Mrs. B in Paris

She's back...

2009-04-26T15:43:00.002-05:00

soon! We're taking a trip to Paris May 18-June 1, so I may be dual posting here and at my new blog. I can't wait! So if you're still checking in, be ready for Rowan's first trip to France. (I'm a bit terrified about the flight and the jet lag, so if you have any tips for me, please comment.)

À tout à l'heure!

I am tired of doing laundry and tarting out my old blog for another chance.

2008-07-23T11:14:00.000-05:00

So I'd really like to win another 12 BumGenius 3.0's. I love these diapers, and I'm not a squeamish girlie-girl who can't handle seeing poop twice (yes, that's totally a dig on my stepsisterinlaw.) I feel better about the lack of diapers in the landfill, I love that my daughter never has diaper rash, and quite frankly she looks absolutely adorable in them. But really, I'd rather do a bigger load every 2 days than a small one every day. Pick me! Pick me!

Les Fêtes

2008-01-07T11:18:00.000-06:00

Back to reality.

Our dear friends left yesterday, after a week of good conversation, good eating, and lots of fun. The house now seems so quiet, with only 3 people and a dog in our home. We really miss them, and miss having such wonderful amis in our neighborhood, like we used to. We picked up where we left off, and shared many a laugh, baby tip, recipe, and a beer or two. They brought us a huge bag of les goodies françaises, including things to make our own pain français, cornichons, rillettes, clothing for Rowan from Du Pareil au Même, bonbons, and lots of other wonderful things that we miss. They can't put France in a bag, but they sure tried, and we had a wonderful time speaking a little, eating foie gras, and drinking champagne as we celebrated La Bonne Année. Too bad there isn't room in a bag for two adults, a baby and a 60-pound dog to sneak back into la belle France.

But, in a way, they gave us something they didn't even know they brought. They showed us our home, through their eyes. We got to play tourists, driving through the mountains, eating out at our favorite restaurants, and sharing the good things about Happy Valley. Finally, Dr. B said, he feels like this is his home. After seeing it through J's and A's and M's eyes, he can now appreciate the place we are raising our daughter. What a special gift. We can't wait for our next visit with them, whether it be here, same time next year, or there. (Donations accepted.)
Bonne Année à tous!

Photo credit: pdphoto.org.

I Couldn't Have Said It Better

2007-08-25T09:52:00.000-05:00

David Lebovitz is fun to read. He cooks. He eats. He butchers the French language. He writes books. And he lives in my old hometown.

Today, he addressed a subject that took me a long time to figure out, and one I still don't understand.

Les serpillières.
I agree, David, 100%. Yuck.

And I am convinced that this is the reason French grocery stores have that, um, well... OK, the only way to describe it is "the stank". They reek.

Wouldn' t your house stink if you dragged a dirty, sopping rag around the floor every day?

Ew. Gross.

Belle

2007-06-25T14:27:00.001-05:00

Belle
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis

New photos are up on Flickr (click this photo to go there). I hope to blog soon, but certain little things are preventing me (like the baby who prefers to sleep leaning on my chest.)

New events are happening right and left, and we'll soon be packing up to move to Pennsylvania. Anyone got some boxes? We are going to need all the help we can get...

our new family!

2007-06-12T21:44:00.001-05:00

our new family!
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis

She's here, after 29 hours of labor. Long story, and I don't have the energy to write it now, but know that she's beautiful, and perfect, and has a heck of a set of lungs on her! (I just wish she didn't like to give us a concert every morning from 2-5.)

Rowan Amelia

born June 9, 2007; 8:03 AM

7 lbs. 5 oz., 19.5 inches long

Light brown hair, great big eyes, and she smells like a sugar cookie.

We love her so very much.

More later, when we've recovered a bit...

More pictures on my flickr page, and more to come.

Oh, and if you've tried to call, sorry--I don't often get a chance to answer the phone. When she's not eating, awake or screaming, I'm doing my very best to sleep. It doesn't always work, but I'm trying. I would love to hear from you soon, but will need a little time to adjust.

Directions

2007-04-19T15:59:00.000-05:00

How to get to Paris, France, from Madison, WI (according to Google Maps.)

"From:

Madison, WI Drive: 4,712 mi (about 29 days 21 hours)

1.Head south on CR-D/Fish Hatchery Rd toward Catalpa Rd 0.6 mi 2 mins

(blah blah blah, through WI, IL, OH...)

Passing through Pennsylvania
Entering New York
(Blah Blah Blah)
Entering Massachusetts

(More Blah Blah Blah...)

18.Turn right at Long Wharf 0.1 mi
19. Swim across the Atlantic Ocean 3,462 mi 29 days 0 hours

20.Slight right at E05 0.5 mi 2 mins (A slight right. You know. From the ocean.)

(Blah Blah Blah and many traffic circles later...)

35.Turn left at Place de l'Hôtel de Ville

Paris
France"

You gotta try it.

BagDar

2007-02-09T10:22:00.000-06:00

Lucy's BagDar is still functioning. Read about it here.

Madeleines: A Cookie Quest

2007-01-29T12:27:00.000-06:00

(Posting this here for those who don't read my new blog...)
One day last summer, while at our local Parisian street market, I felt my morning croissant wear off. I was hungry and cranky, and had an extra euro in my pocket, so I chose a golden yellow madeleine along with my Sunday bread purchase from the good baker at the market.

I popped it in my mouth.

Then, I melted into a little puddle of gooey joy on the sidewalk.

It was delicate, light, tender. Buttery, sweet, and full of flavor. Unbelievable, indescribable flavor.

If I hadn't been married, I think I would have proposed to the boulanger.

When Flare visited us in November, she brought me a present that included a silicone madeleine pan, one of the things I forgot to get before we left la belle France.

Now, I am on the hunt for the right recipe to fill it. I tried Ina Garten's Coconut version, which despite its great reviews, was disappointing.

So I am asking. Begging. Please. If you have a recipe that will send me back to that dirty Parisian sidewalk, send it my way. As soon as you can. (Maybe it's a pregnancy craving? Whatever. I don't care.)

How to Act Parisian

2007-01-11T08:47:00.000-06:00

By playing this game, you can learn many of the expressions and gestures that might confuse you when living or working in Paris. My personal favorite is the Gallic shrug--and when combined with the little "pfft" of air that escapes the lips, you'll really be a pro! (When I finally mastered this one, I was accepted all over the city of light. No lie.)

This game is done by the tourist board in Paris, so it's about as legit is they get. Have fun!

I guess they were serious...

2007-01-10T18:35:00.000-06:00

So, France is making smoking in public places illegal.

This video shows that they were really serious!!!

By the way, you must be 18 to view it. It's a little risqué.

Man, I wish they did this in the US.

Heh.

Happy Holidays, Everybody!

2006-12-11T08:18:00.000-06:00

(Wanna make one, too? You can design your own gal from head to toe! Check out their site, here. Free ecards and a plethora of printed and printable items, designed by you. And proceeds go to a very good cause. What more could you ask for?)

*PS this doesn't violate their terms of service, because I asked if I could do it, and Jeanne from Designhergals helped me. Designhergals are super cool!

Moving Day

2006-12-10T10:54:00.000-06:00

I've got tons to do, and am at the last day of my medical leave, so (of course) instead of carefully planning my next two weeks, I have been working on my new blog. Heaven forbid we should waste productivity on things that need to be done, n'est-ce pas?

Mrs. B isn't in Paris anymore, and I figured it was about time for a change. With help from Dr. B who helped with the design of all the lovely graphics (yes, he is responsible for the well-endowed caricature), I have now moved over here. I'll leave Mrs. B where she is (I'd hate for a bot to get her), but new thoughts and ideas will take place in the clouds. By the way, those are Parisian clouds, too.

And (drumroll, please) to the first person who comments with where the name of my new blog came from (and it must be accurate, mind you), I will send you the wonderful, fabulous, stupendous (ie free) prize of my mom's easy and delicious norwegian meatball recipe (the ones people bring up every time they see me because they really are that good) AND my favorite triple-fudge so good you may get marriage proposals brownie recipe (I didn't write it, so I'm not bragging or anything.)

Come on over, fellow dreamers! The water's fine!

Did I feel the baby move?

2006-12-08T14:04:00.000-06:00

Clinic visit #3 for three days--with the surgeon, physical therapy and the OBGYN, I've really become a regular. The surgeon says my knee looks, "great!" (though purple, yellow, pink, blue, swollen and misshapen are not my idea of knee-ly beauty). The pain is still pretty bad, and I'm pretty limited in mobility, but I'm getting ready for work to start again next week. The physical therapist had some great advice: "Do what you can, and push yourself a little, but not until you puke or can't sleep at night." Sounds reasonable to me.

Today we went to my OB, for my 14 week appointment. She was impressed to see me up and about so soon after surgery, and though Lemon said everything was great, she said, "well, how do you feel about it?" I knew I liked her.

She didn't admonish me for losing 6 lbs. since my last visit, knowing that surgery can be tough on the body, though I have a feeling she will if I don't start gaining in the next month. (Yes, I'm in my 4th month, and still wearing my normal jeans, buttoned. If you saw me, you would have no idea I was even pregnant. This will change.) Since my 'morning' sickness is back, she advised watching it carefully, and coming in for a bag of fluids if I just couldn't turn the corner and keep things down.

We heard the baby's heartbeat again, though it took a little longer to find it than the last few times. Dr. B grabbed my hand as the nurse searched, moving from left to center to right along my waistline. At last, we heard it. 150 beats/minute, right on target. We were both relieved.

I did have an important question for Dr. H.

"Last night, about 3 or 4 times, I felt a little twinge in my stomach. Is this normal?"

"Yes, completely."

"Just a twinge. Not a cramp. Almost felt like the baby did a flip or something."

She laughed. "That could be! It is possible."

"Either that, or gas, huh?"

"That, too. Could have just been gas. That's all too common in pregnancy."

Well, even so, I'm choosing to believe it was a flip.

You Are What You Eat

2006-12-05T10:54:00.000-06:00

I hope not, because if so, our baby will look like this.

So much for the balanced, healthy pregnancy diet. Sigh.

How Can I Tell You...

2006-12-04T20:03:00.000-06:00

How can I tell you
that I love you? I love you.
How can I tell you
that I'm always thinking of you
when I can't find
the right words
to say...

Dr. B watches the man on the television screen, in the middle of the night, drape a beautiful diamond necklace around his wife's neck. She feels the tickle of the metal, wakes, and they embrace.

"In my commercial, it would be the same. Except, in my commercial I'd be emptying your porta-potty."

New Dreams

2006-12-04T18:53:00.000-06:00

About a year and a half ago, in a freak bowling accident, I tore my ACL. I didn't know it at the time, and some other news kind of overshadowed it. That was the night I found out I was pregnant.

I was on cloud 9. I couldn't wait to be a mom. Everything was going great--I felt great, my hair looked good, I wasn't gaining weight, and things seemed perfect. We watched the baby at the sonogram at 8 weeks, and 4 weeks later, eagerly told our friends about our wonderful news.

A few days later, we lost the baby.

Though my heart was broken, I focused on our new life in France, and got through the pain as best I could. I knew that it might be hard for me to get pregnant again, because my history wasn't exactly wrinkle-free.

I wasn't ready to start trying again until we were well-entrenched in the streets of Paris. We nervously tossed the remaining pills, and officially started along the path once again. We didn't know what to expect, but we were hopeful.

After a few months of no success, I missed my period. I got very excited, and soon bought a pregnancy test. And another. And another.

And they were all negative.

Month after month, I waited, and waited, for nothing. It was almost like I was 10 years old again--there was nothing happening. I went to the doctor, who told me, "Be patient. It will come. You are young. Don't worry!" Easy for her to say.

I had hormone testing. That came up normal. The doctor still couldn't explain it. She scheduled a sonogram.

The doctor who performed it, after complimenting me on my excellent french, went to read me the results. It seems I had cysts and tumors in my uterus. There were lots of follicles, but she wasn't sure they were "any good". After several frantic emails to a high-school friend of mine who's a doctor (and who has internist friends), she told me I likely had Poly-Cystic Ovarian Syndrome, and this is what explained my 4 and a half dry months. She said it was definitely possible to get pregnant and have a baby, but I was still worried and quite overwhelmed. We were just about to move back to the US, and it was too much to deal with just then, so we decided to put it on the mental back burner until we were moved in, had insurance, and could focus our time on trying to find out how we could become parents.

We arrived home, and as luck would have it, things started working again just a few days after we landed at O'Hare. With a new home to prepare, boxes to unpack, jobs to start and so much to do, we decided to not worry too much and just wait to see what would happen. We waited for our insurance to kick in, and scheduled appointments with a doctor to get the process started. Due to the beginning of the academic year and all the new students and staff entering the system, our first appointments weren't set until the end of October. We were disappointed, but we knew there wasn't much we could do.

Then, on Friday the 13th, I blew out my knee again. At the ER, the doctor wanted to do an x-ray.

"Is there a chance you could be pregnant?"

"Well, I suppose, but I don't think so. I don't feel pregnant."

"Are you late?"

"Yeah, but only 2 weeks, and last time it was 4 and a half months, so it's probably nothing."

"Been nauseous?"

"Maybe a little, nothing big."*

"Constipated?"

"Um, yeah?"

He handed me a cup, and pointed to the bathroom.

There is a reason it took 7 weeks to go from injury to surgery. They had to wait until the second trimester.

I will be at 14 weeks as of tomorrow. Well, I guess I should say we.

*Note: this has changed. A lot. Ugh!

Raggedy Ann

2006-12-04T18:25:00.000-06:00

When I was a little girl, my Mom sewed me a "life-sized" Raggedy Ann doll. She was my best bud. Her head was flat (perfect for napping on), her hugs were free and very comforting, and she was just the size of a 4-year old girl living in Fargo, ND. She soaked up a lot of tears, a lot of hugs and kisses, and a few other things, when I was sick with the flu.

When I was newly married, my Mom decided that I needed a fresh, non-barfed-on Raggedy Ann doll as a Valentine's Day present. Mom stitched her with love, hand embroidering her face and big red smile. Though she wasn't the size of a 23-year old, she still gave great hugs, had a perfect for napping flat head, and soaked up a lot of tears when Mom died less than a year later, from a blood infection.

When we returned from France, I eagerly pulled Raggedy out of the box where she had waited for me, and set her up on the oak cedar chest my grandfather built for me. She had her usual place, watching us live our lives, and cheerfully waiting for me to need her again.

This weekend, I really needed her.

As I got out of surgery, Dr. B started making the round of calls to let everyone know I was OK and everything had gone well. When he got to Pam, my Dad's wife, I noticed he wasn't doing much of the talking.

Then, I found out why.

On Wednesday, my Dad had gone into the hospital with chest pains. He didn't tell me, not wanting me to worry while preparing for my own surgery. Mr. Stoic lied smoothly on the phone, making me believe he was calling from his kitchen, when he was actually calling from a hospital bed, wearing an uncomfortable green gown with an open back.

On Thursday, they did an angiogram, and then chest pains got really bad. There was no choice; Dad was scheduled for open heart surgery for first thing Friday morning. He needed a quadruple bypass.

Though our family has dealt with this many times before, because it is a hereditary condition, it still scared us to the core. My grandfather, who had 2 open heart surgeries, was by his side, with my grandmother, my sister and her fiancé. I was on the couch, in pain and sick to my stomach, partially from the ineffective pain meds, partially from worry.

"Please, honey, can you bring me Raggedy?" I asked. "I really need to feel close to my Mom right now."

Raggedy wrapped her arms tightly around my neck, soaked up my tears, and listened to my prayers. And she told Mom.

And he's going to be OK.

The surgery went as well as it could have, and the doctor said he was an excellent candidate. They said we were really lucky, because he wouldn't have made it to Christmas if he hadn't gone in when he did. They were surprised he was walking when he came in, but I guess they didn't count on the power of a stubborn, tough ol' Norwegian.

So today, though I am still in pain and pretty sick on laying here on the couch, I am so happy and thankful for everything. Though I have nothing prepared for Christmas--not one present bought, nothing baked, and not even an ornament hung with care--I know I really am ready. I got what I wanted for Christmas. I've got my Dad.

Big Day

2006-11-29T11:10:00.000-06:00

So it's finally here.

Surgery.

Tomorrow at ~~7:30~~ 9:30 AM CDT, I go under Dr. Lemon's knife.

Please keep good thoughts going skyward, and I promise that soon after I will break my silence and tell you what's really been going on.

For now, I am busy being a ~~control freak~~ responsible teacher and attempting to plan for everything my substitute (for the substitute) could need. The doc suggested taking a week off, so we are erring on the side of caution and I'm out until Monday the 11th of December. Scary, since there are concerts coming on the 14th and 18th, but what happens, happens.

After all, it is middle school band concerts--not a NATO summit or something.

It's all about perspective, right?

***Update: All went well, though the recovery is NOT FUN. More later. Thanks for the notes!

Bloglines Readers

2006-11-18T12:27:00.000-06:00

If you are reading this through bloglines, and have gotten re-updates of like a billion posts, I am really sorry. I think bloglines is on the fritz--I haven't seen it yet in mine, but I assume it is only a matter of time. Nearly every blog I read has recently republished about the last 6 months worth of posts, and it's really annoying. I know my dear blogger friends are not going in and changing one little letter in each post and reposting, so I must blame bloglines.

It's quite a letdown, really, to see 90 new "Les Blogs Français" posts and actually find only 2 new ones and 88 republished old posts.

End of rant. Happy weekend!

Surgery

2006-11-13T19:38:00.000-06:00

Finally!!!

A light at the end of the tunnel.

November 30th is the day. The doc said I really don't have any choice.

Fine with me. I just want this over. People seem shocked that I'm happy about having surgery, but they don't have to live with one leg. It's been one month as of today.

On the bright side, my shoulder is healing and not nearly as painful, though it is quite weak. I can't lift my laptop with my left hand, and I have a boatload of exercises I have to do twice a day. Oh well, not like I have much else to do while sitting here on the couch. Today the PT sub (mine was sick) "massaged" the muscle to loosen it. Yeah, it hurt like heck. I'm still sore, and a bit bruised. She warned me, but it took a lot of deep breaths to get through it. OUCH.

Sigh.

