St. Malo and Mont Saint-Michel

Christine, Loïc, their two kids, Christine's parents, and our family set out in a car and a van today for a 3-hour drive to the fortified city of St. Malo and then to the famous abbey on Mont Saint-Michel.  Christine's parents -- Christian and Liliane -- also visited San Francisco, and we hosted them for some dinners last October. This year, they hosted us for an amazing home-cooked dinner at their house on the Normandy coast and have done some sightseeing with us. Not only are they kind, warm, and generous, but touring around these ancient cities with Liliane is a special treat because she is a teacher with a specialty in medieval history. I am flabbergasted by how much information she can access. And by how much nutella can be smeared on a single waffle.

St. Malo is a walled city from the Middle Ages. There's a history of piracy here, and of rebellion (in the 1400s they declared independence, saying they were not French, not Breton, but Malouins), and is currently a lovely place for crêpes, muscles, and cider. We walk around the entire town on the ramparts to pretend that we deserve our 5000 calories of cheese, cream, alcohol, and -- naturally -- nutella. Here and there, you can see the difference between the truly old sections and those that the Americans rebuilt after bombing it during World War II, mistakenly believing it to be occupied by Germans. Oops.

 

 

After St. Malo, we drive over to Mont Saint-Michel, parking in a vast, low lot. I wonder out loud if we need to worry about it flooding at some point and am met with scoffing. Yet when we get inside the fortress walls on the island, a sign informs us that today's tide won't overrun the parking lot till 9pm, so we're safe to park there for the day. No particular mishaps to tell you about on Mont Saint-Michel. I just want to show you the pictures (mostly taken by Anthony). 

 

It's one of those iconic places that you just want to see at least once in your life, and it doesn't disappoint. It's magnficent and very surreal. Tiny winding streets going up, up, up the island mountain, and a church built on so many levels -- mostly with stone -- that it's an architectural wonder it doesn't collapse. It's the swiss cheese of mountain abbeys. There is also a lovely cloister/ courtyard, which happens to be a major architectural feature in my fantasy villa, the one that has a courtyard with Moorish arches, Mexican talavera tiles, hot sunny weather, and yet is located in the heart of San Francisco. That fantasy villa.

 

   

 

 

 

'Appy 'Alloween ('Cause They Can't Say H...)

Staying with an America-phile and Anglophile means that not only do we get good tea, but we also celebrate Halloween, albeit a day earlier, for our own convenience.  Christine puts on a much bigger Halloween shindig than I ever have, and we spend much of the day making and hanging decorations, setting out unhealthy amounts of sugar in various forms, and trying to outfit the children.  Luckily, my children are small, and 7-year old P fits into a Halloween costume worn by their daughter A when she was 14 months old.  Interestingly, P and A have the same birthday, only 2 years apart.  You can see that P is a very frightening bat.  G ends up a jack-o-lantern.  Anthony and Loïc take turns wearing the Grim Reaper costume.  Christine is a witch.  I am a gypsy/fortune teller.  I am probably the only person at the entire party who is not a classic Halloween character.  Everybody else comes as witches, grim reapers, mummies, etc.  Even Caramel, the puppy, comes as a bat.  Not one of the girls attends dressed as a princess, which I must admit I find refreshing. 

For our girls, the highlight of the evening -- besides endless amounts of cookies (Christine's homemade chocolate chip!) and candy (mini-Snickers, because it ain't Halloween without one, or seven) -- is playing Just Dance on the Wii with the teenage girls.  The teenage boys, several of them dressed as the Grim Reaper, enjoy standing sullenly around the edges of the room or escaping to play video games upstairs. 

For me, the highlight is peeling grapes, putting them in a bowl, and introducing the French children to that old American Halloween classic: "feel the eyeballs." 

American, and Proud of It

Traveling around the world, in various countries at various points in time, it's hard not to be embarrassed sometimes about being American.  We're just such a big country, and so very visible, that every moronic thing done by American politicians or celebrities inevitably makes me cringe when abroad.  But here in Normandy, it's different.  If ever there was a place where one is truly proud to be from the good old U.S.of A., this would have to be it. 

