The Stench of Failure

There is perhaps nobody in the world less qualified to write about cars than myself.

Before marrying Anthony and sharing his Saab, I had an old Volkswagen, at least, I think it was a Volskwagen, but it might have been a Toyota. That's how much of a car person I am. Anyway, I had this car that was shaped like a milk carton tipped on its side. I named her "Sugar", because she was my sweet ride. Which is to say, she got me from Point A to Point B, and cured me forever of any fears I had of driving stick shift; once you can parallel park without power steering in a stick shift on a San Francisco hill, you can drive anywhere.

One day, I ran into my downstairs neighbor, Joan, who is a fantastic handyman, except that she's a woman. She asked me how the steering felt in my car. What a coincidence that she should ask! Sugar had been driving like a dream for the past couple weeks. I told her, in amazement, that it was as if I suddenly had power steering! She looked at me oddly for a moment, until she finally decided that I was not in any way kidding or teasing her. And then she told me that two weeks earlier she had changed my tire for me, because it was so flat. I think she was wondering why I never thanked her, and at least during this conversation she had the epiphany that I wasn't ungrateful or rude, just utterly and hopelessly clueless about cars.

I tell you all this as a preface to my discussion of the Renault Twizy. Now, I'm all for electric and hybrid cars, but there's something about this one that smells like failure to me. Then again, the French embraced the oddly truncated Smart Car before the US. So if you see this whizzing along the streets near you in the near future, don't say I didn't warn you. But I wouldn't bet on it.

Surprise! A Mouse and Other Guests

No, this is not a posting about anything that requires an exterminator, poison, or special lice shampoos. Rather the mouse that paid us a visit last night is one of the helpers of the Tooth Fairy. At least, that's how we position it, since we are otherwise at a loss to explain why the Tooth Fairy is the one who takes the teeth and leaves the money in San Francisco, but it is a mouse who does it here. The mouse comes in the middle of the night as quiet as, well, a mouse, takes the tooth, and leaves two euros in its place. It is true: Just ask Pippa and all her friends.

Here are some before and after photos:

  

As for the other surprise guests, 'tis the fifth season here in Paris: fall, winter, spring, summer, and tourist. So, our guests have started arriving. In droves. Those who are visiting us now continue a disturbing trend begun by our first guest, back in February of arriving on a different day than expected.

The basic issue -- though not the only one -- is that many of you are telling us the day you are leaving the US (and especially the West Coast), as opposed to the day you are arriving here in Paris. So when you tell us your trip is from the 9th, and you are arriving around 3pm, we are here waiting for you around 3pm on the 9th. The problem is, you lose a day coming over from the West Coast, so you may be leaving on the 9th, but you're not here till the 10th.

Our first guest, Jen, is a former international pilot, so she understands time zones, and hers may be the only case where we are caught off guard by my own error. Originally, she is slated to come in on a Sunday, and when her plans changed to Saturday, I somehow miss the memo. So Saturday morning, we're having a leisurely morning at the house when I receive a phone call from Jen. I figure she has some last-minute question before she boards a plane, or is going to warn me of a flight delay. "Where are you?," I ask. "Coming out of your metro station..." (Cue: scrambling to clean apartment....)

So when our second guests also arrive a day earlier than expected in April, Anthony is convinced that I am a complete scheduling ignoramus. But no, in that case they had clearly told me Saturday, only to change plans unbeknownst to us and show up on a Friday. Luckily, we are home a lot, so all's well that ends well.

More recently, Anthony calls to check on his brother and sister-in-law, when they still haven't arrived hours later than expected. It turns out they hadn't even gotten on their first plane yet. And our guests who are here now have been on our calendar for half a year as arriving on Monday. A few days ago we find out -- you guessed it -- that they leave on Monday, but get here on Tuesday.

So from now on, even if you let us know your travel plans in very specific detail, we'll just go about our business and look forward to that unexpected doorbell at a completely different day and time. I hope you find us home!

