, like learning to crawl before walking, writing cursive must do something beneficial to the brain. Well, it turns out to be true. There's an interesting article published in Psychology Today about it, and the crux of it says:

In the case of learning cursive writing, the brain develops functional specialization that integrates both sensation, movement control, and thinking. Brain imaging studies reveal that multiple areas of brain become co-activated during learning of cursive writing of pseudo-letters, as opposed to typing or just visual practice.

There is spill-over benefit for thinking skills used in reading and writing. To write legible cursive, fine motor control is needed over the fingers. Students have to pay attention and think about what and how they are doing it. They have to practice. Brain imaging studies show that cursive activates areas of the brain that do not participate in keyboarding.

So, difficult as it is, in our family, we don't curse the cursive. We are 100% on board the penmanship.

Pride, Finally

I thought the last posting on gay marriage would be my last, but now with the Gay Pride parade marching right by my island and coming on the heels (often very high heels) of the U.S. Supreme Court rulings, I simply cannot resist.

 

 

This year, the marchers are proud to fly the French flag freely alongside the rainbow flag. And I must say that I'm pretty proud of the Supreme Court (well, 56% of it anyway!) and am not surprised to see more pro-American sentiment than might have otherwise been expected.

 

Some of my favorite signs of the times:

 

 

"Liberty, Equality, Secularism" and a float promoting condom usage that says "Liberty, Equality, Protected" and sounds better in French.

  

 

 

"Fascism, even for sexual orientation, is not French." And Renault's commercial attempt to jump-on-the-band(station)wagon, with the slogan "Cars for all" mirroring the gay rights slogan "Marriage for all."

 

 

 

Some winners from what I call the religious correct (as opposed to the religious right): "God loves us all (men and women)", "We read the bible gaily", and "Jesus also had two mothers." But my very favorite sign of the parade:

"God is a black lesbian." And why not?

I'm not only proud to be American, and proud to be a gay marriage and gay rights supporter, I have to say this float walking by, complete with rainbow chuppah being carried by yarmulke-wearers, makes me proud of my liberal Jewish heritage, too.

 

And, not to be outdone, my husband's Christian upbringing is represented. Here, the American Cathedral's float makes me proud of their Americanism and their very christian (distinct from Christian) openness.

 

 

I don't know if my support of gay marriage stems from my liberal upbringing, my moral values which not only tolerate but celebrate diversity, or the fact that I have good gay and lesbian friends. But sometimes I suspect it's just my love of colors, choreography, theatrics, and flamboyance in general.

 

One thing that's very nice about Paris Pride as opposed to San Francisco Pride is that you can actually get up to the edge of the parade and wander about fairly freely. It is crowded and lively, and I don't have the official numbers, but it feels like the crowd must be 1/10 the size here. However, that doesn't mean Paris doesn't have some of the same characters, even down to the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, here indulging in a very French cigarette and sneer.

 

  

 Let's not forget the drag queens...

   

...and in one case, the drag Queen of England....

 

...or the men in uniform. Any uniform. I am thoroughly entertained by the UNIFS's slogan: "Guys in uniforms, and those that love them."  

 

 

Not to be confused with these guys, who are honestly guys in uniforms -- the guards patrolling the parade to keep everything safe. At least I think they're the real deal. But they are pretty darn hot. 

 

 

What kind of a place is this to bring children? A mighty fine one, mostly. Very colorful and friendly.

 

 

Of course, Gigi is a little confused by the guy in zippered leather bikini briefs (perhaps he thinks he's in San Francisco at the Folsom Street Fair, which makes a Pride parade look positively tame). She is also confused when the guy giving out free condoms very pointedly passed her by; it may be the first time in her life that being a cute kid has NOT earned her free swag. It gives me the fun opportunity to explain what a condom is and does. The fact is, there are lots of men here in not much more than underwear -- and skimpy French underwear at that. Of course, some of it is rather skimpier -- and more Folsom Fair -- than others.

 

  

She's not the only kid here, though. In some ways, it's business as usual. With a lot of rainbows. People drink their canned beverages, hang out with their loved ones, and chat on cell phones -- at least when the electronic club music is not blaring so loud it makes your heart thump. Isn't that nice, though? That gay pride, and gay marriage, should have attained this degree of normalcy? Someday it will be downright boring. But the parade itself won't be.