Setting the Record Straight

Anthony thinks that perhaps my last posting makes him look like a bit like a lazy, hey-woman-hand-me-a-beer-while-I-watch-TV kind of guy. Any of you who actually know Anthony realize this is preposterous. One of my nicknames for him is "The Taskmaster," and if I have one criticism, it's that he is relentlessly productive. I've never known anybody who can plow through unpleasant tasks like he can, never even thinking of procrastinating, whereas I actually procrastinate about procrastinating and still have unpleasant chores on my to-do list from approximately 2002. 

So, just to clarify: if I have four full time jobs, Anthony has two full time jobs and a couple part-timers. Besides his work at Ubisoft, he is currently a full-time family tax and financial planner who has the odious job of preparing all materials for our US taxes (which are extra complicated with a self-proprietary business, quarterly tax payments, several employees, house rental income, and major business deductions), along with our French taxes (which, in turn, further complicate our US taxes since there are reciprocal agreements for portions of the tax bills between the countries), and filing his father's income taxes for 2011 while simultaneously acting as the executor of the will and getting his father's house ready for sale and the estate ready for divvying up. I can honestly say that I would not trade all four of my underpaid workloads for this one job.

And, of course, for his part-time work, Anthony chips in on travel planning, and is also a fabulous father, far neater housekeeper than I, and -- occasionally -- most excellent pancake and French toast maker. But he really, really, really hates hanging our wet laundry on the line, and I send him away each time as he starts to grumble about how much he misses the dryer in San Francisco. Making matters worse, the on-island laundromat has closed, and the next nearest one is much too far to use; now even for big mattress pads and comforters, it's home-wash and jury-rig-a-spot-to-air-dry. And so, an add-on wedding vow: Anthony, I promise always to hang out our wet laundry, if you promise to deal with our taxes.

Triple Moonlighting: My New Job

The kids are in bed, so I'm off-duty for my Full Time Job #1 as a parent/stay-at-home-mom. I am also currently taking a moment off of Full Time Job #2 as a small business owner (which I oversee and administrate from afar), in order to put on my hat for Full Time Job #3 as a writer in order to tell you a little about my new Full Time Job #4.

As you know if you read about Catholic Humpday for Gladiators or, long ago, the Primary School Primer, or if you have ever heard anybody stereotyping and mocking the French, then you must know that they take a lot of vacations. Since Job #1 is tied to the school schedule, I get virtually nothing done on my other jobs each and every Wednesday (when I have the girls with me all day) and the weekends. Add to this a couple Catholic or national holidays, plus the big whammy: The girls never have more than six weeks of school between major vacations. Major. The smallest break of the school year is the ten-day end-of-October break. Then more than two weeks at Christmas, over two weeks end of February, and over two weeks end of April. Usually, the girls come back from holidays on a Tuesday then immediately have Wednesday off again.

Which lead me to Full Time Job #4: family travel planner (and occasional translator). Before we even left for India, we had most of Morocco planned for the April break. But of course, April break is now bearing down on us, and finishing off those last decisions takes an inordinate amount of time. Shall we stay for our night in Erfoud at the Kasbah Tizimi? The Ksar Assalassil? The Hotel Kasbah Jnane la Kasbah? Or the Xaluca Maadid Arfoud? Each has plenty of beautiful photos and high-rated reviews at booking.com and also tripadvisor. But then again, each also has highly critical reviews that assure me I will hate them all. Since we will be there the full two plus weeks, and we are a family that likes to move around a lot on vacation, that's a lot of itinerary and hotel decisions.

You may have noticed that we have been back in France for about three weeks, yet I have just finished the India blog, much as the August Croatia trip wasn't posted till almost October. So now I am writing about burgers in Paris at the sime time as riding elephants in Jaipur. Because I will have even less computer access when I'm in Morocco (read: no computer access at all), I am adopting a new vacation-blogging policy: While away, I will publish pre-scheduled posts about France and then for the two-three weeks upon our return (while also catching up with business, e-mails, laundry, grocery shopping, etc), I will post the vacation blog only. In other words, the trip and its blog will be staggered. Let's see how that works.