Spectacle Debacle: Why Doesn't That Rhyme?

The end of year has turned into a Spectacle Debacle (why doesn't that rhyme?). Gigi's hip-hop show was held on June 3, but the teacher never sent home a note, e-mail, or even text to give us details. This was exacerbated by the fact that Anthony normally does hip-hop pick up but doesn't speak French well enough to know what's been said to the parents. Turns out it was a tiny theater, and we were supposed to buy tickets weeks in advance to have any hope of seeing it. I managed to sneak into the dress rehearsal and only avoided getting kicked out by sounding really heartbroken and speaking with a purposely bad French accent, reckoning that I was more sympathetic as an obvious newbie.

As it happens, we have been informed (as of two weeks ago) that we have a chance to see her dancing at La Fête de la Musique (nation-wide music festival) today at 7:30. It is outdoors, at the Place d'Italie, which is across town from the Place Renee Vivien, where it has just been announced (as of yesterday) that I am peforming with my hula troup at 6pm. So our visitors from San Francisco run with us from one dance show to another.

 

You might assume this lackadaisical approach to scheduling is because it's hip-hop, or hula, two cultures not exactly known for their Swiss-like precision. But the girls have also been rehearsing all year in after-school theater classes for a show whose date was announced only at the beginning of June. We -- along with most of the children and families in the theater program -- believed the show was supposed to be in early June. Instead it will be June 28, during the one week when we will be in Provence with our visitors. Pippa cried for hours when she realized she'd worked so hard all year for nothing.

The reason we decided on that particular week for Provence was to be here for the girls' Tahitian dance end-of-year show, which was uncharacteristically extremely well organized. They informed us of the June 23 date months ago, with multiple written reminders and links to buy tickets. Unfortunately, it seems they forgot to confirm the rental of the theater with the theater itself, and we were informed as of last week that it's been postponed till September since there is now no performance space available.

Lest you think we bring this on ourselves by being Americans who are nuts about driving their kids around to after-school activities, you should know that our French friends send their daughter to painting classes, twice-a-week choir inconveniently located outside the city, Catechism, and ballet -- and they also have a toddler and an older son who does some of those same activities, some different, and also professional theater, for which they drive him to auditions, rehearsals, and shows. Nearly all of our French friends have similar schedules for their kids, making finding time for playdates very difficult indeed. And from the picture below, you can see how many families are driving their six- and seven-year old girls to gymnastics. And no, they're not all American kids. Of these, I'd guess no more than half a dozen are non-French.

Luckily, the gymnastics coaches have gotten better throughout the year about informing us when our children are needed for special events. In the Paris-wide competition in early May, Pippa's team is on the top stand, 1st place. At regionals at the end of May, they get 3rd place. I would say "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," except that in this case, getting any medal at all in regionals is a huge accomplishment. Normally, the Paris-based teams don't even place at regionals, because if you think us city-folk are neurotic about our after-school activities, just take a gander at the suburbanites. They practice more frequently, and longer, and it shows! Well, our urban hipster kids are too busy taking in operas and appreciating masterpieces at world-class museums for that.

I like that they start competitions relatively early. The girls will quickly learn that they will win, they will lose, they will be at the top of their game, they will perform horribly, and that no matter what, life will go on. In the meantime, since it's their first competition, there are some interesting lessons and discussions. Pippa, who comes away with a gold, is jealous of her friend who not only wins the team gold medal, but also a rather impressive trophy for having the highest individual score of those born in 2005. Pippa is happy with the gold, yet knows that she was the weakest link on her team and, therefore, that her score didn't actually count. It takes some re-working to get her to feel proud that this means she was placed on the advanced team and, also, that by going first and setting the expected team "low" score as high as possible, she drives up the scores of her teammates.

And then, on the other side, Gigi's team in the older bracket "only" gets a bronze medal, yet she is the highest score on her team (not for her age city-wide, however). She personally did extremely well -- graceful, consistent, and strong. But she, naturally, is jealous of her sister's gold. So it takes some whispering in her ear to make sure she understands we're proud of her performance, effort, and good sportsmanship, regardless of the color of her medal.