But, something I will be doing is planning my sub plans for the post-surgery time. You know, for the sub for the sub. Just what I want ten days before our concert. Argh!!! But, hopefully I will be healed enough to stumble down the isle at MagE and GLove's wedding on New Year's Eve. Luckily, the dress is long enough to cover anything, and I'm madly searching for silver flats on Zappo's. Let me know if you've got any leads.

La France Vient Chez Nous

2006-11-13T19:10:00.000-06:00

This weekend, we were thrilled by the visit of some friends, who not only brought us tales of Paris, but goodies galore, and hugs, and lots of fun. We spent four and half days with Aimee and Julien, and their ".5" who is due sometime in March. We talked, we ate, we shopped, we relaxed, we watched a really silly but highly enjoyable movie, we hit the yarn store, we knitted and we pretty much ate our weight in great Madison takeout and restaurant fare. (And they didn't complain once about dragging me around in the wheelchair we rented.) It's been a long time since I've seen Dr. B that happy as he and Julien played dueling Mac laptops and sampled some of the local brews (I think the last time was pre-knee injury) and I felt nearly whole again with one of my best friends right in the same house with me (well, as whole as I can be with only one knee). What a treat! Aimee even took me to Target and let me look at clothes and shoes and really cute pajamas that have dogs on them that look like Lucy, kind of, with Milk Bones. Those are on my Christmas list. (Dr. B just doesn't have much patience for that kind of stuff.)

Wisconsin did not disappoint, either--combining 65 degree sunny weather, fog, rain, cold, wind, sleet and snow all in one weekend!

Then on Sunday, Andie, Etienne and the two munchkins came by for brunch. We had a nice meal, got a chance to talk, catch up and laugh for several hours, and Gab enjoyed watching Muppets in Space and Family Guy (he's too young to understand how inappropriate that show is), playing with his cars, and chasing Lucy--he'd pull her tail and giggle, and she'd wag it and then turn around and kiss him on the cheek. Of course, Miss Bliss is adorable, calm and very snuggly. What a treat to see her!

So today, it was back to the grindstone. After a grueling PT session, I headed to school and Dr. B came home to welcome our french stuff, that we shipped on Aug. 23 from Paris, which was supposed to arrive the first week of October. Yeah. Really prompt, no? Blame it on US customs. Grrr.

By this time, I was getting pretty tired of the 3 cardigans (1 blue, 2 black) I had been trying to keep fresh by pairing them with slightly different shirt/pant/scarf/earring combinations, so I am relieved to see our things are finally here.

Everything made it, including some extra stuff that's not ours, but the furniture did not fare well. Bottles of wine? Fine. Glassware? No problem. Click Clack Bed? Damaged. IKEA dressers? Trashed. Shelving unit? Snapped in half.

Dagnabit.

Oh well.

At least they didn't break the wine.

(Thanks again Aussielass and the Muffin Man!)

PS: my cameras were in one of the boxes--so I'll finally be able to take some photos again soon! But first, we have to get rid of all these boxes in the living room. (It seems like I've said this before...)

Right

2006-11-07T18:00:00.000-06:00

When I was growing up, I lived as the eldest child of a mixed marriage.

My Mom was a Democrat. My Dad, a Republican.

Each election, they would have the same discussion. "Why bother voting? We'll just cancel each other out anyway."

And each time, they both did vote. Secretly hoping the other one wouldn't.

So, growing up in this type of a home, I heard both sides of the story. Though they didn't talk much about politics, their personal views and ethics were clear. They were respectful of each other, and agreed to disagree. And disagree they did.

My mom died in 1998. My dad is still a staunch Republican, with Christmas cards from the Bushes arriving each year, and of course his prized possession, a photograph of himself with his uncle Melvin and Ronald Reagan, in the prime position on the wall in the den, next to the door, so he can see it every time he walks in and out. My grandparents, too, are Republicans from way back, and are proud to wear little elephant pins on their lapels and decorate their homes with American flags and red, white and blue.

On my mom's family's side, things are a bit quieter, but their political views are just as strongly held and just as passionate. Though they may not wear their opinions on their sleeve or lapel, they do their duty. They vote.

As do I. Every election. (OK, I admit that I think I missed one for alderperson back in 2002.**)

Today, I got to feel that wonderful feeling that I get each time I walk through the school doors and give my name and address. I hobbled on my crutches over to a table and folding chair, sat down, and cast my ballot. (I had to suppress the urge to cheer as I headed toward the door.)

I am proud to be an American, and I always will be. I am proud to have the right to vote. I am proud that my vote counts, even if statistically it's not very much.

But it's mine. It's my opinion. It's my values. It's what I feel and think and believe, and I have the right to tell my government. It was a right that people fought and died for, and I do not take it lightly.

And every time I exercise my right, my duty, I am filled again with that powerful knowledge that ensures me--I do matter.

And so do you. Please, if you haven't yet, cast your vote. Tell them what you think.

Because it is important.

*Image from University of Tennesee Libraries.
**Alderperson 2002: I still feel a little guilty about that one.

Dog Crack

2006-10-25T13:55:00.000-05:00

We had no idea, when purchasing a bag of natural, organic-type cheesy poofs, what we were doing. They were good, though, and when I made out my online order for Capitol Center Foods, I added a bag of baked Cheetos.

I am to blame.

Dr. B and I happily munched as we watched BBC's Robin Hood, and unbeknownst to me, I created an addict.

Lucy was looking at us, with that "I'd really not mind at all if you'd let me have some of that" look she's so good at, combined with the "but no worries, I know it's not for me--no pressure or anything" head tuck which makes her so very endearing. I tossed her a cheeto.

CRUNCH! CRUNCH! Slurp! Slurp!

She had a slightly crazed look in her eye.

"No more!" I said, pulling the bag closer to me. "Now go lie down." She obliged, but kept an eye on that bag from her bed under the window, her ears perking up with every crinkle. About an hour later, she was ordered to leave the room when she let fly one of her trademark Green Cloud© farts. Seriously. These things are so potent, they could melt the contact lenses right to your eyeballs.

The next afternoon, while watching some mindless movie, I ate a few more cheetos. I must have brushed my fingers off on the blanket I had on my lap. Lucy came over to see me, and licked my fingers to get the cheez dust off them.

Then, she started to lose it.

She licked my fingers. She licked my hand. She licked the blanket. And licked it. And kept licking it. Until it was soaking wet.

"Go!" I yelled. "Get away! No more cheetos for you!"

The other night, I was upstairs, bed bound with a bum shoulder and knee. I heard her running around, crazily, from room to room, barking and letting out little yips (which she never does--she is a very quiet dog.)

"What did you do to her?" I yelled down, expecting that Dr. B would just say the usual--that she had to poop and he was going to take her for a walk.

"Nothing," he answered. "She just ate her food! All of it! She just gulped it down. Well, I did put two cheetos in her bowl..."

Enabler.

*Photo from Wikipedia.

I wasn't faking it...

2006-10-25T13:46:00.000-05:00

The physical therapist thinks I may have torn my rotater cuff in my shoulder. She was much more concerned about it than about my knee, which I kind of can't do much of anything about at this point. I must say that I liked her a lot--her bedside manner made up for the surgeon's. (Yes, I know he's good. He is still kind of a jerk, though.)

So, here I sit, again.

Sigh.

But, I have grades to work on, and Grandmas to call, so I better hop to it. (Ha)

2006-10-24T09:35:00.000-05:00

Late

My dear friend Vivi led me to Frog with a Blog, who had this brilliant video, showing what it's like to make the morning commute in Paris.

And right now, I'm missing two things desperately.

Paris.

And Walking.

Sigh.

Doctors' Orders

2006-10-23T21:40:00.000-05:00

Well, I guess I overdid it.

My shoulder started hurting. Thinking I just laid on it wrong, I went to bed. Woke up, it was worse. Laid there until the pain was so bad I was crying--then Dr. B said, "let's get you in the tub (I really needed a bath) and go to the doctor." So we headed into the bathroom, and called a nurse for advice. While talking to her, I got really dizzy, started dry heaving and almost fainted.

So, we called 911, and the paramedics came, and took me to the ER.

No bath for me.

They put me in a sling for my arm, which they thought was just strained, and gave me pain meds, and put me in a leg immobiliser for my knee. The doc was very concerned that it wasn't straightening, ordered me not to go to work for 3 days, to stay on the main floor of the house, and to see the Orthopaedist TODAY.

Great.

Still no bath.

So, I've spent the last I don't know how long flat on my back, bored out of my gourd. Last night, Dr. B rigged up a MacGuyver wheelchair (a moving dolly with a crate and a pillow), rolled me into the kitchen, and washed my hair for me. It wore me out, and the pain was horrible. As soon as he rolled me back to the couch, I fell asleep, exhausted. We woke up early, called for an appointment, and did the best we could to clean me up without moving me much. Which means? Washcloth, tupperware, soap and water. Not the most sanitary or comfortable of bathing experiences.

I did get to see the ortho guy today, on sort of an emergency basis. He is, from what I hear, a great surgeon. Arrogant, know-it-all, and kind of a prick? Exactly. He told me he was a trumpet player. Somehow, this did not surprise me at all. Waggled my arm and leg around like a marionette, but knew exactly what was going on, and quizzed his med student with a big grin on his face, while I moaned in pain.

"She just told you what happened, she told you the exact diagnosis! What is it?" he said, as I grit my teeth to keep from screaming.

The meek little med student stammered, and tried to hide behind the examining table.

"Move! Move!" he ordered her, and came around to bend my leg this way and that.

"Torn ACL. That was the 'POP' you heard back in 2005 when you did your original injury. Did you see? I could pull your leg right apart! There's nothing holding it together! You've been getting by on a wing and a prayer. Plus, the meniscus is most likely torn. And the reason you can't straighten your leg is that either a piece of the meniscus or else the end of the ACL tendon is flipped up and jammed between the bones of your knee. That's what's causing all the pain when you try to straighten it."

So?

Physical therapy, for the knee and for the shoulder (which he said is strained and has tendonitis from the crutches and lifting myself up stairs), then an MRI to be sure, then a few weeks after that? Surgery.

Well, at least it will be over.

But, for some odd reason, all the flapping about of my arm he made me do actually helped, and it doesn't hurt nearly as much now. He told me I have to move it, or it will hurt more, and it appears he knows what he's talking about. I am on only Tylenol now, and the pain isn't bad at all. I even made it upstairs for a bath and (ahem) other things I'm not comfortable doing in the living room. (Thank heaven for the loan of a small porta potty when I needed it, but there are certain things you just don't want to do sitting next to the couch.) I'm staying up here tonight, on a real bed. And I'm clean!!! I can't tell you what a real relief it is to wash yourself, all over, with real water, and lots of it! REAL WATER! No damp washcloth and pail for me, no sirree! Ahhhhhh...

So regardless, I am still stuck here, and on doctors' orders to not work for the next two days. I have PT on Wednesday, and Thursday and Friday are teachers convention (which I am skipping due mainly to the knee, but also partially to the fact that this year's lineup of presentations really stinks, frankly, and I don't know why I should spend 90 bucks to go and not get paid for those days teaching anyway, being a sub.)

And I've put out the call for reading material care packages--my step-mom and mother-in-law have promised me books.

There's only so much 'Clean House' a girl can watch, after all.

*Illustration from www.knee.ortho-net.com.

Butt-Scootin' Boogie!*

2006-10-19T20:33:00.000-05:00

Well, I am still here, though not up on my feet yet. Dr. B is running around like a chicken with his head cut off doing everything for me and still working more than full time as a post doc. He's in training time, with 8 new students to get up to speed, and his research depends on their work, so he's a bit stressed. Combine that with the cooking, cleaning, laundry doing, dog walking, dog feeding, dog vet-taking-to (she has a rash), dog cream putting-on, carrying me food, water, juice, ice packs, my crutches, my school bag, my purse, my sweater, my pants, shirt, underwear, socks, helping me to get up stairs, into the bath, into the car, into school, driving me to school and from school, picking up things at the store, and all the other things on the agenda--well, let's just put it this way. He has a right to be crabby.

But, as usual, he's a darling, and still tells me he loves me and I'm beautiful and he wouldn't have it any other way. (There must be something in the water--I swear, I am NOT feeding him any drugs!)

The knee is getting a little stronger, though, and I am able to touch the foot down when brushing my teeth. I still can't straighten it, or put much weight on it, but I am feeling a little bit better and things are getting easier. Kids and staff at school are super helpful, and even brought me a wheelchair to use at one school (this has been awesome). Another friend sent a Cryo-Cuff, which allows me to change my own ice pack without getting up--wonderful!

And I have perfected the BSB*. This was a technique taught to me by Dr. Isabel, another researcher at Jeff's lab and his boss's wife, who also went through this (as did his boss. Seems to be very common.)

As we left the ER, we were met by Marc and Isabel, who came to check on me after the party, worried that I was really hurt. Isabel, in her adorable (yet sometimes difficult to discern) Spanish accent, told me, "I have something very important. You need to know this. It is the only way!"

"For the stairs! You sit. Then you use your arms and your other leg, and you push and go up one by one. On your butt. Lift your other leg up!!! It is hard, and it takes time, but it is the only way."

She's right. And I'm getting better at it. I can make it up the stairs without stopping for a rest now (first night I stopped for 3). The only hiccup is our front porch when it rains.

I guess that's why God invented junk mail.

Sad News: Updated

2006-10-14T10:31:00.000-05:00

A few days ago, as I was driving to work in the morning, I heard the news of a random shooting in Milwaukee, about 90 minutes to the east of Madison. It seems a sandwich delivery man had been shot four times when attempting to return to his truck after making a drop off, in a "not bad" neighborhood of the city. His death made the 87th murder this year in Milwaukee. The story was replayed time and time again, and as I listened each time, I just couldn't understand why it happened. It just didn't make sense--it was just a random act of violence.

Then, his name was released. Joseph Munz, 21, of Lodi.

Joe used to play trumpet in my band at St. Michael's School in Dane, back in 1999-2000, when we first came to Wisconsin. I taught at St. Michael's for one year, and in that time got to know and care about the 29 students who made up the K-8 school.

They say the good die young, that God sometimes takes the good ones to heaven early. With this one, it is so very unfortunately true. Joe was one of those kids you always remember--quiet, well-behaved, prepared, honest, kind, trustworthy--someone you would describe as "salt of the earth". He was one of the kids I would have trusted to babysit my own kids, had I had any at the time. (This is saying a lot--we middle school teachers see kids at their best and worst!) I knew he was a special soul, even then. He was one of the rare ones that just never seemed to have a nasty bone is his body. His family was the kindest, most patient and loving that I had met, and I considered him to be a very special and lucky young man. He was from a large family, and had many brothers and sisters who also lived in the area. He was looking forward to playing football at Lodi High School when he left St. Mike's, but he always remained grounded and faithful to his life where he was. I remember him as a sort of leader at the tiny school, carrying the statue of the Virgin during May Crowning, followed by all the younger students, who looked up to him, as someone they wanted to be like, an example of what it meant to live your life the right way.

One day, as I left my other school for my lunch-time drive to Dane (through curvy back roads, hills, highways, farms and tiny towns), I was a bit behind. I knew I would be late, but couldn't get cell phone reception, so I just plowed ahead as best I could.

When I arrived, Joe was waiting, with a teasing look in his eye. He smiled, and said, "You're late!"

"I know. There was an accident, on the Beltline Highway. It really slowed things down. Looked bad; the car was on fire. I don't know if the driver was OK or not."

"Oh," he answered, and his face fell. "I'm really sorry," he whispered.

I knew that Joe would pray for those people that day. He was just that kind of kid.

Joe's funeral is today. I had planned to attend, to drive those curvy back roads again. I just wanted to let his family know, and the nuns at the school, that Joe had touched many lives, and that he would always be remembered.

Unfortunately, something stepped in and prevented it--last night, the "popping" of my knee happened again, as I jumped from the car to run to the guy in front of us at the stop sign, to let him know he had lost a hub cap. This time, though, it didn't go back in. We went to the ER, and the doctor thought I had probably torn my meniscus repeatedly,though he wasn't exactly sure, but the damage was worse than before. The previous times, he said it had probably been able to sort of reset itself on the tear, but that this time the cartiledge just couldn't reset. My knee is very, very sore, I am on crutches again, and here I sit, a prisoner in my own home. Thankfully, Dr. B is an angel, and is taking care of everything for me. I am thankful that he has the flexibility in his work to set his hours and be available when I need him. He'll likely be driving me to work for a while, because the clutch is not something I can handle right now. I'll see an orthopedic doctor this week, and surgery may be in my future.

But, I do consider myself very lucky, as friends of mine are going through something so very much worse that just my knee.

So if you're so inclined, I would thank you to add Joe's family and friends, and my dear friend, Vivi, to your growing list of prayers/positive healing energy/holding in the light. This world can use all the positive energy it can get right now. Thank you.

(* Photo from The Milwaukee Channel,
ABC TV.)

***UPDATE***

They got him, and he confessed.

I hope now Joe and his family have found a small measure of peace.

What an incredible waste of two young men's lives.

Non-Fumeur

2006-10-08T12:46:00.000-05:00

I can't believe it. France is banning smoking in public places.

WOWEE!!! And what a shock! Maybe the French aren't twenty years behind the US, as so many say.

Vive le droit de respirer!!!

"Your Shipment...

2006-10-03T23:50:00.000-05:00

Has been pulled aside by the US Government to be X-rayed.

We have no idea when you'll get it. We wish we could help you, but we can't. This is the US Government we're talking about. Don't even think about arguing.

And it will cost you more, payable to the good old US of A. Anywhere from 25 dollars to SEVEN HUNDRED."

Great.

They're going to charge us for used clothing, garage sale finds, and boxes of books that were too heavy to carry on the plane.

And let me guess, the container that has the refugees or the drugs or the guns or the counterfeit items? That one will sail right through...

Well, at least they're checking some of them.

Too bad the same doesn't happen for our elected representatives.

(But honestly, I don't want to know any more about that. Please, just lock him up forever and get those victims some serious therapy. And DON'T let it happen again. Ever. [shudder] )

Handy Andy

2006-10-01T21:33:00.000-05:00

Until now, Dr. B and I have both been so busy getting our working life in order, we haven't had a lot of time for around the house kind of fix-it things. Friday I spent mostly sitting on the couch fervently trying to get healthy again after the first cold of the season threatened, and I found that after some OJ, extra sleep, DayQuil, Theraflu, vitamins and lots of yucky-tasting Zinc lozenges, I actually felt quite a bit better.