Meanwhile, I am also supposed to be planning a long May weekend trip (for one of three extended weekends in May, just after we return from our trip to Morocco). So while I am still writing about Morocco, but am actually back in Paris, I will also be heading out to a still-unnamed French destination.

Yes, I am full aware that it is obnoxious to be complaining about this, especially since I've brought this on myself by having both a major travel and writing bug. So don't think of it as a complaint. Think of it as just a good reason for me to pour myself a nice glass of sancerre with lunch.

We have friends visiting in June/July, so I desperately need to start planning a trip out of Paris with them. Once the second family leaves us in mid-July, I also need to plan out what I will do with the girls (and Anthony when he can join us) for the rest of the summer, i.e. summer camps/lessons, a probable  trip to the U.S., and some outings within France. Anthony also strongly feels we should already be planning our October break, Christmas, and ski trips for next year, since trying to plan anything big and last-minute this year was too stressful, too expensive, and ultimately not too successful. But of course by "we," we mostly mean "me," since I am the one who is "not working." (Ha!)

In none of my Four Full Time Jobs do I get vacation days, since even when I am on vacation, I am still doing at least two -- if not three or all four -- of my jobs at any given time (parent and writer; still checking in on my business; and travel planning/translating as we go...).  But having said that, what is one of the things I most look most forward to, when heading on a trip? Two uninterrupted weeks of never having to do the cooking. And if you think I'm exaggerating, just ask whomever cooks each-and-every-meal in your house how excited they would be with that prospect!

The Accordian Factor

Spring has sprung, and now the sh** hits the fan. Well, that's what we're afraid of, anyway. Our lovely view can look like this:

Or like this:

Or like this:

Gorgeous spring weather is bringing people out in droves, and we have this sneaking suspicion that this will soon translate to people talking, smoking, drunkenly singing, and -- avert your eyes if the horror is too much for you -- playing the accordian at all hours of the night. (I don't say "day and night" because, as you know from the last post, nobody does anything for the first half of the day here....)

On any given day, we run across at least one accordianist. Often, it's two -- one on either end of our small pedestrian bridge. Rain, snow, or shine.

   

There is often a jazz band in the middle. Or two. They start staking out their spots in the morning, then wait a few hours for the passers-by to start passing by.

 

There are other street performers as well, some regulars: the bike-show guy, the classical-violinist, the bubble-making guy, and (at night) the crazy home-made-pirate-bicycle-ship-that-is-politically-protesting-everything guy, for example.

 

There are hordes of people coming for the island's famous ice cream, and for the beautiful views of Notre Dame, and for the charming cafés right beneath our window. And naturally, this brings in the buskers. It was only a matter of time until our girls thought of busking themselves. Here they are on a quiet Sunday morning with a neighborhood friend, dancing their hearts out and passing the (pink cowboy) hat. They make no money at this endeavor but are extremely proud when an old man joins them for a dance. G also bravely sings a song a cappella at an unattended mike one evening. She  earns no money, but enough praise to encourage her to consider busking for her Sunday supper from now on.

As for those accordianists, we hear a lot of "La Vie en Rose." In fact, there is one older busker who posts himself outside the garden to Notre Dame and plays nothing but "La Vie en Rose," in varying versions. I think even he is bored of it, because he now alters the song so dramatically, it's not always recognizable. Begging the question, why not play something else?

Other regular songs from the accordianists on the bridge include Dr. Zhivago's theme, "O Solo Mio," and an old French song called "La Seine" (not to be confused with the song "La Seine" from the new animated film Un Monstre a Paris, A Monster in Paris). For some reason, I also hear several songs from Fiddler on the Roof, both from the accordianists and, more logically, from the violinist. And there's occasionally some Eric Clapton or Simon & Garfunkel. You would think there would be more Edith Piaf.