[Photos below: left side Gigi; right side Pippa]

It is true that our girls are in a class of twelve girls, pictured below warming up, in which half are anglophones (Americans, Brits, and Canadians). However, this is highly unusual and, in general, even at our gym -- which is probably one of the most international gyms in the country -- usually there are only one or two non-French kids in any given class, if that many. So it's also the French parents bringing their children two, three, or four times per week to the gym. Often, parents have two or more different kids in the gymnastics classes that meet at different times or days, so that I know of some parents (yes, even French) making round-trips as many as eight times per week.

Pippa's friend and teammate who wins the individual, by the way, should be in some pre-Olympic training camp, except that a) her parents are not obsessed enough to send her to one and b) she wants to be an astronaut someday. We have already established that as an astronaut with gymnastics training, she will be able to beam back by satellite some exceptional zero-gravity moves.

Sign-ups have already started for next year's activities. We are thinking of adding in fencing and guitar/ukulele lessons. And so, the madness continues...

Mom, Avert Your Eyes

My mom -- the same person who sent me an annual article until I was in my thirties about how to safely prepare the Thanksgiving turkey (never on wood cutting boards, wash hands with strong antisceptic soap after every step of the process, don't stuff the bird, and cook for at least 7.5 hours per pound till charred black) -- should probably not read the rest of this posting.

I wake up today and realize the freezer has thawed overnight. Did it break? Did somebody leave it ajar all night? At first the answer is unclear, but what is clear -- or red, or purple, or cloudy, depending on the substance in the drawer -- is that everything is mush. All the ice creams get lumped together into one raspberry/coconut/vanilla "milk shake". Many things, such as old half-loaves of baguette meant for future bread puddings and French toast, are thrown away. But I cannot bring myself to jettison the expensive ingredients, bought in preparation for hosting our friends from San Francisco.

And so I change the dinner plan. What was going to be a simple cheese and pâté meal is now an all-protein all-the-time dinner. On the table are scallops, filets of poached salmon (since giving myself a a nasty oil burn last week by sauteeing salmon and, adding insult to injury, turning our apartment into a stinky fish fry for days), sole in lemon breading (thanks, Picard!), and chicken cutlets, all purposely a touch on the over-cooked side. There are eight of us, but four are children under the age of nine, so we are left with containers full of leftovers. We'll see tomorrow if we risk eating them.

 

In the end, the freezer does re-freeze, so we assume it was left ajar. The problem is that we don't know when the freezer really warmed up and for how long the meat has been thawed. But we all eat it anyway. After discussing the potential logistics of eight people hurling at the same time in a smallish apartment with only one toilet, we wonder how bad it would be if we posted ourselves at regular intervals and projectile vomited off the étage noble onto the buskers and bystanders below.

You know you've got a good friend when you've just potentially given her and her entire family salmonella, and her comment is, "Well, it would make a really funny story for you." I appreciate Sarah's comment more than she'll ever know. Nobody else has had that sort of purposeful, conscious dedication to contributing material for my blog since God lit me on fire.

[Update: 2 hours since dinner, and all's well.]

[Update: 4 hours since dinner, and all's well.]

[Update: 6 hours since dinner, and all's well. Hmmm....a little chicken/salmon midnight snack?]

[Update: next morning, and all systems normal.]

Questionable Father's Day

Today is Father's Day, in both the U.S. and France, and the girls have saved up their gifts for today, so Anthony only gets one Father's Day, as compared to my five Mother's Days. I don't know, maybe I'm biased, but that seems about the right ratio to me.