Finally, a weekend dawned with no plans, no pressing assignments, and several "to do" items on our list. After some intense errand running, we returned home on Saturday afternoon with several new shelving units to assemble (thanks to a 50% off sale at Shopko) and a few pairs of inexpensive Venetian blinds to cover the three windows upstairs that didn't already have them. After a delicious homemade brunch on Sunday morning (Dr. B's own creation of chèvre, shallot, green pepper and ham omlettes, with toast and jam and yogurt and coffee), we decided to tackle some of the things on the list. I followed Dr. B upstairs, returned down to fetch the tape measure, then another trip for the screwdriver, then yet another trip for a chair to stand on, and as he began to drill holes for the blinds, I went into the other room, searching through boxes to find something I just knew was there.

"Would you get back in here?!?!?!" he shouted. "I need you!"

I went back into the room.

"Hand me the drill."

"Oh, you need me for that? Get it yourself," I said, the wheels turning in my head of just where said very important item could be.

"You're supposed to be helping me. This is helping. Now stay here!" he said, grumpy and irritated.

I myself was equally grumpy and irritated at the thought of being forced to sit at his side and hand him a pencil or a screw or a level when he could just as well get it himself. I flopped down on the bed and sighed audibly.

He worked away at putting up the blinds, every few minutes punctuated with some rather colorful language. As he dropped a handful of screws, he let out a howl that would have woken the dead, followed by some other words that would have made most of them blush.

"Boy, you can tell that your brother (the professional carpenter) got the majority of the fixit skills," I said with a grin, as I handed him the screwdriver.

He glowered down at me, and began muttering under his breath. He worked feverishly, determined that he alone could hang the blinds, and that I, ingrateful person that I am, had no right whatsoever to complain.

At last, the brackets were ready. I handed him the blinds, and turned back to my side project of assembling a shelving unit, jumping up every time he barked to hand him the clip, screw, pencil, or whathaveyou that he couldn't bear to bend to retrieve.

"Finally!" he trumpeted. "At last. Now, take a look at this," he said, as he loaded the blinds, slid in the covers, and pulled on the cord.

WHAMBAMAMABMAMAMGMABABMBAMDGA!!!!

The blinds came flying out of the brackets, scaring the dog out of the room and launching me into a fit of giggles as Dr. B let out another string of words that would've made my Grandma smack him and threaten to wash his mouth out with Lava.

"Handy Andy, you're not," I said, as I bent to retrieve the blinds and hand him the center bracket, which obviously would need to be attached.

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!!!" he shreiked, angry at my reference to my Mom's nickname for my Dad, used most often when something had blown up in his face and singed his eyebrows and eyelashes. "Knock it off! I don't call you 'Grace' when you do something klutzy," he pouted.

"Yes, you do. And then when I get mad, you tell me to 'Simmer down, White Fang.' So 'Handy Andy' you are," I said, and giggled again. "Do you want a beer?"

"Yes. But we don't have any," he said as he drilled the holes for the center bracket, and screwed it in place.

"Oh, how about a glass of wine? I'd go around the corner and get some, but I can't buy any beer. It's Sunday; it's illegal in Wisconsin to sell beer on Sunday."

"WHAT?!?!?!"

"Calm down, it's always been that way. How about a glass of wine?"

"No wine glass. A tumbler. I don't want to break that, too!"

Another string of nasty syllables came rushing out, as he realized he had put the bracket up upside down. Another followed a few minutes later, when he realized the bracket, fully screwed in and ready, was a full inch too far to the right.

I made my way downstairs, and opened the cupboard, searching for a cup he couldn't break. The only wine open was a Côtes du Rhône, and I was a little worried that though it would be in a definitely unbreakable cup, he would still manage to spill it everywhere, staining everything a purply red.

I handed the 'glass' to him, with a warning to be careful anyway.

"This isn't funny! NOT FUNNY!!!" he yelled as he took the Rubbermaid kids cup I handed him.

"Yes, it is. It's very funny. Now drink your wine. We've got two more windows and three more bookshelves to go."

**Note: after one little sippy-cup of wine, Dr. B put up the other two sets of blinds and assembled the three shelving units, with my help of course, with nary a complaint. He even smiled. From now on, wine first, power tools second. This may not work for everyone, but for us? A necessity.

It wasn't my school.

2006-09-29T21:48:00.000-05:00

He wasn't my principal.

But he was an educator, like me.

He cared about kids, like I do.

He dedicated his life to trying his best to bring them up right.

What is this world coming to?

Quarter Note

2006-09-26T22:29:00.000-05:00

Mrs. B the Band Director:

"OK, everyone! Now that we've learned how to play your very first note on the trombone and the euphonium, let's use our "too-too tonguing" and try the notes in #2! These notes are called Quarter Notes. Quarter Notes get one beat each. What does a quarter note look like?"

Note: Expected Answer is "it's colored in, with a stick attached."

Sam the Euphonium player:

"A Golf Club!"

Coming Soon...

2006-09-25T19:14:00.000-05:00

A new blog/blog title/name/whateveryacallit. And a new design. Promise. In the works. Be patient!

An end to this 6-day (and counting) migraine. I hope. I'm running out of medecine, and our new insurance doesn't kick in until the 1st of October, so I'm hoping for an end to this, soon. If it's still going by then, I'm going to need morphine. Oy.

Payday. Puh-leeeeeeeeze!!! Amazing, how expensive moving is, even when it's "paid for". Yeah, whatever.

A new knitting project. I just got some yarn, and had my first American Yarn Store experience. It was mind-blowing!!! No french yarn, but yarn from everywhere else on this planet, including Manos del Uraguy, every kind of Alpaca, and many yarns only sold from cones--that they spin themselves! Made the Bon Marché look like the Mauvais Marché. I made a simple, economical choice, and now have 4 skeins of Cascade 220 in a lovely shade of smoky blue (the color that looks best on me of all colors in the spectrum) that will become some sort of shawly/stoley/warm wrappy thing. And I'll sit in the new garage-sale oak rocker that is sitting proudly in our new living room. I can't wait to get started!

Positive vibes going out to Kyliemac for her spider-munch saga, and to my cousin Amanda and her husband Chad, who are in the military in Iraq. Please keep them in your thoughts, and thank you.

Un Emigré à Madison

2006-09-22T22:04:00.000-05:00

On Monday night, I got a surprise call from my Awesome Aunt Brenda, the emergency room nurse, who was in town for a health-care conference, and happened to have a night free. (OK, she bowed out of a boring reception on the off chance that we'd be able to hook up. She's cool like that.) I picked her up at her hotel on the west side, and she insisted on hearing "all about France" in the car, as I attempted to make it across town without too many manual transmission mistakes. (I did pretty well; only stalled out once.) We talked about culture, food, and of course, politics, and compared some of the interesting similarities and differences between the two countries. She was especially interested to hear about the issues of racism in France, and wanted to know what some of the reasons were that there is such a disparity between ethnic groups in both of our countries.

After walking Lucy, we headed over to the Weary Traveler Freehouse, and continued our conversation with Dr. B, who was waiting there, having an after-class glass of wine with his friend and mentor. After Marc left, I hailed the waiter, and ordered wine for us to enjoy with our dinner.

"Excuse me, could we get three glasses of Côte du Rhône, please?"

The waiter looked surprised, agreed, and said, "you have an excellent accent!"

I smiled, and said over my shoulder, "Well, we just got back from a year in Paris...", feeling quite smug and cosmopolitan, I admit.

"Great!" he said, and rushed off to put in our order, his frizzy hair bobbing out underneath his trendy trucker hat.

We continued to discuss the issues of the day, our President, the Middle East, energy issues, and Brenda's daughter Amanda (my cousin) and son-in-law, Chad, who are in Iraq as we speak. As we ate our incredibly delicious meal (Madison plug: go to the Weary Traveler--it's great!!! end of plug), we never lacked for subjects of conversation, as is the norm when we're with Brenda.

As we were finishing, the waiter came over again, and asked how we had liked living in France. We told him we loved it, and were pleased to find a few cheeses from France at the Willy Street Co-Op, a few blocks away. "Oh, you should really check out Whole Foods. They have a very good selection," he said, and listed a few of his favorites, mentioning that the cheeses were seasonal, so you needed to return regularly and watch their stock.

"Where are you from?" I asked, having a hard time placing his accent myself.

"Oh!" he said, "France!"

"Really!?!" I was quite surprised. He didn't have the French je ne sais quoi that I had grown accustomed to; or at least, it was hidden behind his über-cool thrift-store plaid shirt. "Do you like it here? Why did you leave?"

"I love Madison. I first came here about 8 years ago, to visit a friend, and came back as soon as I could. It's a great town. I had to get out of France. I couldn't go anywhere there. The racism."

Brenda looked shocked. "Racism?" she asked, "but... you're not... I mean..."

"Yeah," he said. "My father is Algerian. I had nothing but trouble there. No jobs, stopped all the time by the police for no reason, no chance. Here, I am just a guy. I am me. I can work, I can be myself, people don't stare at me with hatred, and I can just be happy. There, though I am French, I am still Algerian. I was born and raised in France, but it doesn't matter. I will always be discriminated against. I hate it. I never want to go back."

He told us of his experiences during the aftermath of September 11th, when he was forced to leave the US. "I went to St. Martin, in the French West Indies, because it's officially France, but it's not. People there are much more laid back, not nearly as racist. And I waited. I wanted to come back here. I like it here. People treat me with respect. They don't assume I am bad because my eyes are black, my skin is a little darker and my hair is black and curly."

"They still stop me," he continued, "every time I go home. Police. They pull me over for no reason, and they take my ID. Since my first name is English, my mom chose an English surname for me, and my last name doesn't necessarily sound Algerian, though it is, they think my ID is fake and I stole it. Every time. I am so tired of it. So tired of being treated like I am not good enough."

"But I like it here. I have a degree from the culinary school, and I have lots of education--I was here on a lot of student visas. Just kept going to school! Now I work here, bartending and serving, spend time with my friends, and just live my life."

He invited us to come back, and offerred to help us practice our french with him whenever we liked.

"I'm behind the bar Monday, Wednesday and Sunday," he said, smiling, "and I play a lot of French music-- house, rock, folk and lots of other stuff."

As we drove home from dropping Brenda back at her hotel, Dr. B and I discussed our new acquaintance. We both were glad that our "take" on the racial tensions in France was pretty much in agreement with Cedric's view of his homeland, and we decided to take his advice and head to Whole Foods soon for some fromage français.

"He is definitely a french man, though," said Dr. B, as he was pulling into our street.

"Why?" I asked.

"He may have invited both of us to come practice our french with him, but it was pretty clear that he was meaning you, pretty lady."

Jealous? Angry? Shocked?

2006-09-17T22:09:00.000-05:00

Gas price: $2.53/gallon (WI has $.52 tax/gallon)
Number of gallons needed to fill tank: approximately 12.
Cost of gas: about 31 bucks.

Number of miles driven on that tank (mixture of city and highway):

525.5

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

I love my Honda Civic Hybrid.

(PS: I went solo on the stick after 3 lessons. So far, no accidents, no engines left behind me, and only a few honks. I figured, if I can survive a year in Paris speaking Parisian french, I can learn how to drive a stick shift. It no longer scares me, much anyway. I actually think it's kind of fun.)

Photo from edmunds.com. Ours is a darker gray, but I couldn't find a photo of that color.

Finally!

2006-09-17T21:34:00.000-05:00

We have internet, at home. And wireless. Amazing how it felt like the stone age when I don't have instant connection to the rest of the world, where just a few years ago (OK, maybe 15?) I didn't even have an email account. But, we are back up, and I'll slowly be catching up on my blogs, emails, comments, etc. and maybe I'll finally decide on a new name for my new blog. I love being Mrs. B, but there is more to me than that, after all. I'm waiting for the inspiration to hit me.

School/Work is going very well, and I'm getting organized, little by little. The kids are fantastic, and my friend is a great teacher, so they are enthusiastic, prepared and good musicians--it's kind of like stepping back into my own shoes (not to toot my own horn...) It makes it very fun and with much less stress than it could have been.

I'm still on the search for good bread (yes, I've enjoyed Madison Sourdough's multigrain, BTW--I wish they made baguettes!), but due to the tightness of my pants (I guess all that Parisian walking did add up), I am on the "More Broccoli, Less Bread" Diet. Not exactly Low-Carb or Zone (that was just exhausting, frankly), but more of an effort than I had to make in Paris.

We are slowly accumlating the important things (a new bed for Lucy in the living room, which she loves (she's a bit spoiled), and a salad spinner to replace the one we must have tossed in a moment of insanity--Dr. B splurged on the OXO one, and it is sweet!), but still have yet to find the toaster oven. (Oh well, no need to toast broccoli.)

"Lost" things are being found every day (clear glass party plates--located!) and we are starting to feel at home. We still have more boxes than we know what to do with, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and word has it that our french stuff was stuck in customs last week, which I hope means that it must be stateside, and we soon will be finding places for our new treasures, snuggling with our down comforter, taking pictures again and posting them on my Flickr, putting our clothes in drawers, knitting for winter and sewing new curtains from my Marché St. Pierre finds. And eventually (hopefully) hanging pictures on the walls and putting books in the new shelves we have to buy (there's always next month...)

Tonight, Dr. B made a pilgrimage to the west side for food and computer parts while I was eyeball-deep in scheduling, and came home with some french-type food treasures, so we enjoyed carottes rapées (with 2 types of french moutarde in the vinaigrette--homemade, of course), cornichons and a Côtes du Rhone rosé with dinner, and there rests an award-winning Wisconsin 5-year cheddar in the cheese drawer of the refrigerator.

Who says you can't have it all?

***Note: God has quite a sense of humor--they just started playing the Spice Girls' "If You Wanna Be My Lover" on the radio.

Yeah. So I guess this isn't heaven. Got it.

PS: Did you see this picture? I am so proud of her. She's going to be a great mom!

Le Pain, il me manque.

2006-09-09T16:26:00.000-05:00

In France, we took for granted that we could find decent bread just about anywhere we went. Some was worse than others, but we knew the places we liked, and even if they were closed, there was something at least passable within walking distance of our petit appartement.

When I was in college, I worked as a weekend baker at a bakery in North Dakota that made bread from dough prepared by French bakers, imported to the US. The flours were imported from France, and though it wasn't hand made (and thus of an inferior quality to the artisanal breads we so loved in France), it was still quite good. I loved shaping the breads, tucking the ends over to make the tips smooth, and slashing the tops with a razor blade before steaming them in the oven the owner had imported from France for the baking of the bread. The smell of the baking breads, and the crackling of the crusts as they cooled on the rack was enough to make up for the 4 AM reveille.

Upon arriving in the US again, we missed the bakeries more than we expected to. We searched for "good" bread, and again and again were disappointed with crusts that were either too soft or hard but not crisp, mie that was dense and cottony rather than light with chew and big, irregular holes, and the addition of herbs and flavors that seemed just too much. An olive oil and rosemary bread was like biting into an herb garden, filled with mattress stuffing. Not an appetizing combination.

I decided to stop into the "french" bakery in town, hoping I could find something passable. The breads I saw reminded me nothing of the boulangeries in Paris, and the case was loaded with heavy Wisconsin cookies, bars, bear claws and donuts. I saw multigrain breads in plastic sacks, and hoped that there would be some of my favorite, a multi-grain baguette, available.

"Do you make a multi-grain baguette?" I asked, hoping to see a rack of them hiding around the corner.

"A multi-grain baguette?" the clerk asked. "You can make multi-grain baguettes?"

"Yes. Well, they do in France. I love them; they're my favorite."

"Oh, I'll ask," she said, turning and catching the attention of one of the bakers.

"No, we don't make them now," she answered, "but I can do it, if you give me about a week's notice," she said, blowing the hair out of her eyes as she wiped her brow with the back of her arm.

A week's notice. A WEEK. What? How difficult is it to shape dough into the shape of a baguette? Unbelievable.

I thanked them politely, said no, and took the baguette she had cut in half and slipped into a paper bag for me.

I headed home, and we broke out the baguette for dinner, breaking the tip off to munch on while the sausage was sizzling in the pan.

"Yuck," said Dr. B. "Tastes like a hard hot-dog bun."

So much for "La Brioche".

I wonder how much it costs to FedEx a Baguette des Prés?

Bigger Pothole

2006-09-06T13:22:00.000-05:00

I called this morning, to find out what was going on with our internet at home. I was hoping they could solve the problem for me, and I would be back to what I was used to in Paris in no time.

Unfortunately, the service rep said, "sorry, it's just bad where you are I guess. And Macs have weaker antennae anyway. We'll cancel it for you, as of now, and refund all your money."

Well, at least we got the money back.

So until next Saturday, I will be a regular at EVP café, and will not be prompt with comment publishing, responding, or cute stories. I start teaching tomorrow at 7:30 AM as well, so I will be busy!

Stay tuned...

The One Where We Get a New Car

2006-09-04T16:15:00.000-05:00

When we moved to France, we had to sell our beloved 1997 Honda Accord. This car was my baby, and I just loved her. Her JVC CD player (stolen and replaced), her constant reliability, her "heather mist" paint job (that's a fancy word for beige. I have no idea where they came up with 'heather mist' for metallic beige. Isn't heather purple and green?) She was a wonderful car.

But, it would have been cost-prohibitive to store her, no one we knew had room to store her for free, and we needed the money to move to France, so we sold her. (I admit to shedding a tear.)

Upon arriving back in the states, Dr. B rented an MPV to bring us from Chicago O'Hare to Madison. We used it to haul our 4 huge valises, Lucy and her extra-large travelling box, and our various carry-ons, clarinets, computers and whatnot. When we got the keys to our new place, we drove it to the storage unit to haul over a mattress for our first night in our new home. The next day, after trading it in for a Mazda 3 rental, we set out to see what we could find.

We both wanted to find a car that was as reliable as our Accord, suited our needs (nothing too big, but not a SmartCar either), was energy-efficient, reliable and affordable. It's easy to live car-free in Paris, but in the US? Not so much. A car really is a necessity.