But I don't meant to imply that it's all bad. If living here is like being plopped in the middle of a movie set, then this music serves as the perfect soundtrack. When I'm writing in the apartment during the weekedays, sometimes I can hear the faint strain of the accordian, or the chattering of people walking by, and even though I'm alone and sitting in silence, I feel like I'm still part of the city. And nothing will make you feel like you're in Paris more than walking around outside looking at the Seine, and Notre Dame, with that soundtrack playing. The girls, of course, love it. During the after school, weekend, and vacation hours (which is when they're around to enjoy it), there's nearly always a concert -- and a veritable party -- going on outdoors. Last night, Anthony and the girls stood on the balcony, enjoying a classical piano recital while I cooked dinner. When we return to San Francisco, will it feel boring and tame? Or blissfully quiet?

In a correspondence with David Downie, the author of a wonderful book of essays called Paris, Paris: Journey Into the City of Light, he wrote me, "Welcome to Paris, and god bless anyone who can listen with charity and grace to the street performers. How long will that last on your part? We have now had 25 years of them under our windows in the Marais, and I am verging on the homicidal."

So we appreciate it for the moment, but still we fear the late spring and summer: When it's hot out, and we want to open our windows, will be letting in too much smoke, chatter, and accordian? We'll see. And so will all of our visitors. What we really need now is for the new trend on our bridge to be an invasion of retro-French mimes.

Photo from mimethegap.com

Sorry, We're Closed

We own Paris on a weekend morning. We rise at our normal hour, the children letting us sleep in as late as 8am in honor of the weekend. We snuggle in bed; we have a leisurely breakfast, possibly even a labor-intensive one with American pancakes or scrambled eggs. We play board games, we do art projects, we get dressed, and we are still able to be out and about by 10 or 11am. We are just about the only ones on the streets. What, exactly, do the French do until noon? As they all appear to be locked tight behind closed doors, we cannot tell you. All we know is that it is almost like a ghost town. It's almost as if it were, well, Paris in August.

Needless to say, there's not much one can do, or buy, on a Sunday. There are some museums -- open much later in the afternoon, of course -- and one of our favorite on-island bakeries. This same bakery is closed on Wednesdays and Thursdays, however, which has messed us up more than once, forcing us to go to the closer, less-tasty, much grumpier boulangerie. My favorite cheese shop is closed on Mondays. The Monop' (an urbanized mini-Monoprix) is open on Sunday but only till noon. This amazes me, because I have never seen anybody in there on a Sunday morning but me. Am I really the only one who runs out of milk and eggs and virtually all other groceries on a Sunday morning? Let's just say we have many, many Sunday suppers made up of leftovers.

And then, of course, there's the post office. This is what happens when I try to mail a package:

Carry the bulky box to the post office, cleverly waiting till 1:30pm in order to avoid the 12-1 lunch hour. Turns out it's a 1-2pm lunch break. Carry the box home again. Come back another day. Get there in the afternoon before 5pm. Find out it closes at 4:30pm on Tuesdays. Carry box home. Come back another day. Return with bulky box to mail during open hours, but post office does not have or sell any tape. "They sell it at the petite épicerie on the corner, madame." Turns out the petite épicerie used to stock tape, but does not anymore. Carry box home. Find packing tape at the big Monoprix. Come back another day. Return to post office between 2-4:30 on a Monday-Friday afternoon and successfully mail package. Run out of stamps and need to mail a letter. Show up at 9am, after dropping kids off at school. Learn post office does not open till 10am. Come back another day.

Having firmly established that we can accomplish none of our critical errands on weekends, on certain weekdays, in the mornings, during extended lunch hours, or in the late afternoons or evenings, we would like to point out to you the coiffeur across the street from our apartment. Though he has posted hours that are as restrictive as most other places in Paris, he is in fact open at all hours of the day and night, ready to cut and blow-dry your hair, should you have a hair-styling emergency. I just wish I had known that when I set my hair on fire at Christmas.

Ode to Toffifee

Ode to Toffifee: 
A Candy From Childhood No Longer Found in American Stores but Mysteriously Still Available in France

Toffifee, Toffifee
Why did you go away?
You are my second favorite candy:
Creamy, crunchy, shape so handy.
(Snickers, of course, are first,
And Pixie Stix the worst.)
"A hazelnut in caramel..."
chew and crunch that mesh so well
"...with creamy nougat and chocolate"
I want as many as I can get.
Oh, Toffi-fay, Toffi-fee,
I'm so glad to see you at the Monoprix.
You look like an eyeball but taste so good,
I wish I could find you in my SF 'hood.