 

Gigi has a huge painting and card that she made for her Daddy, and Pippa has a school-made pinwheel and a poem. The poem is probably my favorite part of it, because her teacher saw her first draft and made her write another one. The first draft is the best draft, however; it's priceless. Here it is, with spelling corrected:

Papa,tu es mon chat.                             Daddy, you are my cat.
Tu est plus beau que les rats.                You are more handsome than the rats.
Tu aime les apareillesphoto de moi      You like my cameras
dans un village.                                     in a village.
Les africains son't moin jolis que toi,   The Africans are less good-looking than you,
Papa.                                                     Daddy.

This poem is not so much racist as continentalist. I mean, the Africans in question could easily be Caucasian South Africans; she never specifies. And in reality, it's less continentalist than it is soundist. She chose all the words because of the "aaah" sound in them when pronounced in French (Africain, apareille, village, chat, rat).

The revised version encouraged by her teacher is more "politically correct" and highly sanitized. There are no Africans, and no rats. Where's the artistry in that?

Speaking of artistry, as part of his official fathering duties, Anthony has introduced the girls to Star Wars. Neither of them are terribly impressed. After watching about an hour of it, we put it away for days, and neither girl even asks to see the rest. Finally, they watch the rest this weekend, and Gigi is mildly enthusiastic about the ending. But it takes at least twice as long to watch it as it should, because they make us stop every couple minutes to answer questions: Why is Darth Vader so mean? Why don't they evacuate the planet before it gets blown up? How does the light saber work? What, exactly, is the force, and how can a dead Obi-Wan Kenobi still be talking to Luke? Why is a Wookie so hairy? It's exhausting. Gigi chooses to play with a friend rather than watch The Empire Strikes Back, and Pippa watches half of it, then has nightmares. (Meanwhile, I show them one of my favorite films, Strictly Ballroom, and they are gaga over it -- jumping, cheering, laughing, and crying through the movie, then rehashing it endlessly. Growing up with three brothers, Anthony is still amazed to be surrounded by so much girliness.)


 

I get Anthony a shirt for Father's Day, which I buy when I am out shopping alone. I offer the girls to give it from them as well, but they are both convinced I have chosen badly and that he will hate it. It is part of my lifelong campaign to make Anthony's wardrobe more colorful and less full of stripes, since I consider the men's clothing section (endless rows of stripes and plaids in shades of blue, brown, gray, and dark green) to be mind-numblingly boring. Anthony is on the fence about whether he can be convinced to wear it, or whether I should return it.

So: a question about the questionable shirt. Those of you with opinions (and/or taste), please feel free to weigh in. Is this great? Gaudy? God-awful? Don't be afraid to comment....

 

And for the pièce de résistence of the day, I have found not one but two excellent taco option in Paris. One is a small restaurant in the 3rd, called Candelaria, which serves the best tacos in the city/country, according to a Californian who is a 10-year resident of Paris. However, if the weather had been nicer yesterday, I would have taken everybody to the Cantine California food truck, one of two food trucks in Paris, which apparently serves almost-as-good tacos and has the advantage of being served from a truck, just the way our family likes 'em. But not on Sundays. Since the weather did not cooperate on Saturday, we go today to Candelaria; this put is in a bit of time-bind since we need to be across town by 2pm, the restaurant does not open till 12:30, and tacos take approximately 15 times longer to prepare in Paris than in California (i.e. 2 minutes in SF, 30 minutes here). They do taste good, though, and not too far off of a real Mexican or Cal-Mex taco.

So one questionable shirt, questionable poem, and questionably authentic taco experience later, Anthony has officially been celebrated for being an excellent dad. So, just to clarify the title of this posting: It is the Day that is questionable, not the Father.

Double Taxation, Quadruple the Fun

Well, it's June 15, and that means it's time for round six of filing three different taxes in two different countries for arguably five or six different sources of income and about a thousand major deductions. Every time I think Anthony is finally done with the 2011 tax nightmare (which has included figuring out the taxes for his job, my company, house rentals, moving and business expenses, deductions, and his father's taxes in a totally different state), I find him holed up at the computer in the evening, working on the taxes again -- reviewing, revising, correcting, confirming, and either submitting, re-submitting, re-re-resubmitting, or worst of all, re-re-re-resubmitting documents.