Today, we tour the coastal towns, beaches, and museums of the D-Day invasion. It's not just at the specific sites that we are treated well; so many people we've talked to here in Normandy, even those born after the War, make the connection between us, the U.S. that is, and D-Day.  In one movie we see at a museum, an elderly American woman who was a nurse here with the Allied Forces comments that it seems that the French have a much greater appreciation for what the Americans accomplished -- and suffered -- here than most Americans.  I would say that's absolutely true.  Perhaps understandable, since this is their land, and the reminders are all around them.  I think possibly the only other time I traveled abroad and really felt that everybody I encountered was "on my side" as an American was when Anthony and I were in Peru for 9/11 (which we only learned about on 9/14, but that's a story for another time). 

But this is different, because Americans weren't the victims here, but the heroes, and what we receive is not sympathy but gratitude, even generations later.  It's not only about the Americans, but all the Allied forces.  You never have to look far for a statue, plaque, or memorial dedicated to the Americans, English, and Canadians.  A tiny street right around the corner from where we're staying has the rather large name "Rue du North Shore Régiment." 

Every time Anthony or I need to explain something to the girls, we end up choking up.  It is just so moving, and so heartbreaking.  G understands quite a lot and becomes absolutely fascinated by World War II.  We haven't told her the gory details of the Holocaust yet, but she seems old enough to handle D-Day.  She asks us to buy her some books about it (meant for children), and keeps thanking us over and over as she clutches them.  She particularly loves one book called "The Heroes of D-Day."  Frankly, Anthony and I are fascinated by it, too.  As for P, we're not sure exactly what she's understanding, but she has her own ideas of the horrors of war: During one of the movies we watch (at Arromanches), they have real footage of the Allied forces fighting to gain a village.  P walks over  and whispers in my ear, with grave concern, "But Mommy, when they were fighting, how did they eat?!" 

 

 

 

The Normandy American Cemetery is a must-see.  I have to scold the children at the beginning for shrieking and chasing each other.  This ranks near the top of places where you don't want your children to be loud and silly.  Naturally, in trying to explain why this is a place of respect, I get all choked up again.  This is the cemetery featured in the movie Saving Private Ryan, which was based on a real family, and two of the Niland brothers are buried here. 

P finds the grave of Theodore Roosevelt Jr., son of President Teddy (this is obviously not the one she's looking at in the photo below, however).  It's emblazened with a gold star, since he died here a brigadier general with a Medal of Honor.  Next to it is the tomb of his brother Quentin, who died a young man in World War I. They exhumed him from another cemetery to bury him here next to his brother.  One interesting fact I learn: We are standing on American soil.  The land has been granted in perpetuity to the Unted States by France.  The Stars & Stripes fly on the flagpole, and I think I feel more patriotic here than I ever have, anywhere, in my life!

Just west of Omaha beach, known as Bloody Omaha, is the cliff-side spot where the Germans had artillery that had to be taken out in order for the D-Day invasion to succeed.  Called Pointe du Hoc, the ground is so full of bomb craters, it appears dimpled like a golf ball.  The kids have fun swooping down and up, but at least the older children recognize how many bombs these craters represent.  Literally as far as the eye can see, all the way to the horizon, the ground undulates.

Ever wondered why it's called D-Day?  It turns out there is an old expression in France used to describe an auspicious day to accomplish something.  They say it's a Jour-J.  The J is simply the first letter of the word J.  So, when they translated this to English, they called it a D-Day.  I guess the closest English equivalent would be to say it's a "red letter day" or even "day with a capital D."  And what a day this has been for us.  Really moving, really educational, and we cannot help but think over and over how happy we are to be seeing it with sunny blue skies, and the sound of our chidren laughing as they chase each other up and down the dimples.

Holy Cow!

Anthony shows up from Paris this evening, and he comes in to a dinner of an enormous seafood platter in the shape of a boat with crab, shrimp, and, of course, bulot, the whelk that tastes "ulot like snal" according to Pippa. Gigi voluntarily eats another bulot tonight, not because she likes it but because she's up for the adventure and wants to see if it's better the second time. It isn't. 