Catholic Humpday for Gladiators

Two Roman gladiators enter the arena, their swords raised. With each step of their boots, they kick up a cloud of dust. In between them, tall and ferocious, struts Michael Jackson.

The girls celebrate Mi-Carême today, and the easiest way to describe it is Halloween in March. In reality, it is a celebration of the half-way point of Lent, much as Carnaval is a way to blow off steam at the beginning of Lent. Mi-Carême is not only uniquely a Catholic holiday, it is uniquely a French Catholic holiday, which makes perfect sense, since the French never go more than six weeks without a major school break, or even more than two days in a row for elementary school (Wednesday is a day off). I wonder what would happen if the thing that a French person gave up for Lent was taking so many vacation days? It's like contemplating the beginning of time or the end of space.

The children dress up and parade through the fifth arrondissement up to the Arène de Lutèce, an honest-to-goodness two-thousand year old Roman arena in the heart of Paris. What I love most about this arena is that it's practically hidden from the street and that it had been lost and covered for centuries before being rediscovered in the 1860s. Every time I walk in, I feel like I'm making an important archeological discovery. Me and the old guys playing pétanque (French bocce), that is.

I had hoped that the choice of Mi-Carême costumes would be more culturally enlightening, but, in fact, it is very similar to what a group of American children would be wearing. Nearly all of the girls are princesses of some sort, though admittedly there is a higher percentage of flamenco dresses here than I'm used to seeing. There are boys dressed as gladiators, pirates, Indians, and of course Star Wars characters. There are a few girls -- bless their hearts -- dressed in non-princess clothing: one Zorro in G's class, a firefighter in P's class, and one mini Queen of England (at least it's not a princess). And then we have P and G themselves. P is a cheetah, accessorized thanks to a certain Ubisoft holiday party that I inadvertently crashed. G is dressed in -- if you've been reading the blog regularly, this will not come as a shock to you -- her Indian sari. It looks fabulous, and by God, I'm beginning to think there is no occasion at which you can't wear a sari.

 

Instead of Trick-or-Treating, they simply parade around town to show off their costumes, then return to school for a table laden with -- if you've been reading the blog regularly, this will also not come as a shock to you -- sugar, sugar, chocolate, chocolate, and more sugary chocolate and chocolaty sugar. There is also a drink provided for thirsty children: It is the color of a Smurf and appears to made of two ingredients -- sugar and artificial FD&C dye Blue No. 1, E133.

Scratch That Itch

Stories of a sassy six-year old:

1) P bursts into the kitchen while I am making dinner. She is angry and not shy about showing it. "Mom! You are not a good back scratcher! You scratched my back right here a couple weeks ago," she accuses, pointing at the spot in question.  "And it's itchy again!"

2) Picture drawn for Anthony, includes the dubious phrase "I have a croch on you!"

3) Excellent letter currently winging its way toward my parents, to thank them for a generous gift in India (editor's translation follows).

[Editor's Translation:
Dear Nana & Pop-pop
Thank you so much for using up your money for our saris. When you grow up, you might have no money because of the saris. I miss you so much already. You are so lovable to me! Love, P]

None of these have anything to do with Paris specifically, of course, but I thought I'd share anyway.

The Noble Floor

Well, it was only a matter of time till I would mention Baron Haussmann (George Eugène Haussmann), the baron who restructured the entire city of Paris in the 19th century under Napoléon III, giving it both the layout and the look that we have all come to think of as the "true" Paris. I myself have never read any book on Paris that doesn't mention him and was kind of hoping to give the baron a rest.

But today, we have reason to think about architecture, and life on the noble floor -- l'étage noble, that is. Walking around Paris, you will quickly notice that the typical structure of a building is small balconies on the 4th and 5th floors, with a bigger one on the 6th floor. But the biggest and grandest of all is on the 3rd floor, l'étage noble. The reason for this dates back even before the baron's time: The entry level was where the carriages would have pulled in to let you off. One floor up was still quite close to the (stinking) ground level, but the 4th floor and beyond was an unpleasantly long walk, in those days with heavy long clothes and before elevators. So the 3rd floor was the Goldilocks floor: not too high, not too low, and just right.