Think of any tax question you may have ever had, and how you a) tried to figure it out for yourselves b) tried to get the answer from TurboTax c) asked your tax accountant or even d) called the IRS for information. Inevitably, you got up to four different answers, with wildly varying results, and had no idea which was actually correct. Option D (calling the IRS) is one of the most ridiculous ways to try to get an answer, since they will give you an answer but, simultaneously, a disclaimer that they are in no way responsible for giving you accurate information and that no matter what, you are liable for mistakes. I found this out the hard way when they once insisted I had overpaid my taxes in Q1, issued me a refund of thousands of dollars, and confirmed while looking at my tax record that I should deposit it since it was already Q3. Needless to say, as soon as I did, I was issued a bill saying that because of this refund, I had underpaid in Q1 and was responsible not just for the amount of the refund but also for the penalty and interest on the money for the half year since it was due. Once I paid, I was -- of course! -- reissued refund checks, and I still have two check from the US government, one for about $35 and another for $.01 (yes, one cent), that I have never deposited, for the obvious reasons.

Now, think of these sorts of tax questions in two countries. Before moving here, we had international tax preparation experts who specialize in helping ex-pats in French give us an estimate of what our tax hit would be so we could plan accordingly, and they warned us to expect owing an extra $30,000 at tax time. These same experts helped us file our taxes in April and now, again in June, and are most recently telling us we will receive a refund of about $20,000.

Today, I have tea with a reporter for a major financial news service who tells me that the foreign reporters in her office who come over on guest worker visas, which seems to be the one Anthony has, are not required even to file French taxes for five years. So now I'm wondering if we were even supposed to file here at all. Of course, Anthony's company has hired tax specialists for us, and they seem to think we are on the hook both for filing and paying French taxes. Personally, I think a swing of about $50,000 is nothing to sneeze at, and I no longer harbor any illusion that anybody knows what they're doing when it comes to any of our taxes, in either of our countries. Each time this conversation comes up with somebody new, I get a completely different and usually conflicting piece of advice, which I then pass on to Anthony, much to his irritation. "But Kazz, these are professionals, paid to do this all the time. I would think they would know if we didn't even need to file in France." You would think, but still....

Taxes in France are a different beast in that they are not withheld all year long from French salaries. So one must save all year for the inevitable tax hit that comes at the end, and woe to the person who sees a huge growing lump in their savings account, throws caution to the wind, and spends it. Given the information we've got to go on, we can't be sure whether what we've stashed away for our tax bill will go to the US government, the French government, or a surprise family trip to the Amalfi Coast. Don't call me unpatriotic, but personally, I'm rooting for Amalfi. Is June 15 the last tax day for my husband? Let's hope so. Poor Anthony. But not literally. I hope.

Shove It Up Your A**

I have a sinus infection, and the doctor prescribes me an antibiotic. This seems like modern medicine...until she gives me the instructions and I get my prescription filled. It is a sachet of powder that I am to take dry. Already this does not sound promising. But the reality turns out to be far, far worse. Oh. My. God. These people are living in the Middle Ages. What the hell?! Have they not heard of capsules, or coated pills?!

It's about two tablespoons of something the texture of course salt. But it has an astringent, chemical taste that sends an immediate signal to my brain that I am being poisoned and, because of the texture, simultaneously gagged and asphyxiated. Have you ever tried to crush up a Sudafed for a child, hide it in yogurt or ice cream, then wondered why they were so melodramatic when they gagged at the taste? If not, you should try it, because it's so vile that the words "bitter" "chemical" and "disgusting" are completely inadequate. This antibiotic tastes like that, except I have two tablespoons of it, without the ice cream or yogurt.

Is this a photo of a pile of my antibiotics? Or of salt? You can't tell until you shove it down your throat in a dry, powdery, vomit-inducing heap. But I bet the salt would taste better.