When Anthony sees the enormous boat, he exclaims "Oh my God!" and it is then we learn the phrase "Oh la vache!" This literally means, "Oh the cow!" but is used just as "OMG!" or "Holy Cow!" would be used. Why they exclaim over a cow is just as much a mystery as why we do (or did...does anybody say "Holy Cow" anymore?).

But it's appropriate here, in Normandy, which is cow country. This is the home of camembert, so of course when we enjoy some of the yummy, gooey cheese we like to think of it as educational rather than gluttonous. Normandy is famous for butter; we like the demi-sel (semi-salted) with crystals of big sea salt in it, spread over some good bread.  Salted butter caramel is therefore also a local specialty. And they're famous for apples, too, hence the hard cider everywhere. And various apple tartes, which go of course, very well with salted butter caramel sauce. And a glass of milk.  Even our hosts' puppy, who has been humping my leg all week, is named Caramel. You can see how this all ties in.

In French, one way to emphasize something is with the adverb "vachement" as in, "le film était vachement bien!" This means "the film was really good!" but literally translates as "the film was cow-ly good!" 

You may have heard of La Vache Qui Rit, Laughing Cow cheese that is. Our hosts serve little cheese cubes apperitifs before dinner. I take to calling it La Vache Qui Enseigne, the Teaching Cow, because inside each wrapper, instead of a joke, there is a factoid. It is through the cheese that I learn that it was King Francois le 1er who brought Leonardo da Vinci into France and helped usher in the enlightenment in France.

The cow may not be not laughing, and we are not laughing at the cow, but Gigi does have a cow joke. Does that count? It requires some French to make sense, but let's try anyway:

A  little boy names Pierre is in class.  His teacher asks him, "What is the female of the bull?" 

While he is thinking, the little girl behind him leans forward and whispers, "Pierre!  I'm looking out the window and somebody is stealing your bike!" 

He cries out, "Oh la vache!" and the teacher says, "Very good!"

Then the teacher asks, "What is the female of the owl (hibou)?"

While he is thinking, the little girl leans forward and whispers, "Pierre!  He's returning your bike!"

Pierre cries out, "Chouette!"  (Chouette means both "female owl" and is slang for "Great!")
 

The 21st Arrondissement of Paris

The 20 arrondissements (zones) of Paris are laid out like the spiral of a snail's shell, starting with the 1er arrondissement in the center. Today, our hosts Christine & Loïc take us to three lovely coastal Normandy towns: Honfleur, Trouville and Deauville, the last of which is jokingly referred to as "the 21st arrondissment" of Paris.

 

 

There are lovely old ports, quaint towns, and beaches with sand dunes. Many of the buildings in the towns are charmingly old colombage which is the construction style of wooden beams criss-crossed with plaster in the middle. Some of them exist from the middle ages -- 800-year-old buildings that don't look any the worse for wear. All of this with delicious crêpes, caramels, and hard apple cider, specialties of the region. So it's easy to see why upper-crust Parisians like to spend their weekends here. There are an awful lot of beautiful mansions around the towns, clearly boarded up and used only for summers and holidays by city slickers "roughing it" in the countryside. 

Because it is almost Paris, I don't feel too badly when I buy a souvenir here of...an Eiffel Tower. It is exactly the Eiffel Tower I've been looking for, just the right size and made with thin enough wires and large enough holes that it will make the perfect earring holder. I don't know why, but even before we moved here, I knew I was destined to get my earrings out of a jammed jewelry box and onto an Eiffel Tower. While it's certainly easy to find an Eiffel Tower souvenir in vrai Paris, it's been surprisingly hard to find one I like, so instead this will be my souvenir from Deauville.

Deauville has been put on the world map by the American Film Festival held here each year since 1975. Once the festival started giving out awards in 1995, it became even more prestigious. Because of this, the changing rooms on the boardwalk are marked by railings with the names of movie stars on them. To me, this is a lot like the Hollywood Walk of Fame hand-prints outside Grauman's Chinese Theater in L.A. but, frankly, a lot more picturesque.
 