 

Once the baron more or less codified this style of building, which housed varying socio-economic levels under one roof, l'étage noble earned its name and its reputation for housing the wealthier citizens. The highest floors may have better views, but they are risky, since elevators were only introduced in Paris in the 1870s, and even today in 2012 are still generally tiny, retrofitted, and, as we know from an early experience, highly unreliable. (Photo below: our family of four small people completely stuffs the typical French apartment elevator.)

Hence, the compromise on the 6th floor of a big balcony with a view but one that is not-quite-as-big-and not-quite-as-easy-to-reach as l'étage noble. The highest floor -- small dormer windows in the
7th floor, usually -- are the maid's quarters, now often transformed into high-priced but still-small student rooms or studios or added by staircase to the 6th floor "penthouses."

We don't normally think much about the fact that we live on l'étage noble, until today, when we notice a rather large crowd gathering on the bridge and street outside our window. We head out to our balcony, which wraps around the building to get a good view, and are met by the unexpected scene of a Venetian-themed carnaval procession slowly meandering its way toward us. We seem to be the only people looking at this spectacle from above. It's the sort of happy accident we loved while traveling in India: an unexpected delight.

But let's face it: If ever there were somebody who's a plebeian at heart, it's me. I am bursting to go down to ground level, and finally I cannot contain myself, and I rub (read: bonk) elbows with the masses (read: photographers) for these photos. I've read a critique of this Venice-themed carnaval as being too contrived and "inauthentic," but essentially I just don't care. It's colorful and celebratory, and I'm simply not cynical enough to say anything negative. For us, it is so much fun to look out our window and discover this parade!

P cannot resist running into her bedroom to dress up in her own purple princess costume, and her French friend who lives in the neighborhood shows up in a princess costume as well. They may be first graders, and officially out of their princess phase (and in the case of P, deep into her fairy phase), but if this is not the perfect opportunity to parade around the streets in a foofy royal robe, what would be? Clearly, it's not just the children, because these adults can't resist the temptation to play dress up, either.

Of Pickpockets and Alternate Universes

Just yesterday, I said to my cousin Abby what a pleasure it is to toodle around Paris with her. Our days together had been flowing perfectly from one thing to another, the timing has worked out just right, and each detour seemed to just bring us a new delightful surprise. Until this morning. This morning, after dropping the girls at school and having tea and croissants at home, we head out to the Hotel de Ville for a Doisneau photographic exhibit of Les Halles (back when it was still what Zola called "the seedy underbelly of Paris" and was a dirty, living, working enormous outdoor market). We try to get there a bit before it opens at 10am to beat the rush, but instead the rush beats us. It turns out to be over a two hour wait, and we don't have that sort of time since Abby is meeting a friend for lunch. Instead, we decide to wander up and see what's at the Centre Pompidou. However, once we get there, we see another enormous line, so we opt to walk around the isles in the Seine instead.

As we are leaving the Pompidou, I tell Abby how we had looked at an apartment near there but didn't want to live in that neighborhood because it was just too seedy and gritty. And not two minutes later, I am sandwiched by two guys pressing against me harrassing me for a signature for something. I do what I think I'm supposed to do in this situation which is at first ignore, ignore, ignore and just keep walking. But it's tough to ignore, since they are litterally pressing into me. One has his pen open and it's hitting my favorite jacket, and I keep brushing it away. And finally, when they just will not leave me alone, I turn and tell one of them that if he touches me again, I will call the police. They leave, and I think the victory is mine, then realize in the next split second that they have pickpocketed my wallet -- which was zipped up in my front jacket pocket, ironically, because I thought it would be safer there than in my purse. (G once caught somebody with her hand in my purse coming out of the metro.)