I am supposed to take another follow-up sachet two weeks later, but it is so god-awful, I refuse to fill the prescription for it. I don't even care what form of crazy superbacteria I'm inadvertantly creating inside my body. Any bacteria that can withstand that disgusting medicine deserves a second chance.

While at the pharmacy, I attempt again to buy pediatric pain-killer, figuring I will have better luck the second time, now that I'm in a different shop. But no, again she offers it to me in just three forms: 1) a syrup, which is inconvenient to travel with and so revoltingly sweet even a six year old wants to wretch, 2) a powder sachet, which you are allowed to dissolve in a glass of water, thereby making it slide down easier but prolonging the taste torture, and 3) a suppository. Um, did I say it was for headaches? And for children? Seriously?! I'm sure my girls would love to be suffering a fever and have their medicine shoved up their asses. That'll really make them feel better. Needless to say, we instead have started telling all of our American visitors to bring us boxes of chewable kids' pain-killer.

It's clear that this is a country that is less "spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down" and more "take your medicine like a man."  Well, the next time my doctor tries to give me a sachet, you know where I'll want to tell her to shove it. And if I sound a little bitter, I am. But not as bitter as the medicine.

Waiting for Ionesco

I've taken up graverobbing while waiting for Ionesco. That is one of those sentences that is really fun to type because, frankly, it's not one I'd have predicted I would ever write.

On my first visit to the Montparnasse Cemetery, I am clearly lost, checking and re-checking my map until a man comes up and asks if he can help me. After a few moments, it's clear we should be communicating in English instead of French, and it turns out that Ru (short for Ruarí) is an Irishman. I've had the Douze Comtes de Maupassant on my bookshelf since I was in high school, so of course I want to visit Guy de Maupassant's grave. Ru gives me directions and later, when he sees me walking by, asks if I have found what I was looking for.

No, I still haven't, so he brings me there. It turns out that Ru's job is to tend to the graves and gardens at the cemetery, and he has been there almost a year discovering all its hidden secrets. It is an absolutely gorgeous spring day, and Ru's not in the mood to work hard, so he gives me a private tour from Serge Gainsbourg to Chaïm Soutine. At Maupassant's grave, he pulls out a paperback nestled in the headstone that a visitor has left in hommage and hands it to me. "Here, you like Maupassant. Take it." I feel very, very awkward about graverobbing, but he assures me that he's just about to clean it up anyway. And what do they do with these sorts of things? They throw them away. Unless it's bottles of liquor, in which case they enjoy. The book contains the story (with literary criticism of) Boule de Suif, and I haven't read it. And, given that the back cover describes it as a story written in 1880 of a prostitute who shares her food with hungry travelers who then throw her unwillingly into the arms of a Prussian soldier, I'm not sure if I ever will.

Inside the front cover is written, very sweetly: "Même au Québec, nous te lisons encore!," and it is signed Jean-Sebastian. Really, over a hundred years later, and Jean-Sebastian has come from Canada to tell a favorite author that "even in Quebec, we still read you!" What writer could ask for more? I also love that he calls Maupassant by the more familiar "tu" and not the formal "vous". The book is a little moldy, to tell the truth, but I can't bring myself to throw it out.

At first, I feel sorry for Maupassant, whose grave is in the smaller secondary section, what I see as the annex. But perhaps he's actually proud because that just means it's the more exclusive real estate. Or perhaps he likes the solitude and doesn't mind. Or perhaps he doesn't care at all. Because he's dead.

In the end, he may have the last laugh, because from the annex, you can't see the view of the universally-despised Montparnasse tower.

Ru takes me past Serge Gainsbourg -- the singer, performer, poet, whose legend is still writ large. He wrote a song, very famous, called "Le Poinçonneur des Lilas", about a depressed metro ticket puncher (back when they were punched by hand, and not by the machines we have today). So people leave used metro tickets on his grave, along with occasional liquor -- Gainsbourg having been known both to enjoy and abuse a frequent tipple.

Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone De Beauvoir share the most visited grave in this cemetery, together in death as in life. Their tomb is covered with what appears to be a pile of trash but is, in fact, more metro tickets. They don't actually have any connection with metro tickets; it's just a gesture copied from the Gainsbourg tomb. It infuriates Ru and, I suspect, Sartre and Beauvoir might have preferred to be remembered in a more picturesque way. Charles Beaudelaire's also looks a little bit like the top surface of my desk (that is to say, cluttered and strewn with papers) but fewer metro tickets.

  

At least the tombs of Gainsbourg, Sartre & De Beauvoir, and Baudelaire are easy to find. But no wonder I overlook Beckett's headstone. It is so simple and plain as to be almost unnoticeable. It's neat and clean, though. I think perhaps it's because he's less visited, since he's an Irishman. Or it may be because Ru has taken it on as his personal responsibility to make sure his compatriot's grave doesn't get littered with metro tickets.

It's largely an arts and literati crowd here. But there are others. The graves that really stand out -- literally, that is: tall, grand, elaborate crypts -- belong to the titans of industry. Even writers as well-regarded as Baudelaire, Maupassant, Ionesco, Sartre, and de Beauvoir are simpler, presumably because they didn't have that kind of money to bury with themselves. Note to self: in next life, choose a higher-payer profession than writing. Or choose to be Danielle Steele, Stephen King, or J.K. Rowling. Unexpectedly, one of the fanciest literary graves belongs to Pierre Larousse, whose dictionary is known to all French students and serious students of the French language. I also feel a personal connection to the grave of Hachette, founder of the publishing house that owns ELLE magazine, for which I consulted while living in Japan. From the size of this crypt, I'd say publishers fare much better than writers.

 

Ru tells me the story of an old woman who saw him working and asked him to clean off a gravestone. When he got there, he noticed it had both a cross and a Jewish star, which is unusual. So he asked her about it. It was her husband's grave, and hers someday too, and her husband was Christian. The recent election had just happened, and there was a lot of talk during the campaigning about immigration. When pointing out the cross there for her husband, she commented that she didn't care for all this conversation about how some people are different, are foreigners, are a threat because of their differences. And at that, she pushed up her sleeve and showed the Holocaust tattoo on her forearm, having spent time in Auchwitz as a teenager. It turns out it can be a sobering thing wandering through a graveyard not just because of the dead, but because of the living, too.

This is not that actual gravestone, but the picture reminds me of the story. This cemetery has an incredible number of gravestones with Jewish stars and also Chinese calligraphy. Surprising, given that it's the resting place for so many of France's favorite sons (and a few daughters).

Not only does Ru help me locate all the graves I couldn't find on my own, he also shows me plenty of interesting graves I would never have known to search for in the first place. These include a grave of sculptor Constantin Brancusi's mistress, topped with a copy of his famous statue, The Kiss, that she supposedly inspired. Interestingly, it's not on top of his own grave, which sits in a different section of the cemetery. And also, I see Le Chat (The Cat), created by artist Nicky St. Phalle to honor his assistant, Ricardo, who is buried here.

 

Of those that Ru introduces me to on our improptu tour, my favorite is Christophe Girard, whom I would like very much like to meet and interview. And, despite seeing his gravestone (front and side views below), I still could. Notice the year of his death.

I ask Ru to show me Ionesco's grave, and Ru asks me, fairly enough, "Now, what did he write?"
Oh crap. It is on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite get it. All I can think of is No Exit, which I realize is Sartre. And Huis Clos, which is the French title of the same existentialist play by Sartre. And -- inexplicably -- One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which is not even French. Or Waiting for Godot, which is part of the theater of the absurd, but by Beckett. And then back to No Exit. Which takes me to No Way Out, the movie with Kevin Costner. Honestly, what the hell did Ionesco write? I have to look it up to tell you that his most famous plays are The Bald Soprano and Rhinoceros. I remember studying French theater of the absurd with Madam Rhetts at the Breck School in the Twin Cities. Several friends and I even wrote our own absurdist play, called Flocons (Flakes). But if I'm here looking for Ionesco's grave and can't even remember what he wrote, then I really am the worst kind of pretentious. As would befit an Ionesco play, we hunt and we hunt, but even Ru cannot find Ionesco's grave site. I would still be wandering around there if I were a serious Ionesco fanatic (you know, like the kind who could recall at least one of his works).