 

We have to take the above picture of Gigi because when she was a little baby, our Chinese neighbor George, who speaks minimal English and with a very thick accent, stopped me several times to lavish praise on the baby. Each one of the compliments was funnier than the last:

1) "Your baby so beautiful. Much prettier than you."

2) "The baby so beautiful -- even whiter than white man."

3) And once, he said, "The eyes so beautiful. Like a little potato."

I thought it must be some pun on how potatoes have eyes. But I didn't get how it was a compliment.  "A little potato?," I asked.

"A little potato! A little potato!" He could see from the look on my face that I was still bewildered. "The famous actress...A little potato!"

At this, the lightbulb went on. "Oh, Elizabeth Taylor!" 

"Yes, yes," he said, clearly exasperated by my thick-headedness. "A little potato!" 

And so, this photo's for George.

Choco-lots!

I wish that everybody who says how much healthier the French diet is could see a) what they feed their kids as after-school snacks and b) what they eat for breakfast.

My friend Christine from San Francisco, who does such crunchy-granola-hippie things as feed her children organic food and even (gasp!) vegetables, describes the after-school scene here as the Sugar Parade. Certainly, when I bring cheese sticks or fresh fruit to the girls at pick-up time, I'm the salmon swimming upstream. And when I bring carrots with hummus, that is just plain freaky. Walking around the streets around 4pm, 99% of the children are eating pain au chocolat, Lulu chocolate-coated sugar cookies, or straight up bars of chocolate. The Lulu cookies are even called -- appropriately enough -- "écolier" (school-ers).

Gigi's teacher once asked in class what all the children eat for breakfast and only Gigi raised her hand to say "croissants." The teacher found it funny that only the American child eats the traditional, stereotypical French breakfast. I found it funny because it's a big fat lie: I think we've only had croissants once for breakfast here and that Gigi just wanted to say that because it sounded French to her. In fact, we eat mostly cereal and fruit with milk, or yogurt with fruit and granola. Similar, though not exactly identical, to our San Francisco breakfasts. 

Well, it turns out the traditional French meal of croissants or pain and a big bowl of hot chocolate has been replaced by American-style breakfast cereals. But with a uniquely French twist. Chocolate. And more chocolate. Sometimes caramel. But mostly chocolate. You think I'm exaggerating? Check out our choices, in one of the biggest grocery stores I've seen in France, here in the Normandy countryside. I don't even think of it as cereal. I call it the "choco-aisle":

 

 

I don't want you to think I'm selectively sending you just the cocoa-iest section of the aisle, so I've photographed the entire aisle for you. You can see that even many of the "healthy" choices, like Fitness (see photo below) or the Meusli have been chocofied. Others have been honey-fied, though that might not show as well in the photos. The chocolate muesli is called Creusli, and Anthony has taken to calling it, "the Croatian meusli." And if you don't get that reference, it's because you haven't read about our trip there -- see this blog entry in FamilyInCroatia. Our local Monoprix has several choices of Special K, and all but one have chocolate in them. We buy Special K -- the plain kind -- and sometimes find a moderately healthy (well, at least not overtly chocolaty) grainy flake cereal at the organic health food store.

I have found Cheerios at a local store called "Thanksgiving" that specializes in imported American foodstuffs. The girls and I walked in there recently and saw plain Cheerios on the shelf, and I boldly proclaimed, "I know it's going to be overpriced, but I'm buying it for you, no matter what it costs!" I then proceeded to look at the price tag, which was about 12€ (or $18), gasp, and immediately replace it on the shelf as if it were actually radioactive to the touch. Sidenote: Once in San Francisco, I saw a painting in a gallery that I loved and declared I would buy it no matter the price. I then looked at the tag and realized that even if I could remove a zero off the end, it would still be out of our price range.  So I really should stop making pronouncements like this until I've won the lottery. 