We knew that hybrids had a really long waiting list, were more expensive, and never came in used, and since we needed something quick, we decided to head to the VW dealership to look at diesels. We thought we could probably handle a Golf or something similar, and went in to speak to the salesman to see what was available. He said there were no diesels available, and the soonest we could get one would be 3 to 4 months off. No chance of any used diesels, either--they'd all been snapped up like hotcakes. He took us in a "test drive" to show us the Rabbit, "on the way to the used lot."

Yeah, right.

He talked a good game, and nearly had us sold on the new VW Rabbit. The car was brilliant--impeccable design, amazing features--they thought of everything!

Except the gas mileage. A disappointing 27 mpg. Feh.

We took his card, his credit applications, and the Rabbit literature, and went to find lunch. "I don't know," I said. "It's a great car, but I don't think it's right. The gas mileage, it's not as good as we'd like. I think there's got to be something else out there."

"I don't think so," Dr. B answered. "VW is about as good as we're going to find, for what we want. I think this is just about our only option. I've researched it, on the web. There's so little available in America." He was also quite irritated with me for chatting "too familiarly" with the salesman--thinking that my little stories about when my mom bought a car were not appropriate to the situation. "You've got to stop that," he said. "We're just buying a car. It's not his job to listen to your stories about your mom's trunk space!"

"That is too his job!" I said. "It's what salesman do. Don't worry about it; it was fine." But he had enough--he didn't want to look anymore. He was resigned to buying a car that didn't live up to his own self-imposed specifications.

"Can we stop by Zimbrick?" I asked, "just check around a bit. I really don't think we'll find anything, but it doesn't hurt to look. We not buying anything today. But just look, a little."

We went to Zimbrick Honda. I vowed to be hard-nosed, tough, to not tell any cute stories. I was all business, and this salesman was NOT going to think he would sell a car to me. No sirree bob. I am one tough cookie, you better believe it.

The salesman took us around, showing us the new 2007 Civic. We climbed in for a test drive. It was much upgraded, and was nicer than our Accord had been. I liked it well enough, but Dr. B didn't. "I just don't like it," he said. "The nose, it goes too low. Reminds me of your sister's old car, what was it? A Grand Am? And the dashboard. It's too long. It makes the car seem too big. I am not comfortable with it. It's too 'space-age'."

I knew what this meant. He didn't like it for reasons understood only by him, and no convincing would work, no matter how logical it might be. The long nose had taken the Honda from the "possible" list to the "no way" list. Dr. B had already made up his mind that he was not going to be happy, so it was pointless, because the proverbial door was shut. We weren't going to find anything and that was all there was to it.

"We really wanted a hybrid," he told the salesman. "But those waiting lists are, like, six months long and we don't have that time. And now we can't get a diesel either, for at least 3 months. A huge gas-guzzling SUV is easy to find, but an energy-efficient car in the US? Not so easy."

"Oh, well, I did have a 2005 Honda Civic Hybrid come in this week."

We nearly got whiplash and cracked our skulls together as we both whipped around in our seats to look at him.

"WHAT?!?!?"

We took a test-drive. Smooth, easy to drive. Comfortable. Clean, in great shape. 18,000 miles on it. No long space-age dashboard. Dark gray ("Magnesium") with a dark gray interior and black dashboard. CD player. Hidey-hole box to stash the iPod. Alarm system. Side-curtain airbags.

And the pièce de résistance? 51 miles per gallon on the highway. In town? 45.

WOOOOOOOO!!!

Remember that part about "we won't buy a car today"? Yeah, scratch that.

And now, I learn to drive a stick shift. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Information Highway: Gravel and Potholes

2006-09-04T08:59:00.000-05:00

We have internet. It's this fabulous new plan, providing wireless internet to the city of Madison! It's such a great idea--you just sign up, and they allow you to jump on from your house, with no modem to deal with, no leasing of a livebox, no wires, no cables. It covers our area of town, and is spreading to the rest of the city in the future.

Fabulous except for one thing.

It's really, really, r e a l l y s l o w ......................

After the blazing speed fiber-optics of Paris, I have lost my patience. Not when it comes to waiting in line, which is an art in the city of light. Not when it comes to taking the time to walk 6 blocks to the hardware store, chat with the owner, and pet the resident dog before buying the 6 screws and one sink aerator we needed and walking home, rather than hopping in my car and driving miles to the outskirts of town to wander around a big box store, picking up many things I now 'have to have' and not being able to find what I needed anyway. Not when it comes to hanging my jeans to dry (though it may take four days) because I like them better when they are not tight when I put them on. (With towels and sheets, however, I will be wasteful and spoiled. It is such a joy to dry off with a soft, absorbent towel rather than a big piece of sandpaper.)

Paris has taught me patience. But when it comes to my internet patience? Gone. Gone with the Wind. Looooooong gone.

So for now, I am composing on TextEdit, and hoping and praying that the site eventually loads. In the meantime, thank you for your patience. We are shopping around for Blazing Internet, and just may have to sign up also for the dreaded American necessity, cable television, as a part of the deal. (No, I didn't miss it in France, and I do want to limit our TV watching, but there are some things that I really do enjoy zoning out in front of on occasion. I shouldn't have to feel guilty--I recycle, I compost, I use compact flourescent bulbs! Please don't begrudge me a little boob tube time--I promise to knit or fold laundry while I watch. Really. I'm a good girl!)

PS: Welcome to Louise! Happy Birthday! (Numéro Zéro!!!)

New Name

2006-09-02T22:41:00.000-05:00

I am trying desperately to come up with a terrifically clever, interesting, descriptive name to change my blog to (I'll leave this one, but a new one for the new country), and well, I'm stuck. I've had a few bursts of inspiration, but generally those domains are already taken (OK, at least the free versions are taken) by others who haven't posted in 3 years. (How annoying is that?!?) Being a not-so-tech-savvy person, I don't have any idea how to bogart their sites, so here I sit, still MrsBinParis but not in Paris.

What's a girl to do?

If you have any ideas for a super-fantastic blog address, please let me know. I'll be mulling this one over for a while, until the right one appears.

Until then, Mrs. B is in Madison. We just got internet at home, but it is Labor Day Weekend, so don't expect prolific things. My Inlaws are here, too, so we're busy being Mr's and Mrs's Fixits, unpacking crystal, hanging various hangable things, still wondering where the toaster oven is, polishing silver that's been tarnishing for a whole year and drinking wine on the porch while not being eaten by mosquitos. (This is Official Proof: Miracles do happen.)

So from my house to yours, have a lovely Labor Day, eat a burger and drink a cold one for me! And please, whatever you do, don't labor!

Home Sweet Home

2006-09-01T12:09:00.000-05:00

We've arrived, safe and (at least physically) sound, and are surrounded by a sea of cartons, rediscovering our own possessions (it's like Christmas with each new box!) and hunting desperately for the toaster oven. Our house is absolutely perfect, with walk-in closets in each of the three bedrooms (for a house built over 90 years ago, that's amazing!), nicely painted by the architect owner, and with more kitchen cupboard space than I can fill (which in itself is amazing--I have soooooo much cooking paraphernalia.)

We've had many an adventure already since arriving, which I hope to chronicle soon, but until we get home internet, I'll be using my free time to unpack rather than manically checking my email every five minutes. I hope to be up and running soon, but until then, please be patient. It's coming!

A welcome addition to our group of friends arrived five weeks early (welcome, Baby Eva!), so my substitute position teaching for a friend will begin a little earlier than I expected (gulp!), and I will be back in the Band Director Boots as of next week.

But for now, we've found a local coffee house and coffee roaster only blocks from our home with lightening-fast internet, great espresso, and buttery croissants. It's even named Êtes-Vous Prêts? (Are You Ready?), so a little bit of France has followed me, all the way to Madison. Being Madison, though, the guy behind the counter is super-friendly, has long hair and a beard, and smiles as he hands you your steaming cup of muddy goodness (frankly, much better espresso than I ever found in la ville lumière.)

Welcome home!

And just so you know... Updated!

2006-08-20T13:40:00.000-05:00

I now have the problem fixed. For some strange reason, Firefox decided to start plugging in the wrong username, though I changed nothing. I finally figured it out, and am back to my non-thinking computerizing, just the way I like it.

By the way, mes potes have started a podcast in which they babble about expat life, leak misinformation about international breweries, giggle at each other's accents, drool over hot "boyfriends", and go on and on and on about Neopets and muffins. AND, they talk about me. What more could you ask for?

(Private to Katia: price of the links is one recipe for said raspberry white chocolate muffins. I miss them already!)

Stupid Blogger!!!

2006-08-20T12:40:00.000-05:00

Blogger is being dumb. I can't log in. I am sending this message as an email blog, hoping it works, to let you know that I am still here, packing and shipping and selling stuff and celebrating and being sad about leaving.

My awesome friends threw a going-away bash for us last night, and I am dying to tell you all about it, but for now, you'll just have to check out the pictures that she and she took, and wait for stories to come. There was much eating, oohing and ahhing and general crazy Parisian debauchery involved (and a garter belt or two.)

Only in Paris!

So for now, hold the phone (or the modem, as the case may be) and soon I'll have more updates, photos, and stories as we transition from the land of fromage to the land of cheez, from un bon vin blanc to bee-yah, from Paris to Madison.

À tout à l'heure!

P.S. I can't OK your comments either, so it's not that they're bad or that I don't want to, I just can't. Ça m'énerve!!!

P.P.S. What happens if you get rice in your ear?

Monet: Orangerie and Giverny

2006-08-15T15:45:00.000-05:00

On my birthday, Dr. B and I had planned to go to Monet's garden and home at Giverny. We woke up, Dr. B made me a delicious breakfast, and prepared to go. It was cold and rainy, however, so we decided to save our trip for Tuesday, and find something else to do in Paris.

We decided instead to head to the Orangerie, do a little shopping in the Carrousel du Louvre, and stop at Angelinafor some really awesome hot chocolate (thick as motor oil, so good you really should have to confess it, Catholic or not!) It was raining hard when we got to the Jardin de Tuileries, so we went into the Carrousel first, hoping the rain would soon stop. It slowed to a drizzle eventually, and we made our way across the sand toward the Orangerie. The line was long, and the wind was cold, so we were happy when we were finally ushered in, and could see the large-scale Monet paintings, about 5 feet high and 30 feet long (guessing--don't quote me on this) in their new setting. The diffused natural light from the skylights really created a beautiful effect, and the paintings seemed to shimmer and change depending on your angle. We went through the lower level, and enjoyed seeing paintings by Picasso, Modigliani, Renoir, Cézanne, Rousseau, Matisse, Laurencin and many others--in fact, I'd have to say I preferred this to visiting the Pompidou Center (the meat dress, it still haunts me!) We felt we had earned our hot chocolate, and split a pistachio dessert as well, and headed home happy to another home-cooked meal by Dr. B (my one day a year with guaranteed no cooking!!!)

Monday, we worked out some moving details with a company that will ship our stuff, got Dr. B some new clothes (french jeans fit him so much better) and foofoo water (Dior Homme--Mmmmmm!), walked through the Jardin de Luxembourg, and had a picnic on Pont Neuf after sunset. Watching the Procession of the Ascension on the River Seine was breathtaking--a statue of the Virgin Mary led the first of five to seven boats full of worshippers with candle lumiaries in their hands as they said the Hail Mary and sang hymns. The statue was glowing, lit from below by many lights, and made of either crystal, glass, ice or super shiny chrome--we don't know which, but we sure wish we had a camera. It was amazing!

France is not a Catholic state, but somehow they still manage to take all the Catholic holidays off. So since Dr. B "a fait le pont" (took a 4-day weekend), on Tuesday, the official celebration of the Ascension of the Virgin Mary to Heaven, we took a train from St. Lazare station to Vernon in Normandy, hopped a bus to Giverny, and spent the afternoon walking through Impressionist painter Claude Monet's home and beautiful gardens. This is where he lived from 1883 until his death in 1926. He devoted most of his time and money to his gardens, both caring for them and painting them, and the restored views are absolutely spectacular.I took a humongous amount of pictures, and I don't have the energy to label them all, but I've posted them on my flickr site. Most would be labeled either "Me", "Jeff", "Me and Jeff", "Gorgeous!" or "Beautiful!!!" or "Breathtaking!!!!!!!"--a few times is fine, but over a hundred gets pretty boring, so I am leaving them all with the name the camera gave to them. Feel free to take a look when you have time--each site was more beautiful than the next, so I admit I got a bit snap-happy! (Yes, Grandma Sylvia's granddaughter is living up to the family tradition...)

La Dame Blanche

2006-08-14T17:34:00.000-05:00

As you probably know, I love to eat. I also love to try new things, and learn about new foods. The other night, Dr. B and I went out for dinner, and as a part of our "Menu 16 euros", we had a choice of five different desserts. Most I recognized, but one was new to me, so I had to ask.

"Excusez-moi, monsieur. C'est quoi, une Dame Blanche?"

a white lady

"C'est de la glace parfum vanille, avec la sauce chocolate chaude, et du chantilly."

"D'accord. Je prendrai une crème brûlée."

You'd think with a name that fancy for something so simple, a banana split would have some other sort of fancy name, like "La Vedette du Pont Glace" or "L'Isle Sainte Banane" or something, but Non, they call it, "Le Banana Split."

Kind of disappointing, actually.

Really Old Food at Fearless John's

2006-08-11T12:28:00.000-05:00

Since just a few days remain, I've been taking time away from packing boxes to go do a few of the things I've missed in our time here. Yesterday, I "finished off" the Musée d'Orsay, visiting the last rooms I never had the energy to see before. Today, I went back in time 800 years by visiting the Tour Jean Sans Peur, or the Tower of John Without Fear, located near métro Etienne Marcel, in the 2nd arrondissement of Paris.

I took the line 7 to get there, preferring to walk outside rather than transferring several times to get to the nearest metro stop. The streets around Les Halles buzzed with activity, despite the lack of Parisians in town in the month of August (they're on vacation.) Cheap and tacky clothing stores, fast food joints, and pickpockets vied for the best action from the local tourists, and I walked quickly and purposefully past the sex shops (yuck), the local ruffians trying to hail me with "young girl! young girl!" and the orange-t-shirted CARE workers pushily soliciting donations to feed the poor. This is not my favorite quartier.

Since I had read in my Vie Pratique, a supermarket recipe magazine, about a new exhibition on medieval food, cooking, and kitchen practices, I had been wanting to go to this museum. I checked out the website, and found that the remaining tower was preserved and refurbished to teach about life in the middle ages in Paris. Jean Sans Peur was a cousin to the king Charles VI, and murdered another cousin of his (Louis d'Orléans), hoping to be in line for the throne, since old Charlie-boy was kind of nutty. (Bouts of psychosis and possible schizophrenia, according to modern scholars, let to the name "Charles the well-beloved" being changed to "Charles the Mad".) He was involved in lots of crazy medieval politics, and was eventually murdered himself by another cousin, the next King of France, and frankly kind of an ugly dude.

I admit to being a bit of a medieval buff, but the political stuff is not what interests me as much as the daily life. Learning about what people ate, where it came from and how much it cost, what they served with what, the utensils used, the spices, the recipes, the diet--this is what I find interesting, and the exhibit in the basement of the tower was fascinating to me. They had even set up a tiny mock medieval kitchen, though it was very sparsely furnished and didn't quite live up to my ideas of what it would be. Nonetheless, I found myself hungrily reading every word, popping my head into every nook and cranny, and even taking a look down the hole of the indoor latrine (an indoor 'outhouse') in the tower. It was only when the worker came to tell me they were closing that I finally shook the spell the tower had upon me. It is amazing to see that a place like this still exists, right inside this modern and vibrant city. The tower was restored and refurbished in 1999, when it was opened to the public. If you go, however, bring a translator--it's all in French.

If you're interested in Medieval cooking as well, try looking at this site (also in French) that discusses food, meals, eating, cooking and politics in the Middle Ages. (I borrowed the images from them--I hope the copyright has run out after 800 years or so!)

Bon Appétit!

Ratatouille (cha cha cha)

2006-08-08T17:47:00.000-05:00

They made a movie about my life...

...well, sorta. I love cheese, and I live in Paris, and I'm poor. Pretty close, huh?

I can't wait to see this, though it doesn't come out until we'll be long back stateside.

I'm nostalgic for Paris already, and I haven't even left yet. Sigh.

Note: When I first watched this, I saw the bell-shaped cheese, and thought, "that must be a chèvre,". Since I couldn't quite "get" all the cheese names from Monsieur Faux-Français, I went to the French version of this trailer. I understood every word perfectly in French. I guess I pass the test.

And it is a chèvre (goat's milk cheese). The round one is a brebis (sheep's milk cheese). I honestly don't know what it is that Ratatouille is eating, but if it's a Mimolette extra-vielle, I totally understand.

Hotel Recommendation

2006-08-07T09:38:00.000-05:00

Because so many have asked, and I actually have experience with this one, I'm listing a hotel that I would suggest if you are coming to Paris but on a budget. A friend stayed there in February, and said it was perfect. The hotel is called the Hotel des Arts on the Rue Coypel in the 13th arrondissement of Paris, just off the Place d'Italie.

You can read about it here, and can reserve your room online.

Prices run from 49 euros/night (single) to 75 for a triple room. The rooms are charmingly decorated, with a full and very modern bathroom, a direct phone line, cable television and a fridge in the room. There is an elevator, and the staff speaks English (except the one older man that was there at 2 AM one night, but I was with her, so it was fine.) It's a Mom-n-Pop kind of place, so not cookie-cutter boring. She said that it was exactly what she needed.

The location is a block or so off the Place d'Italie, where the 5, 6 and 7 lines of the Metro have a station. Many buses also come through this area. There are lots of bakeries around to grab some breakfast, cafes, grocery stores, and even a big Centre Commerciale (mall) a short walk away. You can stroll up to the Latin Quarter in about 15 minutes, and walk up the Rue Mouffetard, picking up things to eat at the markets, butcher shops, and wine "caves". A short metro ride will take you just about anywhere in Paris, and the line 27 bus goes directly to the Louvre. Take the line 6 metro to go to the Eiffel Tower or Arc de Triomphe, the line 7 to go to Notre Dame or the Louvre (if you don't take the bus), line 6 to Montparnasse, line 5 up to near Sacre Coeur and Montmartre, or make connections to head elsewhere.