Q: How many absurdists does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Fish

Sure, it's less famous than le cimetière du Père-Lachaise, but I think I will always prefer the Montparnasse cemetery, because now it feels like mine. I can tell you where many of the famous people are, even when they're hard to find. I can show you the oddball gravestones. I can introduce you to my friend, the warm and knowledgable Ru. And I can go there on a nice day to read and write, while the girls are around the corner in gymnatics class. At Lachaise, I'll never be anything more than a tourist. And while I can't say I'll ever be an actual resident at Montparnasse (I'm not dying to get in...), I still feel like it belongs to me.

Mother's/Groundhog Day

Mother's Day in Paris, and the question is raised: Is it possible to be overappreciated?

We have marked on our American calendar that Mother's Day is May 13, and so on that day, Anthony and the girls present me with a lovely plant, complete with a colorful little stuffed bird nestled among the leaves. The plant is intended for a pot that's been sitting empty, into which I once almost transplanted a lush-looking palm I found on the patio, till Anthony finally informed me it was fake. This should give you a clue about the level of my botanical expertise, so you may not be surprised to know that I do not get around to transplanting and watering this Mother's Day real plant until it is, sadly, too late. The good news it that it has dried rather nicely.

 

You would think this blatant negligence would not only kill the plant but any impulse the girls might feel to give me Mother's Day presents, but you would be wrong. It turns out that Mother's Day in France is not until June 3. About a week before that, Gigi comes home from school with a gift, but she's too excited to wait until the actual day. So, on May 27, I am given Mother's Day present #2, which is a lovely dish she made in class and a very sweet poem she wrote.

 

Not to be outdone, Pippa also comes home with a school-made Mother's Day present (#3), a book that they've been working on all year, with pictures and entries in it. It is also contains a poem mentioning that my favorite color is -- as you may have guessed by now -- orange, which is not-coincidentally the color she has painted the cover of the book. She can't wait till Sunday June 3rd, either, and gives it to me on Saturday the 2nd.

 

On Saturday night, the girls both sleep at a friend's apartment. Anthony picks them up, and on their walk home, they buy me present #4, which is a pretty bouquet of roses, orange of course.

And finally, tonight, the girls and I are invited to a Mother's Day show and treat held at the Mairie du 5ème arrondissement (the city hall of the 5th, located in the shadow of the Panthéon). The show is a story teller telling the (only slightly Disney-influenced) tale of Aladdin. As with so many events for mothers, it turns out it's really more for the kids -- I mean, it's not like it's Colin Firth on stage, or anything. However, Gigi gets picked by a staff member to introduce the show to the audience of about 200-300 people. She does this in a French so perfect, I don't think anybody could know she is American. This, to me, is the ultimate proof of the success of a now 9-year project to make our girls bilingual! During the show, the story teller chooses one child from the audience to dance on stage with her, based on their belly dancing in the audience. Those of you who know my sister Lisa, a belly dancing fanatic, will not be surprised to hear that her protegée Gigi gets picked for this, too.

  

  

At the end, we get pastries, cakes, and juices as our treat, and even a couple white roses (Mother's Day gift #5), which we mix in with the orange bouquet.

 

 

I am thinking that rarely, if ever, has a mother been so fêted, simply for being a mother. If I had my own magic lamp and genie, these would be my three motherly wishes:

1) the continued health and happiness of my children.

2) a little less competition between the girls ("But she got to go on stage twice!" "Well, she got 3 pastries, and I only had two!""But she got to play the computer game this morning, and I didn't!" etc.).

3) no more Mother's Day celebrations till next year!