And so, a visit and some calls to HSBC to cancel my credit and ATM cards, and a visit to the police station to report the theft. After he hears my description and I say they were speaking a different language, my friendly gendarme asks me if that means they are Middle Eastern or Eastern European, and since I honestly don't know I keep flip-flopping as he is already typing out the other. Finally he says to me, "Just stop guessing. I'm putting down 'Eastern European' because that's what they were." Apparently, only "gypsies" are issued permits for pickpocketing in the square of the Pompidou.

Naturally, though my wallet is normally near-empty, I just took out 80€ from the machine and stocked up on 30 metro tickets. And, I lost my hard-earned carte de séjour. And I really loved my little wallet. Thank goodness I don't carry around any of the rest of our credit/ATM cards or any more of my IDs. I am pretty calm about it both because there's nothing I can do about it now (unless I somehow figure out how to turn back time and deliver a well-deserved kick to the groin) and also because of what I call my "Alternate Universe Theory." 

There is, actually, a pseudo-scientific Alternate Universe Theory that every outcome that is possible does, in fact, happen in some parallel universe. So when something bad happens, I like to think of all the other universes in which I would happily trade for this one. For example, in this case, there is an alternate universe where they grab my wallet and whole purse and run. It's my favorite purse, and it's currently holding a camera plus the girls' birthday gift to me -- a pretty little Paris-themed notebook so I can jot down notes and ideas on something other than the backside of a receipt I will later lose. There's another universe where this happens on my birthday instead of today. There's another universe where instead of my wallet, I am raped or hurt. There's another universe where they get my wallet, and the guy does, in fact, ruin my coat with his stupid pen. And in any of those universes, I would think longingly, "If only I lived in the universe where all they got was my wallet..." 

Having said that, and having tried to look at this in the best-possible perspective, I'm not looking forward to going back to the Préfecture de Police and getting the replacement for my carte de séjour. Sigh. If only I lived in the universe where they took my wallet, but I had forgotten to put my identity card in it. 

Birthday Belly in a Doggie Bag

When I tucked her in last night, I told Gigi that the next time she saw me, it would be my birthday. She informed me sadly, "We don't have anything planned for you." Well, it turns out she's much better at keeping secrets than she used to be (with my family on a trip in Colorado four years ago, Gigi told me: "We're going to have a surprise party for you, but I'm not going to say anything!"), because in fact I wake up to breakfast-in-bed and gifts from both Anthony and the girls. The breakfast itself is also much improved from breakfasts-in-bed past, since Anthony and our cousin Abby are both there to supervise.

All of us girls wander around the Marais for the morning, since Pippa and Gigi don't have school on Wednesday, and Abby's just arrived in Paris last night. We have what we are calling a food-porn morning, since we go tea-shopping (and sniffing), salivate at 105€/kg salmon in the windows, and finally break down and buy some rabbit and chicken en croûte (in pastry crust), pâté, vegetable terrine, cheese, and warm-from-the-oven bread at three lovely shops: a charcuterie, fromagerie, and boulangerie.  It may very well be the world's best lunch, made better with a small glass of sancerre.

After an afternoon at gymnastics class and wandering around the 6th (and seeing where Abby lived long ago in Paris), we all go out to dinner at a restaurant that we've walked by probably hundreds of time but never noticed. Called Mon Vieil Ami, it is right here on Ile St. Louis, just doors down from our apartment. Abby's foodie friend recommended it, and since it is rainy, and late for a school night, and the girls are coming out with us, it seems like the perfect choice. It turns out to be even more perfect than anticipated, because it is a restaurant that highlights vegetables. If you've actually heard me rant about restaurants in France, you would know that my big beef (pardon the pun...) is that they are all meat-and-potatoes. Side dishes are generally my favorite part of any meal, and having lived in California for so many years where vegetables are really celebrated, this just completely bums me out each time we eat out here. So this restaurant is the perfect spot for me and is my new favorite restaurant in Paris: Each dish is described first by its vegetables, flavorings, and preparation and then, in smaller type, by the protein component, and is served in those same proportions. Pippa and I share a two-person carotte confit with currants and pork belly, which is univerally agreed to be the best dish at the table.

