Third -- and I Hope Final -- Day

The full post -- days 1, 2, and 3 of this whole awful episode in Paris is at A Year in Fromage. But in case you've already read it, here's just the update from today:



DAY 3: Out with Gigi at the Bastille, and we see a convoy of 16 police vehicles racing by with sirens blaring. In fact, the city has an almost constant hum of sirens.

 

The hostages have been taken, and now the texts I'm getting from Anthony are about how his building is in lock-down mode. This BBC map, modified by somebody Anthony works with, will show you why:

Our kids still have school today, but with full security measures in place. Even at the middle school dismissal, they are now asking each individual child where they live and judging if the route home will be safe. After all, at the time of dismissal, there are still hostages being held, and all of the gunmen are at large. I've never seen so many parents at pick-up.

The streets are just covered with machine-gun-toting, bulletproof-vest-wearing police and military. There's even the Protection Civile, which I understand to be akin to the National Guard. I've never even see these blue and orange uniforms or trucks before.

 

 

And everywhere, everywhere, the signs of solidarity.

Now it's dark -- Friday night at 11pm as I'm writing this. The weather is nice -- mild and dry. But I have never, ever heard the streets so quiet, especially not on a Friday night. All the neighborhood cafés are closed. In fact, it is so unbelievably still that I actually research to see if the city has instituted a curfew (appropriately called a "couvre-feu" or "fire-cover"). The gunmen have been killed; the remaining hostages -- those that weren't murdered -- have been freed. No curfew, but I think everybody is just hunkered down at home, breathing easier but still happy to be inside.

And I hope -- I hope! -- that this is the end of the updates for this post.

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.

Getting Romantic in the City of Romance

I've been horrible -- horrible! -- about posting here, because it's been, well, quite a month. So I hope you've been keeping up over at A Year in Fromage. If not, here are two recent postings on love and romance (and dead fish) in Paris.

All you've ever wanted to know about the love locks popping up -- Whack-a-Mole-style - everywhere in Paris. And in the world.

And a wedding album like no other, mostly because it's a collection taken over the years from my local perspective. And also, because Anthony, the girls, and I just can't resist taking our own.

 

An Inconvenient Truth

This convenience store, called 8 to Eight, is open Monday through Saturday, 8am till 7pm, except for from 12:30 till 3:30, and not at all on Wednesday afternoons, or on Sundays. So not when you're generally not working, or hungry, at breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Very convenient indeed.



To see more about what I am failing to accomplish because nothing is open when I need it to be, check out A Year in Fromage.

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.

 

May Day!

It's May 1st, May Day, and that can only mean two things: 1) lilies of the valley, and 2) nearly everything is closed. OK, I exaggerate. A couple stores are actually open and do not have a sign in the door saying "specially closed on May 1st", but seemingly 99% of Paris is off-school, off-work, and off-duty -- except the people selling lilies of the valley on the streets.



If you want to know about one of the stinkiest cheeses known to mankind, or learn more about this holiday, and help me create the inevitable holiday to celebrate the official 35-hour work week here in France; or the 4-day school week; or the 6-weeks-on/ 2-weeks-off school schedule, check out A Year in Fromage.

Puppet Regime

Is Obama a puppet? According to the French Guignols de l'Info -- News Puppets -- he sure is. It's funny stuff, and the French have been skewering us, themselves, and just about everybody else in the world for twenty years in this way. See more at A Year in Fromage.

No-Names

There's a French comedy movie called Le Prénom that takes place entirely in a living room, after one of the brothers says that he's naming his new baby "Adolf". There are some names you won't hear in France -- read about it at A Year in Fromage.

About Time

Long ago, you've heard me complain about the wonky clock on my cell phone (it turns out I was the one who was wonky, and just didn't know how to set it). But now that I know about a little historical tidbit called French Revolution Time, my wonky clock seems like child's play. Go ahead, just try to wrap your mind around all this clock conversion math at A Year in Fromage.

photo from: http://io9.com/5886129/the-short-strange-history-of-decimal-time

Four Bulletins & A Snafu

Bulletin #1 -- a language one:

I know we've been living in France for a while now because the girls are speaking strange franglais.  Their latest: Pippa talks about all the science experiences she's doing in school. At which point Gigi yells, "experiments! Experiments!" At which point I point out that Gigi recently says that if she doesn't get a good grade for something she'd worked really hard on, it will be "a big deception." At which point I correct "disappointment! Disappointment!"

Also, Gigi talks about the book Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Uzbekistan. Perhaps she's not hearing quite enough English.