It's not a touristy area, so things are generally cheaper and there are less people trying to follow you around and sell you flashing crappy plastic Eiffel Towers for 5 euros. There are lots of local amenities (grocery stores, hardware, dry cleaning, laundromats, etc.) that are for people who live here, rather than lots of tourist shops. There are street markets nearby every day of the week, and lots of parks for sitting with a bottle of wine, loaf or bread and some cheese for an easy and inexpensive dinner. It's an area where you can practice your French, if you want, because not everyone speaks English here, but if they do they will want to practice their English with you, so let them. They don't get many opportunities in this part of Paris.

Enjoy your trip!

Movers? **Updated

2006-08-06T08:31:00.000-05:00

HELP! To all former expats: I need help finding someone who can ship some stuff back for us.

We would rather ship our click-clack, 2 dressers, 2 tables and assorted boxes/baggage back, rather than sell it for peanuts. These are things that we can use back in Madison, and since the company that Dr. B is doing research with is helping us with moving costs, we want to look into taking these things with us. The bed, for example, set us back about 800 euros (worth it, because it is so comfortable) but we know we would only be able to sell it for about 200 euros.

We contacted the recommended Mayflower company, but they only ship larger moves.

Do you have a suggestion that you've used and had good results with? These aren't things we need overnight, but within a month or two would be good.

If you have any suggestions, please comment! Thanks. :)

UPDATED*** We got an estimate (Cap Transit; they were very professional), got it approved (yay!), and we're good to go. AND we get to take our furniture back with us, which is much nicer than selling it for 1/10 of what we paid for it. So, if we should be bombarded with friends visiting us in Madison, we'll have enough actual beds to sleep 6 extra people, plus one very short person or child on the love seat. Wow! Holiday Inn's got nothing on us... and they don't have the added service of doggie-kiss wake up calls.

L'expatriée devient L'ex-Parisienne

2006-08-06T07:05:00.000-05:00

It took a long time to feel at home in Paris. Everything was so different--from the traffic signs to the public transportation to the brands at the supermarket. The first days were very hard for both of us, and we wondered if we'd ever feel like we belonged.

Now, as I walk through the streets lined with tiny cafés and brasseries, as I admire the little pots of geraniums on miniscule terrasses, and as I wind my way through the narrow cobblestone streets that were originally designed 800 years ago for horse-drawn carts and foot traffic, I feel at home. Things don't surprise me anymore. People ask me for directions, and I can answer them. The lady at the bakery knows what I'll order, automatically reaching for a baguette des prés or dropping my pain aux céréales in the machine to slice. Even the lady at the street market who has the best butter in all of Paris leaves out some beurre salé when cleaning things up, expecting me to show up at the last minute, like I always do, as they are packing up for the day. I belong here, now. Paris is my home.

Last night, we returned from a wonderful outing with friends to see Les Pirates des Caraïbes: Le Coffre Maudit, for a drink on the terrasse of Paris Plages: Rive Gauche, and to walk through the park at Bercy. We enjoyed jokes and laughter and dinner together, with a mixture of English and French being spoken, even within the same sentence.

After we arrived home, I spoke to my mother-in-law and father-in-law on the telephone, while Dr. B prepared the laptop to watch a few episodes of borrowed TV. Jeannie and I spoke of books, and family members, and trips to Toronto. Then she said something that hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Or should I say pavés?

"Just days now until you come home!"

"Well, a few weeks yet..."

"EIGHTEEN days. Eighteen, now. Only eighteen days."

Dix-huit jours.

This morning, I look out the window at the sun shining on the leaves of our trees, the grass on the median of our avenue growing thick and lush from the recent rains, and the tiny cars, fewer because of all of the Parisians who've left for vacation, circling the Place d'Italie, and I wonder.

How will I ever leave this wonderful place? This city that I now love, that I am a part of. That is a part of me.

Comment est-ce qu'on dit "Au Revoir" à Paris?

2006-08-03T05:39:00.000-05:00

Mahna Mahna

I'm kind of in a Mahna mahna mood--just thought I'd share.

One of my favorites. Jim Henson was a genius!

Yes, this has absolutely nothing to do with France. I know. But it makes me happy! I feeeeeellll happeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

Coup de Boule: Zidane, Il l'a frappé!

2006-08-01T09:17:00.000-05:00

Coup de Boule

I predict this will be the French equivelent of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer"--ie: a song that may be mildly entertaining the first time you hear it, but will drive you absolutely nuts when you hear it for the 89 zillionth time. This was supposedly made as a joke the day after the loss to Italy, and sent out via email. It was played by a radio station soon after, and calls came flooding in. It's now at the top of the charts in France, and you hear it on the beach, in the bars, and pouring out of little cars. (Sorry, I couldn't resist the rhyme.)

Nonetheless, it shows that some people are laughing about the "incident" that got so many tongues wagging around the world.

"Zidane, il va marquer!" (Zidane's going to score!) gets transformed into, "Zidane, Il l'a frappé! Zidane, Il l'a tappé!" (Zidane hit him! Zidane smacked him! Zidane whammed him! etc.) "La Coupe, On l'a ratée!" (The World Cup, we missed it.) Coup de Boule is a slangy way of saying head butt (which is slangy in its own right--there isn't really a proper way to describe something so improper to do.)

Regardless--enjoy!

Help

2006-08-01T04:11:00.000-05:00

If you are the praying kind, please keep my friend Vivi and her family in your prayers. Less than two years after losing her mother to Scleroderma, she just found out that her father has terminal cancer. She's on her way back to the US to be with him.

If you're not the praying kind, some good thoughts and vibes sent her way would be appreciated as well. She's going to need all the positive energy and strength she can get.

Thank you.

End of the Calculation

2006-07-31T14:54:00.000-05:00

Today was different. Very different. Today, I left the house wearing jeans, a shirt with sleeves (short, yes, but sleeves) and a jacket. A JACKET!

It was cool! The thermometer stuck on the outside of our window said around 70, but I think it just got stuck on the way down, because it felt more like 60. (According the Accuweather.com, the high was 79, low was 59.) The sun came out later and it warmed up enough to take off the jacket, but it was still quite refreshing to leave the house and not be sweating before you even walk out the front door.

"Thank goodness, some relief from the calcule," said Dr. B, as we took an evening walk.

"What?" I asked. "The calcule? Oooohhhhhh, you mean the canicule! A calcule is a calculation, a canicule is a heat wave."

"Huh," he said. "No wonder I was getting weird looks at work."

Haute Dogs

2006-07-31T14:01:00.000-05:00

Un-American as it may be, I am not a huge fan of Hot Dogs. (Hey, my Mom didn't like pizza or ice cream, so it must be genetic. I don't really like Watermelon either.) I can eat them, if there's nothing else, but I'd rather have something different. Chalk it up to the "mystery meat" factor, or to eating too many of them skewered on branches and burned black as a kid at the lake, but usually I avoid them.

When we came to France, I vowed to try everything (except horse meat) without prejudice. (OK, no tripe either.) I would not make a judgement until I had eaten at least one bite, in the traditional way, with the traditional condiments. I found that rillettes (potted meats--don't worry, they're really good and not scary at all!), paté de foie gras, paté en croute, saucisse sec--all these things were delicious! Since I don't seem to have a cholesterol problem, I enjoyed them when I could, with no guilt.

However, the hot dogs--these, I still avoided. "They're not really French," I told myself. "They don't count."

Until one day, a few months back, when I was supposed to prepare them for lunch for me and my girls. P joined me in the kitchen, and her eyes lit up when I told her we were having "Knacki" for lunch. "Ka-Nock-eeeeee!" she squealed. (Yes, they pronounce the "K". I couldn't suppress the urge to giggle during our English lesson when she labeled the fork, spoon, and KA-nife.) I asked C how to prepare them, because since they were French Hot Dogs, I knew they would be done differently. We made them together, and I dug in, determined to not let my disdain for the pink pork product show to my girls. And, surprisingly, they were quite good!

Today, I went to the store to pick up food for dinner tonight and a few other odds and ends. Since our store is doing travaux, or remodeling, things were all in new places, and some stocks were considerably diminished. I was tired after a long day of housework, errands, shopping, 2 long walks with Lucy (she farted--I had no choice--it was BAD) and moving preparations, so I figured it was high time to treat Dr. B to a lovely Hot Dog Dinner. But, being a dinner in la Belle France, we wouldn't be having them on squishy buns with pickle relish!

After sitting on the phone (on hold) with Uhaul for 20 minutes, I wasn't in a very good mood when Dr. B came home. After giving him a 5-minute power nap, I passed the phone to him and went into the kitchen to prepare our evening meal. Cucumbers had been sliced and marinated with fresh lemon juice, fruity olive oil and salt and pepper, Viennois au Chocolat were ready and waiting (Merci, Nestlé!), and the flute had been sliced and prepared (Note*= flute is bread, not metal with keys and pads.) I popped our dinner into the oven, and called Jeff to the dinner table.

"What're we havin'?" he asked. "Hot dogs?"

*CRUNCH!* (crunch crunch crunch crunch crunch)

"These are pretty good!"

So, if you are so inclined, prepare some "Haute Dogs" yourself!

~~Hot~~ Haute Dogs à la Française

Bon Appétit!

Tri-Lingual

2006-07-29T05:28:00.000-05:00

Our friends Aimee and Julien recently took care of Lucy, while we took a whirlwind vacation in Germany, Luxembourg, Switzerland and France. We had warned Julien that Lucy speaks English, though I've worked to teach her a few French phrases, like "Assis!", "Donne-moi la patte," and "Non!" (Well, that one is pretty easy to translate, actually.) We made sure to leave them with lots of instructions as to her signals, so they would know exactly what Lucy was telling them. She can be quite particular about what she wants.

SBD

We left for our vacation, secure in the knowledge that our friends could handle taking care of our baby. When we arrived home, Aimee told us stories of misunderstandings between herself and Lucy, and we all laughed when she told us we were "tri-lingual"--speaking English, French and Dog (I like to call it Chien-ois.)

In the last few weeks, the temperature started to rise, and we all began to suffer. Lucy was shaved to the skin with a tondeuse (clipper) that we bought at Darty, which actually worked as promised. (We had no choice--we were NOT going after her again with two scissors.) We took to drinking more liquids, wearing less clothing, sitting in front of the fan, and avoiding leaving the apartment during the hot hours of the day.

I started hoarding empty water and pop bottles to fill with tap water and chill in the fridge. Dr. B and I filled our glasses regularly, drinking at least one glass every hour, if not more.

Soon, we noticed that Lucy wasn't drinking. Despite the heat, she would avoid the dish, no matter how many times we refilled it and announced, "Fresh!" She would eat 2 or 3 ice cubes that were offerred, but the water was left to sit and get stale. We began to worry.

"What if she gets too dehydrated? She's not drinking enough! She isn't panting--she might be getting brain damaged or something!"

We didn't know what to do. Our vet had always told us to offer her lots of fresh water, but we were doing that, and she still wasn't drinking. We led the dog to the water, pushed her nose in it, but still we could not make her drink.

Then, as I went into the fridge to refill my own glass, I saw Lucy watching me, a disgusted look on her furry little face.

And it dawned on me.

I emptied her bowl, and called her over. I poured some cold water from the bottle into her dish.

She looked at me as if to say, "Finally!" and lapped up every drop.

This dog is too smart for her own good. I'm considering letting her run for Congress when we get back.

Lost in Translation

2006-07-25T06:03:00.000-05:00

Every day, I see "bad translations"--English phrases used incorrectly, and proudly worn or spouted by Parisians. "FBI- Fashion Boy Inside" on a skin-tight black t-shirt that could never be worn in the state of Wyoming, "The DJ DRIVE me CRAZY on the dance floor last night" on a sizzling teal ripped tank top in Pimkie (a store frequented by a younger set than myself), and the liberal sprinkling of "super" throughout the vocabulary of every Parisian, from age 2 to 80.

Though most of my expat-friends' husbands are very good English speakers, they often don't quite get the sense of some of our typical phrases, or the tone of voice or body language that changes the meaning, shading it in a way we just "get". In the same way they educate their own partners on the subtleties of French turn-of-phrase, we attempt to clarify some things that have never officially been explained to us, but that we all implicitly understand, having come from similar cultures.

A few nights ago, the phone rang, and since Dr. B prefers to not speak french on the phone if all possible, I raced to answer it. It was our friend Julien, the husband of Aimee. I greeted him with a cheerful, "Hi Julien! How's it going?"

"I am freaking out," he said, in a flat, sort of low grumble. He then sighed audibly, and I jumped in--desperate to know just what was happening.

"What is it? Are you OK? Is there anything wrong?"

Crazy thoughts were zipping through my mind at warp speed.

Is Aimee OK? Is she sick? Are they at the hospital? Did something happen? Is it someone else? Maybe someone in her family... no, then it would be her calling...then someone in Julien's family? But why would he call us? I hope she's OK. She must not be, though, or she would be calling...

"I am freaking out," he repeated, exasperated.

Oh no, something big happened, something really big. Maybe they had a fight? Oh yeah, that must be it. Oh my... did she leave him? Why would she leave him? It couldn't be that big. Or could it? I don't think she would leave him, and there haven't been any problems that I know about, but you never know what can happen. I don't think he'd do something bad, but maybe he did do something bad--but what? And wouldn't she call me first? Maybe she was so angry she rushed out without her phone?

I leaned toward the window to see if I could see Aimee coming down our street, crying, upset and needing a place to crash.

No problem. I'll just pump up the air mattress, she can sleep here--I think the extra sheets are clean--and we'll talk about this tonight. I wonder if we drank all the iced tea? We're going to need something because this will take hours...maybe I can send Jeff to the store for some M&M's--M&M's always help. Yeah, and ice cream. Some ice cream would be good. Oh boy, what did he do? It must have been big for her to leave without her phone--she never goes anywhere without her phone-- if he was a jerk, I'll kill him! Stupid stupid stupid...he better watch out, cause I'm here for my friends, I tell you! You don't mess with MY friends, Mister Frenchie McFreaking Out! I'm gonna take care of my homegirl, just you wait, if that means kicking your french tush all the way to Germany, well I'll do it! I will! Just try me, mister--you don't wanna screw with a Norwegian when she's mad--we may look all calm and blonde, but you tick us off and we're a force to be reckoned with! Passion comes in Vanilla Flavor, too, you know!

"Can I talk to your husband?"

Huh? He wants to talk to Jeff. Ok, he won't tell me what it is. That's bad. He must have done something, and he wants Jeff to break the news to me. Oooh, boy... or, maybe she is sick, or got hit by a bus? Or a metro? No, Aimee's not that stupid to fall in front of a metro...but why wouldn't Julien tell me himself? Does he think I really can't handle it? Am I that neurotic? Oh, my poor friend! What am I going to do? AIMMEEEEEEEE!!!!!

I passed the phone to Jeff, and went to the kitchen to pour myself a consoling glass of Caffeine-free Coca Light. I hear Jeff murmuring sounds of understanding while Julien explains what's going on. I steadied myself, placing both hands on the edge of the kitchen counter, while I waited for the news.

"Yeah, OK, I got your back. Mm-hmm. Yep. OK. First, hold down the Apple Key, and then Right Click on your touchpad button...yeah, at the same time...uh-huh..."

I am freaking out.

Sigh.

Champagne Wishes

2006-07-24T11:39:00.000-05:00

Wildflowers, in the Parc at Troyes
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Friday morning, I left Dr. B and his friend Greg to be bachelors in Paris, while I headed off with a few friends to visit our dear friend Vivi in the Champagne region of France. Vivi married a frenchman two years ago, and hadn't yet had an official celebration in France, so she had planned a BBQ for friends and family in a park in Troyes. We joined her to help with the preparations, and of course to enjoy the festivities.

The trip didn't start out promisingly, as our train was cancelled not once but twice. When we finally got on the train to head to the small village of Romilly-sur-Seine, we realized that the air conditioning was broken, and the train car was about 44,000 degrees celsius.

Though many of the french people around us weren't even sweating (we really don't understand how they can deal with this), we were all drenched in perspiration, fanning ourselves madly with the little fans we had stuck in our purses, and icing our necks with the frozen Coke bottle of water that Kathy had so thoughtfully prepared.

A group of SNCF workers came through the train, carrying tool boxes.

"We are going to see if the train car's air conditioning is broken, and if it is, we are going to open the windows!" announced the leader, while sweat ran in rivers down the back of his pressed white shirt.

"I think it's broken," I said, but they ignored me and continued on to make their diagnostics while we suppressed the urge to revisit our lunch by sucking on Regliz (anise candies) and sipping water and sodas leftover from the lunch we had eaten in one of the trains that had been supprimé (cancelled).

About twenty minutes later, they came through the car and opened the windows, which (thankfully!) dropped the temperature to only a scorching 33,000 degrees. We amused ourselves by watching the French ladies not sweat (and wondering aloud in English how the heck they do that) and giggling at the lady who fell asleep fanning herself, and would wake up every 5 seconds to continue flapping her évantail, only to fall asleep again due to the heat.

We arrived in town, and Vivi met us, after spending the waiting time in a pub drinking sirop diabolo (grenadine syrup with fizzy water) and eating ice cream. We got in her car, and as we drove through the countryside, all three Midwestern Parisiennes noticed that the land of the Champagne region looks an awful lot like the familiar rolling hills of the great plains states of Kansas (only with less trees), North Dakota (only with more trees), and Michigan (don't know about the trees.) We drove the 40 more minutes to her home, and heated up the kitchen to prepare more rice and pasta salads for the next day's party. After supper, we took a walk through the lovely little village, and turned in after heated games of Extreme Uno in which a new word was created by Steph, "Yellova!"

The next day we packed up and crammed into the car to head into Troyes for set-up at the party site. "Yellova" tablecloths, flower arrangements, tape, and napkins swirling filled the hours as we prepared for the big shindig. We hooked up the stereo, planned a drink table and a buffet, before sardining ourselves in the car again for a last-minute trip to Leclerc and McDo for lunch.