Lest you think the choco-aisle is aimed at Americans, you should know that we are currently on our 10-day October fall break, visiting French friends. The father and daughter first stayed with us 3 years ago when they came as part of an exchange between the girls' school in San Francisco and theirs in the small coastal town of St. Aubin-sur-Mer. The whole family came again to visit us last year, and now we are going to stay with them for this vacation. (This is the same family that is vying for Best Babysitters Ever because they drove to Paris, paid for a hotel, and stocked our fridge with beer while they babysit for free for our girls.) Therefore, the supermarket in the photos is not at all in a tourist area, but rather between the small city of Caen and St. Aubin-sur-Mer. 

The regular breakfast (pictured above) of the family we are staying with is: toast, tea, and mugs of dry choco-cereal. We wondered why our fully stocked kitchen in Paris has no cereal bowls and now we know: the French eat choco-cereal from the same enormous mugs from which they used to drink actual hot chocolate. I don't know how they all make it to late lunches, without snacking, when all they've eaten is sugary carbs, and not even the protein from the milk to hold them over (or perhaps other families eat their cereal with milk. I'll research and get back to you). Certainly our girls couldn't do it, and I find myself carting backpacks full of clementines to tide them over. 

Needless to say, after a lifetime of plain Cheerios and homemade granola, the girls find breakfast here cocoarifically chocolicious!

City of Romance

Anthony goes for a run today along the Seine while I take the children to the American Library in Paris to sign up for our membership (170€ for the year.  For a library.  Yikes!) and check out some books for our upcoming vacation.  In order to get to and from the metro station, we walk over the Pont de L'Archevêché, which is so covered in what are called "love locks" you can almost not see the fence anymore.  Each lock is put there by a couple in love, symbolizing that they are "locked" together forever.  For the past 5 years or so, people from around the world have demonstrated their undying passion with a padlock, throwing the key into the Seine (good for the relationship, bad for the planet), and sealing it with a kiss.  Generally, it is filmed and, I presume, youtubed.  Often, they write their names on it (Tommy + Theresa, 2008!!).

When we meet back at the house, I make a dinner of whatever perishibles are in the fridge that might need using up, since the girls and I are leaving on October break the next morning.  Finally, we end the day with our mediocre dinner, putting the girls to bed, and me packing the luggage for myself and the girls for our trip.  Anthony is on the computer, catching up on bills, clearing photos off the camera, and making sure the laptop has everything I need on it.  We end up staying up late and heading straight to sleep. 

Just as we are about to drift off, I bolt upright in bed, "Oh my God!!  Today was our 12th anniversary!"  I say it just loud enough to penetrate the earplugs Anthony has in (light sleeper who needs protection from the noise of the girls inside the house, not of the street).  He is already asleep, mumbles "Oh yeah..." and drifts right back.  Aah, the romance of Paris.

(Kazz ♥ Anthony 4ever! 1999 - ?)

Versailles: Brought to You by Sunny D

Today we see our first friends-from-San Francisco in Paris. The daughter was in P's class last year, and they are here for October break. We decide to go to Versailles together, starting our day there with an equestrial show at the stables across from the palace. Naturally, the stables themselves are fit for a king (and not just the king's horse), but the show....How shall I say this delicately?....is not quite designed for American tastes. For the first 45 minutes or so, there are three riders on horseback riding in vaguely pattern-like paths around and through the stable. I am translating what I can of the sleep-inducing, floridly-written voice-over, "A horse and rider become one through the years. The rider is not his master, but a part of of the horse, and one cannot exist without the other. When a horse dies, a part of his rider's soul also perishes, and he must work for years to rebuild this rapport with another horse, who will someday be just as much a part of his soul." I keep hoping I will not be able to understand the next thing they say.