Bulletin #2 --  a gym one:

I realize it looks like I'm being one of those bragging parents who keeps pointing out my children's accomplishments, but I swear it's because I myself am amazed. They're doing stuff in gymnastics that I was never able to do, and learning and progressing so quickly it's crazy. So just know that this honestly is not coming from a place of vanity. It's coming from a place of pure jealousy, frankly. I so wish I could have done this when I was their age! And I harbor no illusions about them being Olympians or even serious competitors in the States. The level here is lower, and mostly recreational, and they're not fanatical about pointing toes and straightening legs. But still, I'm impressed.

Bulletin #3 -- a yummy one:

Near the Bourse, on and around rue Saint-Anne, I have finally found the Japantown part of Paris. I feel like the food here is better and more authentic-tasting, relatively speaking, than Parisian Chinese food. Having lived in both Japan (for many years) and Taiwan, I feel like I can say this with some authority. It fills a craving in a huge way for ramen and gyoza, and it's delicious, but it's still not as good as actually eating Japanese food in Tokyo. Naturally.

 

 

Bulletin #4 -- a bureaucratic one:

It turns out my latest carte de séjour had the wrong expiration date on it -- months earlier than it should be. Luckily, I look at my card a week or so before that date, and I manage to get my paperwork in just in the nick of time. Of course, that means I don't have a valid card for several months until the bureaucratic wheels (powered by Flintstone woodpeckers) have approved my legal status and manufactured and delivered my new card. That's OK: I don't carry it with me, ever since the multiple pickpocketing incidents, and I've never been asked to provide it, anyway.

And the snafu -- or is it?:

We still don't know where we'll be next school year, but we do know the girls will not be back at their school in San Francisco: The school didn't have any vacancies for them! By staying away more than two years, we lost our automatic, guaranteed spots, and the school had record-low attrition. With no available spots to give, we can't be insulted at all, got a really nice personalized note, and still love the school. We are not devastated. Those of you who know me know that a) I have been gunning to stay longer in Paris anyway and b) I generally find that life works out wonderfully -- and often in the most unusual ways. In fact, the more unusual, the better, in my mind. In case you're wondering, they do still have their spots guaranteed here at their Paris schools (which they love), and the girls are both excited about the idea of staying longer, too. So we're gearing up for the very real possibility (though as Anthony will tell you -- not the inevitability) that we might stay yet another year....Stay tuned.

 

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...

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...)!

Cheese Aisle Revolution

I break out my camera to take photos in the Montparnasse Monoprix cheese section; it's one of the biggest grocery chains in the country, but this doesn't look like any cheese section I've seen in a grocery store. It's gorgeous -- better than most actual fancy cheese shops in the US, frankly.



But it doesn't matter how lovingly I take these photos. The woman working there comes over and yells at me, "You can't take those photos, and you know it!" When I question both why not and how I'm supposed to know this, she gets even madder. "Of course it's a rule! You must have permission!" You remember the unofficial national motto... "French Bureaucracy: We're Not Infamous For Nothing!"

Will I be imprisoned? Kicked out of the country? Find out what happens at A Year in Fromage....



 

Bonjour, With Feeling

I pride myself on having some manners, some class (not much, but some -- give me that). After a lifetime of living in the US, I feel like I've done my duty when I respectfully approach the saleslady and say, "Excuse me. Can you please tell me where I could find the games for 8 year old?" At which point, here in Paris, the lady will give me a supercilious stare and say, pointedly...

TO READ THE REST OF THE STORY, CLICK HERE

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.

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.

 

First Rule of Book Club

Gigi and I have put together a book club with the girls from the Native English section in her grade. Of the thirteen girls, six come to the first organizational meeting. These are all theoretically native English speakers (though in truth, most are bilingual children who've grown up in France, and probably only Gigi would claim English as her first and strongest language), so it never occurs to me to put much of an explanation about what a book club is. Just another example of how very American I am.

Nearly everybody shows up with some books they like, that they could recommend and swap with each other, but I don't think any of them understood that a book club is a place where you discuss a book that you have all pre-read. What amuses/amazes me even more is that the parents themselves didn't understand the concept of a book club. Despite coming in blind, the first one was a raging success, and there are at least two new girls joining in for the first actual book discussion in about a month's time. It may have helped that one of the girls brought homemade cupcakes. The girls have picked from among their own favorites for their first few books:

  

 

My own San Francisco book club ladies and American friends and family (nearly all of whom have been in book clubs) will share in my amazement over the concept of not knowing what a book club is. There are many things that I am vaguely embarrassed to export to the rest of the world -- McDonald's, violent films, and Miley Cyrus spring to mind -- but I must say that if Gigi and I can introduce a bunch of her new friends and their families to the idea of book club, I'd be mighty proud.

You know a Paris Mom's book club (fewer cupcakes, more wine) can't be far behind....

 

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.

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.