We are all dressed up, especially the girls who choose to wear a Christmas dress (Pippa) and a new Indian sari (Gigi), and we have a lovely French chardonnay (fruity, not oaky like California chardonnay's which I actually can't stand). When we get there at 7pm, we are the only customers in the restaurant, but eventaully it fills up at a more "normal" French hour (around 8:30). All in all, it is a fabulous meal, and a fantastic way to start a year.

 

And then, as if a great day, great company, and a great meal are not enough to make for a very joyeux anniversaire (happy birthday), I shamelessly ask for a take-out box for the leftovers of the carrots-and-pork belly. It is just too much for us to finish, along with the excessive desserts we have also ordered, but it is just too heartbreaking to throw it away. As an American, I firmly believe it is my birthright -- and indeed my environmental and moral responsibility -- to take home leftovers and not waste food. But the concept of doggie bags is extremely unusual and really rather gauche here in Paris. If there's one thing that's nice about growing older, however, it's that the opinion of my waiter matters less and less to me (and, in fact, he is actually very gracious about it), so one doggie bag coming up. I'm just happy they actually have a little box they can use, since my alternative is to run home and grab my own tupperware. Now that would be gauche. But I'd do it anyway.

Running in Circles

Anthony flew back late Friday night from Charleston, after an exhausting week with his brothers of organizing their parents' house and affairs, purging, spreading his father's ashes, meeting with lawyers, going through bills, etc. The week before he left, he spent in bed, alternately shivering and sweating with a horrible feverish virus. So, naturally, jet-lagged and without training in over 3 weeks, he spends Sun morning running in a half marathon. It starts on the eastern side of the city, at the Chateau de Vincennes, weaves through the woods, then comes into the city, right past our little island, and back out to Vincennes.

We are standing there waiting to see Anthony run by our house -- at approximately the half-way point.  While we are waiting we see some women, a few chefs with pots or trays of drinks, and even this one very old guy who looks like he may not make it all the way to the finish line.

I start getting a bit worried when I see the old guy beating Anthony. But it turns out that Anthony has, in fact, passed by earlier, but somehow missed seeing us, and we somehow missed seeing him. I have two possible theories for this.

1) It is a sea of white men with slight builds and brown/gray, slightly thinning hair, between the ages of 25-50.

Or, Anthony's preferred theory: 2) We can't see him run by, because he runs by SO FAST.

His time is 1:49, for 20km (13.1 miles), and he's pretty pleased with it. Yet he does keep mentioning Laurent, a co-worker of his whose time is 1:30. But Laurent is 10 or more years younger, is a serious runner, and is not jet-lagged out of his mind. At least, that's what Anthony keeps repeating...  Just remember this, Anthony: The girls and I are jet-lagged also, and our major activity for the day is to walk to the end of the bridge just outside our house and see you run by. Which we can't, because you are just a blur!

The Dark Force: Be Afraid

Not for the faint of heart. A photo of She who wields the dark power at our house. Sure to strike terror into all who behold:

And not for the faint of stomach, either. It is an ad for the "Dark Vador" burger (full menu 7,20€, or $10) available for a limited time only (March 2-5) at Quick, a fast-food burger chain in France.  Also on the menu: the Jedi Burger, which looks like it has either cheese curds or peeled apple chunks under the top bun. As yoda would say, "Burger so disgusting it looks, hard to believe French it is."

In case you don't know the word "dark," there is an asterisk which leads you to the following explanation: "puissance obscure" or "obscure power." One can only imagine why the bun is jet black in one photo and poppy-seeded white bread in the other. One can also only imagine why they've spelled "Vador" with an "O", but upon further research, it appears that Darth Vader actually is called Dark Vador in French. My guess is that is because the most common French verbs end in "er" so that the original spelling would look to the French like it would be pronounced "Dart Vah-DAY" and could be conjugated: Je vade, tu vade, il/elle/on vade, nous vadons, vous vadez, ils vadent. Come to think of it, this could be the best marketing campaign of all:

Avez-vous vadé aujourd'hui? Have you "Vaded" today?

If not, eat these frightening burgers!

And may the Farts be with you.