Sacrilege Alert: About 40 minutes in, our friend Cindy leans over and whispers to me, "Matt just asked me, 'Do you think everybody here is wondering when the real show is going to start?'" It's hard to know if we are just American and crass, and therefore we are the only ones hoping a horse dressed in sequins will play the piano like Liberace, or if, in fact, everybody is yawning on the inside. For the last ten minutes, the riders get the horses to do extremely un-horse-like things such as walking backwards, sideways, and most bizarre of all -- skipping. Yes, skipping.  We four parents are desperately trying to rev up the excitement level for the children here, "Wow! Look! Isn't that amazing! The horse is skipping!," but really the children by now have given up and are far more interested in plowing through the copious snack supply I've brought -- cheese sticks, cookies, fruit compote squeezers, clementines. We emerge an hour later, poorer and wiser. Perhaps 400 years ago this was as addictive as television ("Maman, please just 15 more minutes of horses skipping?! I promise I'll clean my room after....").

 

While our friends tour the interior of the palace, we have an all-crêpe lunch to escape the cold and also P's hunger whining.  Yes, I know she just ate 400 calories worth of snacks, and she weighs 40 pounds (that's 19kg).  But metabolism of a hummingbird, and all.  It's a formule (multi-course fixed-price menu, that is) of crêpes for lunch and crêpes for dessert, with some hard cider to wash it down.  These are the first crêpes we've had that weren't just street crêpes of ham&cheese, or nutella.  At least in the sit-down places, the choices are much more varied and creative, oozing with camembert, pears, and bacon, and home-made apple compote, salted butter caramel ice cream.  If there is one thing that's truly lovely about being a resident instead of a tourist, it's not feeling like we have to do everything in one day.  We'll see the palace another day; but today we lunch like kings!

Once the day has warmed up, we head out to the gardens and wander happily around.  At one point, P is lost in her own world and goes the opposite direction from us.  Though we can clearly see her, we scream her name, and we are on a big open almost un-peopled path, she doesn't notice for quite a while that she is getting farther and farther from us.  She likes to walk along, head in the clouds, making up songs and monologues/pretend conversations.  Here in the gardens, she finally does snap to, but she thinks she is lost and starts bawling.  Are we terrible parents because we let her believe herself lost for quite a while, in order to teach a lesson?  In Paris, she has nearly gone into a subway by herself and also gone the wrong direction on a very crowded street because of this habit.  Somehow this feels like a gift to us -- a perfectly safe place for her to learn this lesson.  Or, the other explanation is that we are ogres.  Don't worry; eventually we go and get her. 

Then we meet back up with our friends and tour the gardens again, this time doing a tour of the fountains.  They are all in full spray this month, for just a couple hours late in the afternoon.  Disillusioned by our horse show this morning, we set our expectations low.  "Remember, this won't be the Bellagio fountains in Vegas!"  And it's true that many of them are just simple fountains, but some are "choreographed", and all are set amidst the splendor of gilded statuary and mythical carvings in the beautiful surroundings of the Versailles gardens.  There is classical music being discreetly broadcast, the sun has finally warmed up, and we have bellies full of melted cheese, whipped cream, and hard cider.  So, all in all, a lovely afternoon. 

  

Since Cindy is in advertising, and we are all American, we cannot help but notice the incredible lack of branding and salesmanship.  We start choosing the best real estate for kiosks that could sell King Louis IVth reproduction antique i-phone covers, beautiful backdrops for 10€ photos taken with somebody in full Marie Antoinette costume.  Naturally, chances for sponsorhip are horribly lost on the poor French, who simply present the castle in museum-like dignity.  The Fountains of October, brought to you by Fiji Water!  Versailles, brought to you by Louis IV, the Sun King, and Sunny D -- a delicious fruit-flavored drink!  Sigh.  What a missed opportunity.

Our night ends back in the city, having a very long, very late fondue dinner by the Seine, in the St. Germain area of the Latin Quarter, either because we need more time with our friends, more melted cheese in our bellies, or both.  Though it's only a 5 minute walk back to our apartment, our kids can barely make it home on their own two feet.  Somehow our friends, including the first grader, are still raring to go.  Perhaps they are jet-lagged?  Or fuelled by the fact that they are on vacation and are, as we all know, therefore obliged to have dessert after every meal?  They walk us back then head out for something sweet.  Well, you know what I say: Let them eat cake. 

This blog brought to you by Pepperidge Farm cakes.  And melted cheese.  And the letter G: