What a Mickey Mouse Operation

The first thing we do when the gates open to Disneyland Paris is rush to Thunder Mountain Railroad, only to discover that it is closed. The girls are so disappointed, but we say,“Well, we’ll do other things. We’ll still have fun.” We are wrong. The Steamboat is also closed, and the only attraction open in Frontierland is the Haunted House, which lets the girls down yet again: At the end, they turn to us and ask, “Where were the ghosts?” There we were, in the cars, facing the mirrors, and there’s supposed to be a ghost projected in with us. It’s supposed to be the punchline of the ride but apparently isn’t working.

 

Since Frontierland is a bust, we wander into Adventureland to go to the Pirates of the Caribbean, which is also closed. We turn to the pirate ship but it is -- you're sensing the pattern here -- closed. Finally, in desperation, we go through the Treehouse, which appeals to nobody, simply because we cannot find anything else to do. By this point, we’ve been in the park a couple hours and the girls are complaining about how bored they are and saying they want to go home. I've never heard them use the word "disappointed" so much in one day.

My friend Andi gasps audibly when I tell her about our opinion of Dismalland Paris: "It's like bad-mouthing Santa Claus!" Let me tell you, if it were a child, Dismayland Paris would get a lump of coal in its stocking.

Trying to get at least one thing right, we head to Discoveryland to go on Space Mountain. The girls love roller coasters and their two favorite rides at Disneyland (California, that is) are Thunder Mountain (1st) and Space Mountain (2nd), which they ride continuously if given the chance. Space Mountain in Disorganizedland Paris is, in fact...drumroll please...open! But we are informed the girls are not tall enough to ride, because the Space Mountain here is "Mission 2" and has a loop in it and, therefore a taller height requirement. G & P are so small, I don't think they'll hit 132cm (52inches) till they're 12 years old. At this point, the girls just break down crying, G especially, and saying how awful this Disneyland is. It's Disappointeyland.

By now we are desperately hungry, which always makes matters worse. So a little meat and many fries later, we have a serious family discussion about whether we should just ask for our money back and leave. But since we've committed our day here, and by now it's already early afternoon, we decide to try again.  We walk through the passageway into Fantasyland, where we try to re-excite the girls by telling them there is a new ride they could try – Alice’s Labyrinth. Which, you are not going to be surprised to hear, Disorderland has closed. 

We then go on basically every open ride/attraction we can find, even the obvious dogs. We are desperate to find something to do. On the Buzz Lightyear Laser Blast, the ride breaks down and has to be stopped about four times while we are on it. We wait on the Peter Pan Flightline over half an hour and just as we get to the front, it breaks down for about twenty minutes, and I must tell you that I honestly think, "Well, the good thing is that it's taking up more of our afternoon." When it does restart, the squeak of the equipment is almost unbearable. Welcome to Disrepairland, the Crappiest place on Earth!

We trudge through the Nautilus (at this point it feels something like the Bataan Death March), with the girls complaining how boring it is and – even worse – there is such ugly construction around it at the time, our 6-year old suddenly transforms from an innocent child who believes in magic to a sullen cynic: “It’s not a real submarine. The octopus is fake. There’s not even water outside the boat.” It's Disillusionmentland.

 

There are a few good moments. The highlight of the lowlights is driving the cars at Autopia. The girls ride in an elephant, which seems fitting since they've recently ridden on a real one, and see Indian dancers in It's a Small World, which they are excited to identify, having just been there.

  

 

And I do have some perspective: Having a bad day at Distraughtland is not on par with, say, losing a loved one or breaking your collarbone or being on the real Bataan Death March. But G shakes her head sadly at one brief moment we are actually enjoying ourselves, and points out, accurately, "It's sad that what we'll remember of this day are the bad parts."

With this, we manage to kill enough time to make it to the 5pm parade and Anthony tries to make up to the girls for the day with an $8 micro-cup of popcorn. He comes back shaking his head, “That guy purposely tried to shortchange me!”

 

 

While the worst of it is that the big rides are closed, it is compounded by the fact that so are many of the smaller attractions, and others are just plain absent. Paris has more space, but far fewer attractions: where's Mr.Toad’s Wild Ride, the Matterhorn, the Jungle Cruise, the Tiki Room, PikieHollow, or Splash Mountain? Instead, they just have bigger walkways. And crêpes, women in stylish Minnie Mouse scarves, Ratatouille characters instead of fairies, and fake European village architecture (oh wait, that's at all Disney parks...).

 

 

According to the lyrics from that Disney film, the Lion King, "Hakuna Matata...means no worries for the rest of your days. It's [a] problem-free philosophy." No worries and problem free, as long as you don't spend the day in Disasterland Paris, that is.

April Fish Day

In France, April Fool's Day is not a day for creative trickery. As with many other aspects of French culture, there's a specific tradition, and they're sticking with it. In France, it is known as "Poisson d'Avril" or April's Fish, and the point is to tape a paper fish on an unwitting person's back. Basically, it's like a "Kick Me" sign, without the kicking. This means I have to turn my back on my girls for large portions of the morning and pretend not to notice when they give me long, pat-pat-pat hugs out of nowhere. I think in theory, once they get you, they're supposed to yell "Poisson d'Avril!" but of course this would take all the joy out of it as far as we're concerned. Let's just see how long somebody will go around with a paper fish on their back. Much more fun.

Because Anthony is off on a ski weekend, and our semi-planned playdate doesn't work out, the girls have to come with me to my dance class this afternoon. They have met some of my classmates, so they manage to hug some of them hello and rather successfully slip on some fish. A few people truly do not realize what's been done, much to the girls' delight. I may be walking around with a fish, and we may have needlessly used up a lot of scotch tape, but at least I know I won't have to worry about salt in my sugar bowl or cellophane over the toilet seat for a while.

As this April Fish Day happens to fall on Palm Sunday, we see a procession going down our street to one of the (many, many, many) local churches. The branches they are holding, along with the fact that Gigi tells me that she learned in religion class that today marks the day Jesus was crucified, makes me rethink the meaning of Palm Sunday, which I had always assumed was named after palm leaves. Perhaps instead it has to with the palms of his hands? But no, I look into it and it actually does refer to palm leaves -- the ones laid down as Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, in what seems like quite a festive parade for somebody about to be executed. Apparently, in northern climes such as Paris, they give out different kinds of branches. And, also apparent, while Gigi does extremely well in most subjects, religion class is never going to be that little atheist's specialty.

 

While I'm discussing Catholic and French traditions in one fish-themed posting, I feel I must mention the French proclivity for pureeing fish inside mashed potatoes. I've served this at our apartment once, when I accidentally bought purée de pommes de terres with Alaskan hake blended in. The girls, Anthony, and I all hated it (of course we did! It's fishy mashed potatoes!), but at least Anthony and I never have to eat it again, as long as we recognize the name for this dish (which dangerously escapes me right now) at the local brasseries. The girls, on the other hand, are subjected to this on a recurring basis at their Catholic school on that most dreaded of cantine days: Fish Friday. Guess the ultimate April Fish joke's on them.

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.