Letters from Camp

Here are some choice excerpts:

"Dear Kazz and Anthony. [Ed note: our children usually call us "Mom and Dad", not by our first names.] I had to right a letter to you! THEY MADE ME!!!!"

Pippa then proceeds to write about her time at camp and closes with:

"I do not miss you, but just pretend I do."

Fabulous.

Her next letter reiterates that point, verbatim, but closes with this:

"...but I do still love you very much!"

Well, thank goodness for small mercies.

Gigi's letter is not much better, frankly:

"Dear Mom and Dad, We are being forced to write to you, even though I don't have a stamp..."

You're imagining our children in an American summer camp: rustic cabins and lake-swimming. Think again. That may exist in France, but it's not where our girls are. They're at a 1000 year old medieval castle, riding ponies bareback (literally). To find out more, check out A Year in Fromage.

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.

 

Boom As We Speak

When I was in grade school, we went on field trips to the local historical reenactment village, one day each year. Once, we went to a pizza place owned by a classmate's father and were allowed to make our own pizzas. That is the extent of the field trips I remember. Gigi, meanwhile, is away for a week with her classmates in Valloire, France for the ultimate field trip -- a week of skiing in the Alps. As I write this, she's at her end-of-week "Boom" (that's a co-ed dance to you and me).

 

 

 

 above photos taken by chaperones on the ski trip

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Transitions

Pippa hits two new milestones in 24 hours:

She transitions from this:

to this (video taken from far away, I know, but it's a back handspring/ back tuck combo):

And then, she transitions from this:

 

to this:

 

She donates over eight inches to Children With Hair Loss, which provides free wigs and hair care products for kids who've lost hair due to illness and medical treatments. Pippa has only had three or four haircuts in her whole life, and those were simply trims, so this is pretty life-changing for her, too.

 

 

 

We've known it was too long for a while, but she had two distinct goals in mind before we could cut it: one, she wanted to have it reach down to her butt (a noble goal, I know), and two, she wanted to have enough to donate to charity but still have longish hair when finished.

 

 

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.

 

Confusion Says

Here they are: the two most confusing conversations to have in a French-English multi-lingual environment. Like our own household:

1) "How was your entrée at dinner last night?"

Well, if you hear the word "entrée" in French, and this is what you get, then great.

But if you hear it in English, then you expect a full main course. Which it is not. It is an entrée, as in the entry into your meal, or what we call an appetizer. Why do we call the main course the "entrée" in English? It makes no sense at all.

2) The girls tell me about their day at gymnastics, "My front flip was great!" Well, do they mean flip in English, which is a tuck or flip with no hands touching the ground? Or do they mean flip in French, in which case it's a handspring? It's hard to know because they regularly sprinkle their English conversations about gymnastics with French terms.

 

Those are French flips above, and American back-handsprings.

 

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.




 

Stay Away

Our second summer, our second trip to our friends in Bretagne. By now, it feels not only like a little slice of heaven, but a familiar one. I realize it also feels familiar because it reminds me in so many ways of the annual summer trips to my sister's house in coastal Maine. There are the rocky beaches with great tide-pooling, the coastal walks and bike rides, the fantasy mansions on the cliffs (let's just say I wouldn't sniff at the house all trimmed in white at left in the photo below).

 

 

 

 

Even beyond the excellent bakery breads and lack of blueberry/maple products, there are differences, of course. The little tents at Dinard look pure French, for example. And the Atlantic's noticeably warmer here than in Maine, as long as one is lucky enough to be here during a warm August. Last year we were in Bretagne in early July, and the water was so cold I only swam once -- and then simply because my friend Beatrice told me that was the only way I'd earn the right to be invited back. Well, this year, we are there in August, so I am able to swim every day; I practically feel like a native Breton.

 

And then there's the view out to the medieval walled cite of St. Malo, which doesn't exactly bring Maine to mind.

 

Also, instead of lobster, we have moules (muscles). But not actually ones that we find ourselves.

 

 

This year, in addition to seeing our good friends, and the beautiful coast, we also see a fox, right there next to the beach.

 

 

By the way, if you think it looks like we have nothing but gorgeous sun, blue skies, and warm summer weather, it is my obligation to tell you that it rains miserably and constantly the entire time we are here. I have promised our friends that we will do our part to keep the masses away by playing up the stereotype of the Breton weather. Somehow, we all manage to enjoy it anyway.

Break in Burgundy

After Guédelon, we drive deeper into Burgundy with our visiting friends to take a relaxing break from our previous break, picking wildflowers, a.k.a weeds, on the lawn of Sully castle, which dates roughly from the 14th century. It turns out to be a private residence, and we are 99% sure that the woman we meet going in and out of the imposing doors is the Duchess of Magenta. She explains the carvings of boar on the door, with a very posh Queen's English accent, saying that "the owners were very keen on hunting." At first I am very impressed with how well she speaks English. Then I learn she is Scottish. In any event, I feel I can now boast that I hobnob with royalty.

 

 

Then we visit the little town and castle of La Rochepot, so magical that the entire minivan literally gasps when it comes into sight. The 13th century castle itself is, to me, one of the more unusual and memorable in all of France, because of the colorful tiles typical of the Burgundy region.

 

 

 

Here, a view from the castle into the town:

Since the children are less than thrilled with any more historical sites ("Oh, noooooo! Not another castle!"), we find we need to take frequent breaks from the break we are taking. After an arduous half-day of touring around and eating ice cream, the hotel swimming pool is a welcome relief. Even our hotel looks like a little castle, however, with gorgeous grounds, and an indoor-outdoor pool, all in an adorable little village with several excellent restaurants less than 20 steps away. I just have to put a plug in and say that at around 70€ per night, the Logis de Trois Maures in the town of Couches (pronounced "koosh" not like the word that means "many sofas") may be the biggest hotel bargain I've ever come across.

 

 

 

 

One of those neighboring restaurants, La Tour Bajole, is in a monastery from the 12th century, converted at some point within the last 900 years into a restaurant. Food -- delicious; service -- friendly; ambiance -- jaw-dropping.

 

 

Even the children appreciate it to a degree and also admit, begrudgingly, that this little town of Semur-en-Auxois out-Disneys Disneyland. This is high praise indeed, but we get this concession from them only as long as what we do here is simply eat ice cream, and not actually go inside any historical buildings.

 

 

 

One day, we take a break from relaxing to try to educate ourselves by visiting the city of Autun, which is supposed to have "rivaled Rome" in its heyday. But rivaled Rome in what, we ask? Watermelon seed spitting contests? Armpit farting? Because it sure wasn't about the constructions or the ruins. There are the remains of an amphitheater, with excellent acoustics, and two remaining gates to the city. Supposedly, there is also a Temple to Juno, but no amount of GPSing, sign-post following, or asking directions from locals can get us there.

 

 

Perhaps our favorite day in Burgundy is spent biking along old train tracks that have been converted into a "voie verte" or "green track". It's relatively flat, with beautiful French countryside, almost no traffic to worry about except at a couple small crossings, and views of the occasional castle popping up in the distance. ("Shall we ride to the castle, kids?" "Nooooooo!!!!") But at one point, Pippa's brakes break. We have the tool kit on our rental bikes; but as it is only us two non-mechanical moms and four kids, we very nearly call the rental company to come help us. Luckily, just before that happens, we swallow our pride and ask a man riding by in full racing gear for help. Within seconds he realizes that Pippa has accidentally wound the brake cable around her handlebars. He twists her handlebars around, and we're good to go. It is embarrassing, but much better than it would have been if we'd made somebody drive out to us from the rental shop.