Following lunch (where I ate the Salade Recette Fromagère and a Sundae Façon Crumble Nectarine/Pèche, which you will never find on the menu at an American McDonald's), we went to Cultura (where I picked up a book on the Tour de France for Dr. B, a french movie for us, and some supplies for a gift I'm making), Leclerc (where I marvelled at the huge Hypermarché where, unlike Paris, stuff isn't super-duper expensive, they have everything, it's air-conditioned, huge, well-organized and clean), and a frozen food place for more things that we wouldn't eat because they bought way too much food. (Isn't that always the way with parties?) As we walked out, we realized we had forgotten the dragées (candies) for the wedding favors, and chose some in the lovely color of "Yellova!" from the Confiserie outside of Leclerc in the shopping center.

The party went extremely well, despite the french guests not understanding what a buffet is and setting all the tables rather than forming a neat and orderly food line like a proper Anglo Saxon would (isn't buffet a french word?), running out of serving utensils, knives and forks (if they had just done the line like we asked, there would have been enough for everyone, but nooooo...), and the absolute overabundance of food, and we spent the night talking, laughing and enjoying the wonderful company of Vivi and Steph's family and friends. (And squirting each other with an Evian Bromisateur. What a wonderful invention!)

Congratulations to V & S, on two years of marriage, moving to a new country and adopting a new way of life, and still behaving very much like newlyweds. May you have many more years of happiness and joy in the heart of the French Countryside.

Fin du Tour

2006-07-24T11:08:00.000-05:00

Tour de France 2006: the Peleton in one of the last laps
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

Sunday afternoon, the Tour de France was due to finish in our fair city. Though we were both exhausted, we forced ourselves to wake up from an afternoon siesta and head down to the Champs Elysées to watch the athletes ride a few of their laps from the Place de la Concorde to the Arc de Triomphe. Though this year's tour was not as well followed as some in the past, due mainly to the World Cup hooplah, it was still exciting to be there and see the end of the world's most famous cycling race.

I readied my camera each time they were set to go by, but due to the speed of the riders, the bunches of people in front of us, and the slowness of my digital camera, I only had one really good shot of the riders as they sped by. We continued to walk down the street, past water-sellers, souvenir stands and lots and lots of tourists, stopping just long enough to purchase a white Tour jersey for Dr. B to wear this fall, as he bikes to work at the University of Wisconsin. Since it was the final day, the seller included the gift of two small T-shirts for our nephews (or our nieces, if they're too small.)

Just as we came upon the end of the Champs, we saw, on the big screen TV set up for the crowd, the winner of the Tour. Floyd Landis, a rider from Pennsylvania, stood on the podium, hat in hand, while the Star Spangled Banner played over the loudspeaker. I admit, though I didn't follow the tour this year, I was very proud to hear our anthem playing, and to see a fellow countryman in such a place of honor in la belle France. Landis was raised by Mennonite parents who watched him receive his award from home. He won his very first race wearing sweat pants, because his family's religion forbids the wearing of shorts, and is known as "Cycling's Tough Guy", due to his determination. (He once finished a race riding only on the rims of his bike!) Please follow the link for more information on this persistant and dedicated individual.

After the end of the ceremony, Dr. B and I headed toward the church of La Madeleine, hoping to get a chance to go inside, since neither of us had been in it before (see my Flickr for photos). We then took the Métro to Cluny, had a bite at a Greque, and enjoyed a drink on the Terrasse of La Gentilhommière, near St. Michel, while we watched the passersby.

After a wonderful weekend we spent apart, it was nice for Dr. B and me to reconnect. We consider ourselves very lucky to be able to be together, and to live, even for such a short time, in such an interesting and vibrant city.

Nous adorons Paris!

Canicule

2006-07-19T14:59:00.000-05:00

Paris hit 97 degrees Fahrenheit today, or 36 degrees Celsius.

Back when we were living in the US, this was really hot, but we really didn't quite "know" what it was like. Our grandparents remember the days before air conditioning, but for us, all we had to do to escape was head to the grocery store, the mall, the movies, work, home or our car and we would be in the cool, dehumidified canned air.

Not so here.

As I've said before, France doesn't have A/C. They'll say they do, but it really isn't used until it's nearly unbearable, and the system isn't built to handle the need we have right now. Already, people have have died. Local restaurants post specials of cold soups, cold salads and cold sandwiches, because even eating something warmer than you are is unwelcome. Local laws forbid A/C units that jut out into the street or courtyard, and 300-year old buildings just don't have it in the infrastructure to accomodate central air. There is still a belief that it is unhealthy, so when it is turned on, it's not cranked up--if you are sitting completely still, drinking a cool beverage, you just maybe, if you are really, really still, you may not be sweating. That's French A/C.

We dress in the lightest clothes we have, everyone wears sandals, and carrying a water bottle is no longer considered a "faux pas". The latest fashion statement is inexpensive "éventails"--or hand-held fans, from the Quartier Chinois, in the southern 13th arrondissement. (I have 2.) Ponytails and braids are de rigeur, and even the older ladies go without stockings.

Today I spent with my girls, making our usual Wednesday lunch, taking C to the dermatologist, and sitting as still as possible reading a magazine and then a book, to avoid the heat. The lunch made me a bit sick to my stomach (I do not handle heat well), so I spent most of the afternoon drinking water and sucking anise candies to calm my tummy and for the perception of coolness when I breathed in quickly. Every little bit helps! We ate "glaces"--popsicles, for a snack, and opened the windows, hoping for just a bit of a breeze.

As I headed home, the bars on the bus felt like hot water pipes, but since it was either hold on or fall down, I had no choice. I stopped into our local Centre Commerciale, to see if I could quickly find something for a dear friend whose 2-year wedding anniversary celebration is this weekend. I am heading to Champagne with two other friends, to whoop it up in honor of Vivi and Steph, and was hoping to score some cool wedding gift-like thing on the top floor of Printemps. But, I had 10 minutes, so my chances weren't great. Nevertheless, I stood on the escalator, making my way up to the home section. The store was nearly deserted, so I was surprised when I heard someone coming up behind me.

I turned just as I was about to step off the escalator, when I realized that the guy behind me was touching my butt.

And this just goes to show how the heat is scrambling my brain.

I was more angry at him for adding body heat to my already intolerably feverish temperature, than for touching my tush.

They say it is supposed to rain in the next 24 hours.

Dear God, I hope so.

Oh-blah-di! Oh-blah-dah!

2006-07-17T04:57:00.000-05:00

You may have been wondering about the unusual pictures popping up on my Flickr page, and where in France we could have found a new house that looks like that.

As some of you may have guessed, the truth is, it's not in France. It's in Madison. And we're moving back.

Dr. B will finish his post-doc in August, after which we head home for another post-doc at the UW. This brings a lot of mixed feelings, but we believe it is the right thing to do.

Our time in Paris has been wonderful and awful, intense, eye-opening, liberating, restrictive, fun, full of anguish, and very crazy. We've made some great friends, eaten like kings, traveled, learned to speak another language fairly well, explored new scientific frontiers (OK, not me, him) and we've loved it. Maybe not every minute, but the overall experience has been incredible.

But, life goes on, and changes happen. We knew it wasn't permanent, and Dr. B looked for the next step when we were only half-way through this one. Another year here would have been enjoyable, but also very difficult. For his career's future, Dr. B really needs to be back in the US, and we need to start climbing out of the debt that France has put us in. His position at UW-Madison is everything we could have hoped for, and we can't help but think that a certain guardian angel helped us out quite a bit on this one (Thanks, Mom.)

Thanks to wonderful friends back home, we've found and rented a beautiful house on the Isthmus. The owners have been fantastic, and are even having the place painted in beautiful colors, awaiting our return. We look forward to stretching out in our 3-bedroom house, sitting on the porch with an Arnie Palmer and a book or some knitting, and planting a garden in our fenced backyard, with Lucy by our side. Biking, meeting friends on the Terrace, great Thai food, and hikes at the dog park--if we have to return to the US, this is the ideal place for us to be.

So, the question is, where do I go from here?

This is one that doesn't have a definite answer yet, and I kind of like it that way. About 15 years ago, I had lots of choices, things I 'could' do with my life, if I wanted to. Things I knew I was good enough to do, and that I enjoyed. I chose to be a music teacher, and I don't regret it. But now, with no job to go back to, there are more options open to me, ways to expand and enhance my life, and my teaching. There are so many possibilities: a masters degree, yoga, substitute teaching, private music or French instruction, writing a book, becoming a Mom (God willing...hey guardian angel? Need some help here...)

I don't know what the future holds. But I do know that writing this blog has been so important to me this year. I've had a way to share my experience, put it down in concrete for myself and for those who'd like a peek of our lives here in Paris, and a way to find some fantastic friends I may have never found without it.

Will I keep going?

Do you want to keep reading?

I don't know right now. I hope so. If you want me to keep writing, I can, though "Mrs. B in Madison" just doesn't have quite the same ring to it. But for now, dear readers, thank you. Thank you for the support, the encouragement, the comments, and the hits. You've made me feel important at a time when I first had to step away from the identity I'd worked so hard for and chosen myself. You've made me feel worth something, when I was questioning myself and afraid and attempting to deal with a whole new world. You helped me be strong.

We have a little over a month left in France. We have our house rented, the plane tickets purchased, and we've begun to pick up some of the little souvenir items we will take home to our new life in our old hometown. Now, in the 4 weeks ahead, we will deal with selling furniture, packing and shipping our belongings, and enjoying the people and the places we will miss when we are back in Wisconsin.

And then... the next chapter begins.

Fireworks!

2006-07-14T18:21:00.000-05:00

July 14th is the French day to celebrate la République, kind of like our July 4th in the USA minus the red-white-and-blue clothing. This commemorates the storming of the Bastille prison (which isn't there anymore, by the way), an event that was more symbolic than anything, because most of the prisoners had been moved out by that time. But nonetheless, it was the defining point of the French Revolution, and really made a statement. Like the US, they celebrate with a big fireworks show, in a flashy display behind the Eiffel Tower.

We started our day at the home of one of Dr. B's colleagues, having a delightful BBQ lunch in their garden in St. Maur des Fossés, a banlieue (suburb) of Paris. We lunched on Salade Nicoise (my favorite!), steak, brochettes d'agneau (lamb kebabs), potatoes, cheeses and a raspberry charlotte (sort of a shortcake). Their son entertained us with his wide selection of bonbons, and their daughter delighted us with her curls, long eyelashes and her giggles. We followed the meal with a kayaking expedition on the Marne River, where I shot a few pictures (which I promise to flickr soon), some of which didn't have any oars in the shots. (Thank you, Dr. B, for your contribution. Hmpf!) It was a lovely afternoon, and after cleaning up a bit, and walking Lucy, we went to meet our friends, who were picnicking on the end of the island in the Seine, just off the Pont Neuf.

We sat down, arranging our selves as comfortably as possible on the cobblestones, and enjoyed a glass of wine, some bread, cheese, smoked trout, fruit, cookies and chocolate (the French version of hot dogs and potato chips--ha) and waited patiently for the fantastic fireworks display to begin. Katia was very excited indeed to see the fireworks, explaining that they were illegal and rare in her native Australia due to the danger of spreading wildfires. We told stories of our own fireworks extravaganzas (Lake Metigoshe Skarphol Family Fireworks Fantasmagoras), and as the hour drew nigh, popped the cork on the champagne, sipping sparingly in anticipation of the big show.

"Is that it?" "I think it's starting..." "I heard a pop, that was definitely something...""hey, the tree is kind of lighting up." "Don't worry, those are the low ones, they'll set off the mid-level and high ones, soon, I promise."

Then we saw it. The trees blocking our view of the tip of la Tour Eiffel began to glow red and green, and smoke was rising.

For about 30 seconds.

Then... nothing.

Nada.

Zip.

Nul.

That was it.

We waited and waited. Nope. No more. Uh-uh. Not gonna happen.

We slowly made our way out, past the winos begging for a dribble from the picnickers' bottles, past the big yellow dog, past the lady with the way too low for public decency low rise jeans. (Scary! SCAAAARRRRYYY!!!) Said Au Revoir to Katia and Sylvain, as they headed for the last RER before 1 AM, and began our trek to the Line 7 Metro.

"No, there must be more. Let's just hang out here, on the Pont Neuf, and wait a bit. There must be more. There has to be."

We waited. We text-messaged. We waited some more.

...(if there were crickets in Paris, you would have heard them chirping with anguished melancholy at this point)...

Finally, at 12:10 when the twinkly lights on the Eiffel Tower extinguished, so did we. We gave up. Headed for the Metro, defeated.

Unfortunately, the "Really Big Show" just wasn't this year. We don't know what happened. Maybe we didn't wait long enough. Maybe we just couldn't see from our vantage point. ~~Maybe the government just didn't charge enough in taxes to pay for the show.~~ (No, couldn't have been that.)

But on the bright side, I had remembered to stick in some PopRocks. So our big Bastille Day celebration was capped off with fizzy sugary candies, sent all the way from Montana, washed down with French champagne.

Vive la France!

Headbutt Affair

2006-07-14T02:11:00.000-05:00

Please read this.

Sometimes humor can really put a new spin on things, n'est-ce pas?

2006-07-13T17:21:00.000-05:00

I don't have ads on my blog, aside from some plugs for my super-talented relatives, and some links to books I like (not because I'm trying to help Amazon, just so you can read up about it if you want. I prefer the library!) But, my google mail account comes with them, though they are just little text ads and I don't even see them. Usually, I read my mail through a mail client, but that's been wonky lately, so I checked it online this evening. And what did I see?

My "spam" email box. Note the advertisement at the top. A link to a "French-Fry Spam Casserole". Now that's what I call targeted advertisement! I think they need to work a little harder on those special computer programs that create these ads. Hopefully it was meant to be ironic.

Yuck!

Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!

2006-07-12T16:32:00.000-05:00

Everyone in France is talking about Zinédine Zidane, and "the headbutt affair"--an incident during the last game of the World Cup of Soccer (Football), in which Zidane headbutted an Italian player, effectively ending his own career. He was redcarded, and this was his last game before he retired from the sport, so he ended his career on a bit of a low note.

Although the Italian player spoke up, the French were not eager to believe his story, insisting that it must have been something "très grave", because Zidane is known for his calm approach and his rational outlook on life. Whispers of insults against his family, speculations of racial slurs, and professional lip readers all vied for attention, and the lunch tables buzzed while everyone tried to figure out just what happened.

Tonight, on French television, Zidane spoke up about the incident. Though he apologized for his behavior because of the children and adults who look up to him, he insisted that he would do the same again, because the remarks were "very, very tough" and did concern his mother and sister, despite the Italian player insisting he had not insulted them. Zidane refused to name the actual insults, saying he didn't think it was appropriate for the children of France, his own included, to know exactly what was said, but he wanted to clarify that the insults were very nasty, that they were repeated three times (he attempted to walk away, but the other player persisted), and that he hadn't made the arrogant comment attributed to him by Materazzi. He expressed a wish for an investigation, and punishment for the provoking party, Materazzi.

In addition, Zidane told of his own shock when he heard of some talk by an Italian politician, who chose this time to make more racial slurs against footballers (see IHT article, linked below). Zidane was born in France, is a French citizen, and has a French family. His own parents were immigrants from Algeria, which sparked many rumors about the possible nature of the offensive remarks. Zidane has been the target of racial slurs throughout his football career.

After watching the interview, both Dr. B and I were impressed with Zidane's professionalism, apparent honesty and maturity. Reading the summation article doesn't really capture his reaction--choosing the sound bites that are the most weighty, and downplaying his calm, thoughtful responses. We both wonder if the story is being changed, as it travels across the ocean and through the mouths of interpreters, spin doctors and talking heads. It will be interesting to find out from the home front whether or not this is an important issue, and if it sparks debate or interest in the state of affairs on the other side of the globe. Immigration issues and racism are not limited to one country, unfortunately.

(You can read an English version of the article, which has some quotations from Zidane, here. If you can understand French, please do watch the complete video. For another perspective and more history on Zidane and the issues brought up during this incident, read the International Herald Tribune article here.)

Comme D'Habitude

2006-07-11T15:34:00.000-05:00

Each Wednesday, throughout the year, I would prepare a 4-course meal for the kids and their music teacher, before they had their music lessons from her and English lessons from me. This may sound difficult, but it was really easy--sectioned grapefruit or melon as an entrée, Lasagne from Picard comme plat (frozen--just nuke and bake for that crispy golden crust!) served with a baguette (warmed and toasted on top of the toaster), salad with vinaigrette, and yogurt for dessert. I worked to get the timing just right on each course, to make sure I had everything out and ready when I needed it, and listened to opinions on how my diners preferred their meal. I knew who liked which brand of yogurt, who wanted sugar with it and who didn't (me!), how much coffee to prepare for after the meal, and when to push the "on" button of the cafetière.

The one thing I actually did all by myself was make the vinaigrette. I knew that P preferred balsamic vinegar (a tip from her mom), and since I did, too, I used that each time. A bit of the "good" olive oil, some salt, freshly ground pepper, and a bit of mustard--quite standard, really. In the bottom of the bowl it goes, mix it with a fork, and toss the salad. Et puis, voilà! Easy peasy.

Everyone seemed to like it, and the music teacher even took to swiping the empty bowl with her remaining bits of baguette, enjoying every last drop. One week, I accidentally added too much salt. The teacher noticed my correction, which was to add a teeny bit of sugar to cancel it out. Another week, she commented on the fact that she couldn't get her vinaigrette to taste like mine, and asked the kids to bring out all the ingredients so she could compare them.

The next week, she said it still wasn't the same, and asked to see the items again. Noticing that the pepper was "Mélange 5 Baies" (mix of 5 types of peppercorns), she thought she had the solution. Even so, the next week after that she wanted to see what type of mustard we used, because it just didn't have "le même gout" (the same taste.)

This spring, P and I were working on a food lesson in English. I had made up worksheets, and one asked her to tell me her favorite food. "I don't have a favorite food, Ronica," she said. "None?" I asked, surprised, because she is usually quite clear about what she likes and doesn't like. She loves bread that is hard and crunchy with lots of grains, she loves mustard, and prefers Actimel yogurt drink to all others. "No, no favorite."

"OK," I said, "just tell me your favorite food from lunch today."

"Salad!" she squealed, a gleam in her eyes.

The final weeks of school saw a juggle of schedules, as the music teacher had some other appointments to keep. The girls mother, Isabelle, joined us for lunch that Wednesday, and she joined me in preparing the meal. She offered to make the salad while I warmed the lasagne and sliced the melon for our first course.

At the table, the girls asked what we were having for lunch."Comme d'habitude," (Just like usual,) their mother said, noting the melon, lasagne, and bread. C asked, "But, the salad?" She looked at the bowl, a different one than I usually use, sitting on the corner of the table. "Ronica serves it after the lasagne, not together." "Oh, well, I like salad with my lasagne," her mother answered. "But, who made the vinaigrette?" C asked, with a quick glance toward her sister.

"I did," her mother answered.

"Um, what did you put in it, Maman?" C asked.

"Olive oil, red wine vinegar, a little balsamic vinegar, salt. Just basic," she answered, a bit perplexed. "Why?"

"Oh. Well, when Ronica makes le vinaigrette, it's SO GOOD!"

"Yes! Yes!" P piped up. "TROP bon!"

"She uses balsamic vinegar, olive oil, the special mustard, salt and pepper. It's absolutely delicious!" Then, with another quick sidelong look to P, she added, "but this is fine, too."

Isabelle asked me, "do you always put mustard in your vinaigrette?"

I answered that I do, partly because I like the way it emulsifies, and partly just because I like the taste.

"Well, it sounds like they like it, too!"

Vinaigrette Comme D'Habitude
(all measurements approximate)

*3 T. good extra virgin olive oil (the fruity stuff is my favorite--I get mine from Olivier et Cie in Paris.)
*1 T. balsamic vinegar
*about a forkful of Maille Fin Gourmet mustard (this has some visible seeds, and includes a little sunflower oil. I think that's why it blends so nicely!)
*Salt (shake over oil, when you've shaken over the whole blob, it's enough.)
*freshly ground pepper, 5 peppercorn blend (same instructions as salt)

Place all ingredients in the bottom of your salad bowl. Whip with fork until it is all emulsified, and the dressing is kind of like a dark brown gravy in appearance. Toss with fresh lettuce leaves.

French Dental Floss is Evil

2006-07-10T06:41:00.000-05:00

Fil Dentaire Français: 6 euros.

What is needed to remove said floss from between my molars:

4 pieces of French floss + 1 toothpick + 1 tweezer + 1 piece of American floss (Glide is not grippy enough to dislodge this stuff) + lots of sweat and tears.

Gums: bleeding.

They should make this stuff illegal.

Le Prix: The Price

2006-07-10T06:24:00.000-05:00

Upon arriving in France, nearly a year ago, there were a lot of things that were "new" to us. Daily life was somewhat of an obstacle course, as we adjusted to new ways of doing things, different requirements, and cultural shifts. Just heading to the store could become the stuff of nightmares, as the things we were used to didn't exist here, and the brands that the French grew up with were all brand-new and unknown to us. And of course, there are the prices. Living in Paris doesn't come cheap.

But, after a few months, we started to know what we liked and what we didn't, and what to say, and what not to say, when to go, when to avoid the stores at all costs, and where we could find better deals.

Still, shopping in France is expensive. Twice a year, the soldes offer some bargains, but for the most part, things are just generally très cher when you live in Paris. If you've ever wondered why Parisians are so concerned with designers and brand names, I have a theory. When even the cheap, made-in-China stuff is expensive, people are willing to pay a bit more for the designer item. Why not?

Anyway, we looked forward to visiting our friend R in Germany, because we knew that we could ask for one very special trip, to the drugstore.

"Ooooh! Whoopie!" you say? Yeah, that's what I would have said, this time last year. But now things are very different indeed.

We walked into the DM store, and grabbed a basket. I had carefully rationed out our remaining toiletries, so we needed just about everything. R accompanied us around the store, reading the text for us, so we wouldn't get the wrong items. Dr. B and I were like two kids in a candy store! "Did you see that? Only 3 euros!" "Whoa, honey, I can afford shampoo, conditioner AND mousse!" We quickly loaded our basket, and as we headed to the caisse, I stopped by the fun-little-trial-size baskets, choosing a little metal tin of chamomile hand cream, for only 50 centimes. I also grabbed a bottle of nail polish remover, delighted that I wouldn't have to go unpolished for the rest of the summer--the 6 to 9 euros I would have had to spend on the 100 milliliter bottle in France was a measly 79 centimes in Germany.

All told, we paid about 25 euros for shampoo and conditioner (400 ml bottles!!!), 2 packages of "not barbed wire like the French version" dental floss, toothpaste, two toothbrushes, mousse, 2 kinds of deoderant, hand cream and nail polish remover. If we could have found that size of Pantene shampoo in France (which is impossible--a bottle there is only 200 ml--about 6 and a half ounces), it would have cost about the same, without all the other items. We were in heaven!

The day before, we had met R's boyfriend P in Metz, France. P was working there, in an orchestra, while R works in one in Germany, and they live half-way in between. P shops for certain less expensive items in France (mineral water, yogurt) and R buys the others in Germany. While watching football on TV in a local Irish pub, R and I were already thinking about dinner, and what to make when we got home. She mentioned that she'd like a cucumber for the salad, and since it was 7:15, we decided to walk to the local grocery store to buy one.

We arrived at 7:25, and the store closed at 7:30. Nonetheless, the entrance gates were chained shut and blocked by shopping carts. A security guard was posted at the entrance, just in case someone decided to scale the mountain of chariots and sneak inside for a quick purchase.

"Please, monsieur, I just need a cucumber. May I come in?"

"No."

"But, it's 7:25, you close in 5 minutes, and it's just one item. Just a cucumber, that's all."

"No. We're closed. No. No! We're closed!"

R and I left the store, keeping our eyes open for an Alimentation Générale (convenience store), with no luck. We were cuke-less.

"Man, he was rude," R said as we walked back to the pub. "What a jerk. I can't believe the way he spoke to us!"

"Oh, that's normal."

"Normal? That's so rude! How can that be normal?"

"He's just being French. I'm not surprised. That's what happens in the stores. You are nice to them, and if you're lucky, they won't be totally evil back to you. But don't count on it. Logic, reason, smiling, pleading, flirting--it won't work. And if it does, go to church and put a big bill in the offering plate, because you got very, very lucky."

"Wow. It's not like that in Germany or America," R continued. "Clerks are nice to you there. It must be just in France."

"Well, he was pretty decent, actually," I said. "If it were Paris, he would have said 'Ce n'est pas possible! Pas possible! It's not possible!!!' and he would have started yelling at us. You know, because 30 seconds for one cucumber would have inconvenienced him so very much."

I guess that's part of the price you pay.

Oops. I forgot my birthday.

2006-07-07T11:14:00.000-05:00

Or, at least my blogobirthday. But, I'll celebrate like I celebrate my own real birthday--fête-ing my birthday week, or even my birthday month.

Which is, incidentally, August 13...so...

Woo hooo!!! Two month party!!!

OK, so who's bringing the cake?

Flickr Update: 4 countries in 5 days

2006-07-06T04:59:00.000-05:00

Valangin
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

I've posted new photos on my Flickr from our short vacation. Click the above photo to take you there. We visited Luxembourg, Germany, France and Switzerland, ate a lot, talked a lot, and soaked up the scenery (it's so nice to get out of the city!)

I'll have some stories, soon. Right now, I have boatloads of laundry to do.

Allez Les Vieux!

2006-07-01T17:21:00.000-05:00

France just beat Brazil!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT!

Exciting game, though a part of me is glad I'm not in Paris tonight (I like sleeping.)

France played very well, with a tight defense and amazing stamina. Ronaldinho (the young Brazilian star) wasn't allowed to do anything except look goofy, and flash his signature smile.

Thierry Henry of France scored the only goal, aided by Zenadine Zidane. Shouts of "Zizou!" went up all over, um, my friend's apartment in Germany (though I assume this was being shouted throughout France, too) as Zidane shone in one of his last games of his career. He is retiring from playing for Real Madrid.

Though Brazil was the favorite, with younger and "better" players, France's strategy, strength, teamwork and experience paid off well, and shouts of "Allez les Bleus!"* and "Allez les Vieux!"** sounded throughout the stadium, and rang off the walls of the Saarbrücken home of my good friend B.

Once again, thank goodness I'm in Germany. We're getting up early tomorrow to head into Switzerland. Chocolate, here I come!!!

*Go Blues! (France)
**Go Old Dudes! (old men) in French, these rhyme.

Mrs. B in Luxembourg

2006-06-30T16:35:00.000-05:00

Mrs. B in Luxembourg
Originally uploaded by MrsBinParis.

June 30, 2006 was Dr. B's 33rd birthday, and to celebrate, we left Lucy in the capable hands of Flare, and hopped a train to Metz, France. Our friend R met us, and we drove to Luxembourg for the day. We walked around the charming capital city, and visited the castle of the Duchy of Luxembourg. Begun in 963 and carved out of a huge limestone mass, it has been used to defend the duchy for many hundreds of years. It fell into disrepair in the 1800's, and was walled up due to the treaty of London, but was reopened as a historical site in 1933.

Favorite quote of the day:

We watched Germany trounce Argentina in the World Cup from an Irish Pub in Metz (yes, they are everywhere in the world, not just all over the US), and drove back to her home in Saarbrücken for dinner and the Italy/Ukraine game.

Please take a look at my Flickr page for more photos, and stay tuned for more from Germany and Switzerland!

They're Still Honking

2006-06-27T16:51:00.000-05:00

It's an hour later.

Holy crap! Are we going to get any sleep tonight?

Sigh.

Allez Les Bleus!

2006-06-27T16:03:00.000-05:00

Football fever has taken over France. All through the streets, people walk taller, eager to poke their heads into cafes and brasseries to hear the latest gossip on the team, and cheers of "Allez Les Bleus!" (Go Blues!) resound through the tiny rues. People make small talk about the last game at the bus stop and on the metro, defying the tradition of never speaking to their fellow passengers except during la greve (a strike). Kids practice "le foot" in courtyards, against brick walls, and dribble around the bornes seperating the streets and the sidewalks.

Tonight was a big game: France versus Spain, who (from what I've heard) has a very strong team. And tonight, France, once again, rose to the occasion. Despite the predictions of early glory dissipating as the tournament goes on, France came through tonight, scoring two goals in the last third of the game, to beat Spain 3 to 1.

After each goal, the entire neighborhood came to life. Shouts, screams, and a general roar of clapping, laughing and cheering were heard. Lights flashed in windows, neighbors greeted each other with the universal "WOOOO!!!" from their balconies, and everyone turned back to the set, to watch Zidane slam in the third and final goal in an amazing display of fancy footwork.

"It's a deke! A deke! That was a DEKE!" Dr. B cheered. Even I, who am not exactly what you would call "sporty", let out a scream and began my "Band Director clapping" (I am the loudest clapper you've ever heard), in support of my adopted country's football team, as they advance in the World Cup.

And now, as I type this on my laptop, horns are honking, whistles are screaming, sirens are blaring, people are shouting, and celebrations are reaching heights they haven't known in a long time in Paris. France is once again leading the world. Even if it is just a sport, I think it feels pretty good.

Allez les Bleus!!!

***Photo from the Les Bleus website.
***Deke is a hockey term. Click on the word to find a definition on Wikipedia.

Weekend Update

2006-06-26T03:26:00.000-05:00

Dr. B and I celebrated our 10th anniversary on Thursday with a special dinner out at Le Procope, in the 6th arrondissement of Paris. In the Chopin Salon, we dined on traditional french fare, while persistently speaking french to the staff who served us, despite the fact that we were surrounded by Americans, and the staff was happy to speak English. (I wonder if they put us all in the same room on purpose?) The restaurant was founded in the 1600's and is supposedly the oldest still-running restaurant in the world. They advertise that Ben Franklin worked on the American Constitution there, which must be a draw for those who are visiting Paris from the US. I think we really threw the waiter for a loop, when he brought out our first course and realized it was me who ordered the pate en croute (potted spiced meat spread wrapped in a pastry crust) and Dr. B who wanted the tomato and mozzerella salad. Jeff tasted mine, and agreed that though the idea of pate scared him, it tasted pretty awesome, so he bought some at the grocery store the next time we went. Nonetheless, dinner was lovely; we ended our meal with a delightful creme brulee and digestif, and afterwards we walked along the Seine, talking and shooting pictures, in hopes that we'd get something really cool and arty-farty. Here's the best of our efforts; not great, I know, but we'll keep working on it. In the one of me alone, I am sitting in one of the little viewing spots with benches on the Pont Neuf, which you can see behind Dr. B in the photo of him. The Pont Neuf ('new bridge') is the oldest bridge in Paris, and was started in the 1500's. It has recently been cleaned, and looks brand new despite being over 500 years old. The one of the two of us was taken the old fashioned way, and I cropped my arm out of the bottom. (My college photography teacher is probably cursing me right now!) [**Note: I can't get the layout right on this--blogger is being weird--so I'll put these photos at the bottom of the page. I hope they don't cover any text. Sorry!]

Friday was spent helping friends move appliances they had just bought, eating great Italian food for lunch on La Butte aux Cailles, and later picnicing in the Parc de Montsouris with Lucy and Kyliemac joining in on the fun.

After an uneventful Saturday, Sunday dawned, with plans to bike around Paris with our friends and visit the vide grenier (garage sale--literally 'empty attic'), but someone had other ideas. The rain that was so desperately needed in Paris came down, and down and down and down. The biking idea was scrapped, and we figured that the vide-grenier was probably cancelled. Even so, Lucy still needed to be walked, so we headed up to La Butte just in case the sale was still going on. It was! We stopped under the awning to dry off at a funky little cafe that I had visited before with Aimee, Kylie and Lucy. We drank a coffee and discussed our plan of attack before turning around to head back through and dicker on prices for the items we were interested in.

Here they are. The pitcher is for water at the table, and appears to be brand new. I got it for 5 euros. I absolutely love it! The lemons are so cheerful, and the colors are great. Not a scratch on it! The posters are both of James Bond movies (we love old movies) on metal, and in French of course. A bit rusty, the one, but we can clean that up. We figure someday they will hang in a movie-watching room. 9 euros each (I thought it was too much, but like Dr. B says, they are a pretty cool souvenir, which we couldn't find in the US.)

Diamonds may be Forever (Les Diamants sont Eternels), but our time in France isn't. Catch it while we can...

Bloglines

2006-06-22T06:39:00.000-05:00

If you are reading this on bloglines and haven't seen the update yet, I have fixed the PQ error, so there's no need to comment just to point out what an idiot I am.

Yes, I posted last night at 1 in the morning after Fete de la Musique. At that time of night, I am lucky I spelled TP right.

Sigh.

News Shoes Flash!

2006-06-22T05:10:00.000-05:00

Mephisto shoes are WAY cheaper in France! (I am pretty sure this is about the only thing on the planet that is.)

After visiting the Mephisto store near me, which had none in my size, and calling around to all the other stores in Paris, I found the shoes I wanted, in my size. I had a choice between fuschia and black, and anyone who knows me knows I already own enough black shoes to outfit a small army, so I got the fuschia. I had to head all the way to Madeleine to find them, and they cost a tiny bit more than my local store, but I think it was worth it.

In the US? $145. In France? 61-69 euros. That's practically half price! Close enough to a sale for me. Now, I just have to break them in.

By the way, if you speak French, and know which ones you want, the stores here will sell them to you and mail them to the US, which is still a way better deal than buying them full price in America. Here is the information for the store nearest me (the guy there was the friendliest french customer service person I have ever met!):

T.P. & P.Q.

2006-06-21T17:29:00.000-05:00

After school, C and P were eating their snacks, when C suddenly remembered that we needed to stop by the supermarket on the way home. "We are out of P.Q., Aluminum foil and wine vinegar," she said, while sucking liquid apple sauce from a Pom' Potes packet.

"P.Q.?" I asked. "What is that?"

"Oh, you know, P.Q. Toilet paper. We call it P.Q. for short."

"Oh. We call it T.P. Toilet Paper. What does P.Q. stand for?"

"P is for paper, and Q stands for cul. ~~'queue'."~~

"Isn't that word kind of, um, impolite?

"No, not at all! It's fine! Everybody says it. I say it to my Grandma," she answered.

Then she thought for a minute.

"Oh. Um, I guess it is. Impolite. But we say it anyway!" She grinned, and we headed into the store.

*****UPDATED: First, the "cul" thing is likely right, BUT--

Did ANYONE click the link and find another alternate meaning for "queue"??????

There is another one you may not have thought of!

Though yours is more likely the correct one. French spelling, not always my forte.

Isn't it interesting that we are arguing about potty mouth?

"All Good Things Are Wild And Free"

2006-06-20T16:03:00.000-05:00

Living in Paris, it's easy to forget about the wildness, the freedom that exist in the world. Or perhaps not to forget, but to misplace the feeling. Here there are so many rules, so many obligations, so many fences.

But every once and a while, someone or something breaks through and shows you that the spirit is still there, though reigned in by the limits of living in the city.

I wish I could have trusted and let go long enough to allow Lucy to join them. Even so, it was worth watching, just to see pure joy running by my window, along the narrow strip of grass, in the middle of this crazy ville.

*Title by Henry David Thoreau, US Trancendentalist Author (1817-1862).

Fête de la Musique: Planning Stages

2006-06-19T03:57:00.000-05:00

June 21st, the Summer Solstice, is the day the French celebrate Fête de la Musique, or Celebration of Music. All over France, free concerts take place ranging from Garage Rock to Classical, World, Jazz and just about everything in between.

If you're here in Paris on this lovely day, scan the schedule, to plan your own celebration.

For me, it's rather like being at a smorgasbord of all of my favorite foods: I don't know where to start!

When Are the Soldes?

2006-06-18T15:12:00.000-05:00

Twice a year, french stores can have big sales. I say "can" because it's the truth--the government regulates sales or "promotions", so no one has an unfair advantage. This type of regulation is a direct descendant of laws from the Middle Ages, when the guilds controlled much of commerce and fabrication. In France, these take place in the winter (around February) and summer (July) and last 5-6 weeks, with exact dates set by the Mairie, or town government. The next batch starts ~~July 5 and runs until August 15~~ UPDATE: June 28-Aug. 5.

Before arriving in France, I was a bit of a shoe-hound (thanks to DSW's clearance racks), and heels had a prominent place in my wardrobe. But, with no car and lots and lots of pavement and cobblestones, my heels are resting and waiting for our return to the US, while my flats and not-so-cute-but-much-more-comfortable shoes are taking the lead. As noticed by my friend B who visited earlier this week, Parisian streets are hard on the feets! B lives in Germany, and is no stranger to walking lots, but was surprised at how sore her feet got after a few hours of walking down the rues of Paris. Both Dr. B and I have noticed more foot pain issues since coming here, and tend to gravitate toward less fashionable but more supportive shoes.

In my searches, I have found the ones I really want. Made by Mephisto (I think it's a french company), they combine the comfortable support with the cuteness factor that makes me happy whenever I look down at my toes. Unfortunately, the Violette rings in at a steep $144 (US).

Now, let's just hope that they are on sale soon. If so, these babies are mine.

La Coupe du Monde

2006-06-18T14:53:00.000-05:00

The World Cup is the Superbowl of Football, the original one (only Americans call American football just "football".) This event, however, only takes place once every four years. World Cup fever has taken over Europe, with flags flying, tacky decorations up in the fast-food restaurants, and people leaving their homes to sit in brasseries to enjoy a beer and the game.

This is somewhat unusual in Paris. Most bars here do not have the televisions blaring from every corner like many American places. There is a television tax to just own a television, so the number of TV's in public places and private homes is reduced--and those who have one have just that: one. (Kim lets me know this is per household, not per TV, but maybe once you've paid the yearly tax on owning it, nothing's left to buy a second! Not to mention the TVA--value added tax, like sales tax but figured into the price, the habitation tax on square meters of your home, etc. etc. etc....)

Despite the hefty tax, some businesses are seizing this opportunity to bring in flat-screens (possibly rented--that's my guess.) Along with your croissant and café normal or demi de Blanche you can check out the game, served by a waiter in a black bow tie.

Vive la France!

**(This photo is during the first half of the France/Korea game, on right now as I type. I took it while giving Lucy her evening walk, and in return, Dr. B took down the dry laundry and ironed his own clothes--just for the chance to watch the game from the beginning. He says that it is pretty much hockey, with no skates, more guys, grass and a ball. Close enough!)

7 Things

2006-06-17T05:29:00.000-05:00

So Katie tagged me way back in February, and as usual, I wasn't paying attention. Sorry about that! I will do my best to answer said questions.

By the way, you find out the most interesting things when you do a Technorati search on your own blog. Some weird bot-blog has a link to me because of the words "britney spears" and "pink". I don't even want to know.

Anyway, here goes:

Seven things to do before I die:
1. Learn to speak some Italian and German
2. Travel the world (I'm going to Germany, Luxembourg and Switzerland in two weeks--that counts!)
3. Write a book that gets published
4. Grow my own food in a big garden (first we need the dirt)
5. Raise children who aren't jerks
6. ~~Live in France~~ Own a vacation/retirement home in France
7. Learn to really play the guitar (my studies were cut short by carpal tunnel syndrome) though I already play the clarinets, piano, oboe, flute, trumpet, trombone, saxophones, euphonium, tuba, snare drum, bass drum, cymbals, timpani, spoons, tin whistle, etc. etc. etc. (Ah, the band director is definitely a Jill of all instruments, master [?] of one.)

Seven things I cannot do:
1. Be a bikini model
2. Speak with a Cockney or Brooklyn accent
3. Surf, ski, snowboard, roller skate/blade, skateboard or anything which requires balance except for riding a bike and walking/dancing in high heels, which actually took quite a bit of practice (First part stolen from Katie)
4. Ride or watch a roller coaster (they absolutely terrify me)
5. Eat Boston Baked Beans or Refried Beans (Yech!)
6. See a friend being hurt or picked on and not jump in to defend them, even if they're wrong
7. Stop setting high standards for myself and do everything I can to achieve them (I am a bit obsessive.)

Seven things that attract me to my mate:
1. His smile (joy/warmth)
2. His openness
3. The way he treats me
4. His idealism and ambition
5. His way of making people feel that they are normal even when they are totally stressing about something (he gets this from his Dad who is the KING of making you feel like it's all going to be fine.)
6. His artistry and ability to see the beauty in everything
7. His steadfastness

Seven things I say:
1. Et puis, voilà!
2. So, there you go, then. (This is Norwegian-American for "et puis, voilà!")
3. Literally (I use this word a lot, because people think I exaggerate.)
4. Freakin' Jack-Wipe! (This comes out of my mouth when I am driving and someone does something stupid or dangerous--it's a combination of several not-so-nice phrases, though each of these pieces are totally benign. I guess it's due to teaching Catholic school for so long.)
5. It's like a party in my mouth! (refers to food: said when I am eating something incredibly delicious and intense.)
6. I think it's about beer-thirty.
7. Oh-fer (insert descriptive word here.) Yes, I grew up in Fargo, ND. "Oh, fer cute! Oh, fer stupid! Oh, fer dumb!" Annoying, I know. I'm trying to stop, but it's kind of ingrained.

Seven books I love:
1. The Girl with the Pearl Earring
2. Gone With the Wind (I know, cheesy, but it's a big old romantic story--I love it.)
3. The Poisonwood Bible
4. The Scarlett Letter
5. Plainsong (Kent Haruf)
6. Giants in the Earth
7. Old Turtle

Seven movies that I've loved: (I didn't stop at 7, either. But 14 is divisible by it.)

1. A Foreign Affair
2. Marie Antoinette
3. Harry Potter 1,2,3,4
4. Le Divorce
5. Say Anything
6. Charade
7. Gone With The Wind
8. The Goonies
9. Legally Blonde (Yes, I like it! You wanna make something of it?)
10. Monsters, Inc.
11. West Side Story
12. Hello, Dolly!
13. Hellboy
14. To Catch A Thief

Seven People I Tag:

Yep, I'm taking the wimpy route. Do it if you want, don't if you don't. No pressure!

Casualty

2006-06-16T16:54:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, our fridge stopped working. Just...stopped. The dial to turn up the coolness sort of spun like crazy, and the massive glacier that was the "freezer" (it's in quotes for a reason) began to thaw. So I did what any reasonable person would do in a town without air conditioning in June.

I panicked.

I began the frantic phone calls to Dr. B at work, our landlady (who didn't want to fix it because she was replacing it anyway in September, and seemed completely overwhelmed that I was speaking in English, despite the fact that she is a retired English teacher), and Darty to set up a rendez-vous for an estimate (who, this time, had a very nice customer service representative that didn't make me feel stupid because it's hard to describe things when the aren't working when you have to do it in another language--who learns that stuff in class?) These phone calls, of course, left me feeling even more frazzled. I dashed out the door to head to pick up my girls after school, leaving Lucy with a chunk of glacial thaw to gnaw on, and cursing her for letting small chunks melt all over the floor and causing me to slip on my way out.

Dr. B called later, saying he had "fixed" it. Basically, he touched it, and the thing started to work again. I don't know why this happens, but it always does. (I've learned to just step away from anything attached to a cord--there can be no good that comes of me meddling with it.)

Which of course, left me to call our landlady again this morning (this time I spoke in French, and she seemed much less frightened), and Darty (who cancelled the appointment with only one question. "So it works now?")

Today, around 1:30, I went to the fridge to pull out the camembert, which I had been desperately trying to eat yesterday when the fridge had its little tantrum. Camembert is a lovely, wonderful cheese that Jeff calls "butt cheese"--in other words, it really, really stinks. The longer you leave it, the worse it gets, so I knew I had to finish it today. I tore through the several layers of ziploc freezer bags encasing our cheese stash, eager to spread its melty, creamy goodness on some pain aux céréales, tranché.

But all that remained was 2/3 of a slice of Fourme d'Ambert and a sad little dry hunk of Mimolette.

Tonight, the interrogation began.

"Where is the camembert?"

(Guilty look from Dr. B.) "Um, I had to toss it. It was...all...really bad...water... everywhere..."

He desperately looked at his laptop screen, as if something would suddenly pop up to save him, or maybe distract me from the questioning.

"Ah hah. Really bad, huh? Water, is it? Water everywhere."

"Yeah, it was soaked. Lots of water. The paper was wet and everything."

"Mm-hmm. Yep. In its two Ziploc freezer bags. Soaked. Riiiight."

He began to visibly color around the ears, and a smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth.

"You thought," I said,"you had a pretty good excuse, huh?"

"Yep," he admitted.

Little does he know, that just when he least expects it...WHAM! His peanuts are going to have a leettle accident... [Evil Laughter]

***Note: I think we've discovered that the grey thing in the middle of the turney thing is actually a defrost button. Now we feel really stupid.

Someone Should Have Smacked Me

2006-06-14T14:04:00.000-05:00

Remember when I complained about the cold? Yeah, just goes to show.

Yesterday was 30 C (90 F). Which, in Madison, was hot, but not unbearable. But Paris isn't prepared for this. No one has A/C. I mean NO ONE. Restaurants? Nope. Grocery stores? Only the frozen foods isle (and really, how long can you look at a bag of peas before people just start to think you're weird?) Department stores? Sweat all over the stuff you can't afford.

Even the places that say they do are just a few degrees cooler than outside, if that.

So, if you hear someone say that the french are stinky, now you know why. You would be, too.

PS If anyone is sending a care package my way, some Decaffeinated Luzianne Tea would be heaven right now. (I get the shakes when I drink the leaded version.)

Félicitations!

2006-06-13T04:05:00.000-05:00

Congratulations to my good friends MagE and G-Love, who are taking the plunge. Whoopie! I love weddings!

American in Paris

2006-06-13T02:44:00.000-05:00

Saturday, I had planned a celebration for the annual Worldwide Knit in Public Day, but fate had other plans for Mrs. B, because [*GASP!*] Dr. B wanted to go (now brace yourself) SHOPPING! As many women know, getting the husband out to shop is not always a fun proposition. When he works full days at the lab (often staying until 7 PM), and thus never has time during the week to go to the stores, that leaves us with Saturday only, because most shops in France are closed on Sunday (and some on Monday, too.) But Saturday comes along, and Dr. B would rather be holed up in the Hobbit Hutch tapping away on his laptop, watching Dr. Who, reading Bandes-Désinées, or perhaps curled up with a bowl of peanuts and an Agatha Christie, Ian Fleming or Patrick O'Brian novel. So I knew, despite the fact that I had plans, that this opportunity must be seized.

We headed out to the Haussman area, due to the proximity of so many stores we wanted to check out. Dr. B has come to the conclusion that French men's pants are much, much better than their American counterparts, at least for him fit-wise. He is not six foot three, and isn't built like so many hardy Vikings were that settled our home state of North Dakota, so finding pants that don't come up to his armpits and that, if they fit in the waist, do not have room for an entire other person in the legs can be difficult in the USA. French pants are cut for French men who, on average, are shorter and slimmer than for whomever the American companies cut their pants. All of Dr. B's American pants have been relegated to the Red Cross, and we are slowly (as we can afford to) filling his drawers with slimmer cut French pantalons.

We started at Benetton, an Italian store, and had great luck with their cut of trousers. We decided to keep looking and return later if we had decided that these were the ones. After a walk through H&M (where Dr. B nearly had a panic attack--way too many people), and Zara (cut for Spaniards. Dr. B and I? Not Spaniards.) we stopped to get a sandwich, and ate in the park in front of a church nearby. It was hot, and the sun was brutal, so we agreed to head back to Benetton and pick up the pants that he liked. After the successful purchases were made (tan pants, jeans, and a pink/white stripe button down shirt), we stopped in a café for une bière. He was still (unbelievably) in shopping mode, so we hunted for a *Celio to pick up some new things (another button down shirt, short-sleeved, and two t-shirts).

"I know that this is a tough day for you," Dr. B said to me, as we headed back down toward the Boulevard Haussman. "Huh? What do you mean?" I asked.

"Shopping, and not looking at anything for yourself. I know you love to shop," he answered. We discussed the tax refund we were getting, and the payment for some consulting he had done recently. "It must be hard for you, in France," he said, "because the clothes are so beautiful, but so expensive, and all you feel you can afford is the really inexpensive and somewhat ill-fitting tops at H&M or Monoprix." At this point, I vowed not to pinch myself, because the happy daydream I seemed to be living was just too good to be true. "You should get yourself something special, that will always remind you of France, of Paris, and of being a beautiful Parisienne. Something really nice, that fits you really well, and that you love. I want you to, and I insist." Then, he set a budget. A budget for me that was about 400% higher than I would have set for myself.

We headed into Printemps, to look around and get an idea of what I might get. Dr. B waited while I scanned the women's clothing departments. I had an idea of what I would like, partly from some of the movies we've been watching recently (To Catch a Thief, Rear Window, The Man Who Knew Too Much), partly from the designer influences of the last few seasons (I love the full-skirted 1950's inspired designs, and the return to the classic Hitchcock look--a look that does not require Britney Spears abs circa 3 years ago), and partly from one of my favorite guilty pleasure movies, An American in Paris (and I love the music! Did you know it takes 14 different "car horns" to play the piece?) Inspired by these and the A Dress A Day blog, I had a dress in mind, in black and white, with a full skirt, some sort of pattern, and one that I didn't have to "suck in" to look good wearing. I wanted short or no sleeves, and not too fancy, so I could wear it more often.

We hunted high and low, through haute couture and ready-to-wear, but couldn't quite find what we were looking for. Then, I saw it.

Well, almost. The dress was on a mannequin in the Caroll section of Printemps. The lines were perfect, the design was beautiful, the pattern was both printed and then embroidered, but the colors were just a bit off (beige and tan), and they didn't have my size. "If this was black and white, it would be perfect," I said, and chose several other dresses to try on. After a dressing-room goof (where I entered and used a room another lady was still using, but she had left the area and didn't leave her stuff, so I had no idea), I still hadn't found "the one". They either didn't quite fit right, didn't quite "work" with my shape, or felt scratchy to wear. We had nearly given up for the day.

Then, a security guard came by and said no one could leave for five minutes. Apparently, someone had fallen ill and the pompiers (paramedics) needed space to help the person and take her out of the store, so we continued to scan the racks while we waited.

Then I saw it.

The dress. The one on the mannequin, only in black and white. Not my size, but one bigger, that just might fit.

I tried it. It was perfect. I stepped out of the room to show Dr. B, and he said, "That's it." "Do you really think...?" "Yes, it just...pops. It looks great, and you look beautiful and so happy."

Although I haven't narrowed down the choices yet for our 10th anniversary dinner, I know what I am wearing. Une Américaine à Paris with the most wonderful husband in the whole wide world.

PS: I'll get a pic of me in it when I can. Currently I am in my jammies, with bed-head, so please be patient. You really don't want to see me like this, believe me.

How Rude!

2006-06-07T02:28:00.000-05:00

Before arriving in France, I read all the books I could find about french politesse, not wanting to offend anyone with the forgotten "Bonjour!" or the accidental smile at an inappropriate time. This was a struggle for my Midwestern Upbringing, between the desire to not offend (for Norwegian-Americans this is one of the main tenets of our existence) and the natural habit to smile at people when they meet my eyes (which in France is considered rude or a come-on.) After a few weeks, I stopped caring quite so much if I bumped into people accidentally, because I noticed that they slammed into me all the time without a care in the world. The more I observed, the more I learned and soon, I began to "get" french politeness, and was Bonjouring and Au Revoiring with the best of them.

Then yesterday, at the grocery store, I was treated more rudely than I ever have been in Paris.

The line for the caisse was about five people long, and my basket was heavy due to the purchase of several different beverages. The surrounding lines were empty, with no one tending them, so I grabbed an extra order seperator (those little metal bars you put between your groceries and the person's ahead of you.) As she moved the belt toward her, the cashier picked up the metal bar, looked down to see another on the belt after the order, and despite the fact that there were three more people behind me, put the first order seperator under the cash register.

How RUDE! The older lady behind me looked around, bewildered, and proceeded to continue holding her groceries, waiting for the release of the only order seperator allowed on this woman's line.

As I came up to my turn in line, she ignored me, giving no eye contact, and not even a response to my "Bonjour, Madame." She rang up my order, pausing in the middle to have a conversation with another Champion worker, and rang it up. She turned toward me, not meeting my eyes, and said, "How are you gonna pay?" I indicated the bank card I had been holding since I walked past the stolen item detector in line and said, "Carte bancaire." She pushed the appropriate buttons, and I began to type in my personal code to authorize the payment.

When I was finished, I picked up my bags, and thanked her for the receipt she tossed in my direction. The older lady behind me, noticing that there were few plastic sacs left, said to our lovely checker, "Madame, there are not many bags, we need some more..."

The checker ignored her.

That was it. I had had it. She can be nasty to me, but this lady was someone's grandma! In my sharpest, most irritated tone, I said, "Madame! There are not enough sacs! She needs more sacs! AU REVOIR!!!!"

And finally, she snapped out of her stupor, and replied, "Au Revoir. Merci, Madame."

Politesse. It's the French/Midwestern Way.

Photo from M. B. ecole-plus.com.

New Coke?

2006-06-06T06:53:00.000-05:00

I discovered this at the supermarket last night.

Not bad. Doesn't taste bloody at all. (Sango refers to the blood orange flavoring that has been added.) I think it's only available in Europe right now, though I doubt it will be released in America. (Somehow, I don't see a fruit with the word "blood" in the name becoming popular any time soon.)

Too bad, though--it's pretty good stuff. I like it much better than the Diet Coke with Lemon. (I am pretty sure they got their lemon flavoring from Pledge.)

Oops

2006-06-05T11:35:00.000-05:00

2 pale yellow towels + 1 red towel= 2 peach towels + 1 red towel.

At least they came out pretty even. Let's just pretend I meant them to look like that, OK?

Anniversary

2006-06-05T09:21:00.000-05:00

Dr. B and I will be celebrating our 10th wedding anniversary in a few weeks, and we're looking for someplace special for a romantic meal. We can look in the guides, and could do the things that have already been done (but frankly, Tom Cruise's footsteps are not ones I'd like to follow), but we'd like something special, and different.

And cheap.

Well, at least not too expensive. Do you have any ideas? A special hideaway? A small day trip within reach of the trains from Paris? A romantic petit bistrot?

Please, comment away!

Tips for Tourists in Paris: Part 5

2006-06-05T07:11:00.000-05:00

Souvenirs and Shopping

Shopping in Paris can be both fun and frightening. Chances are you will want something to remember your trip by, and France offers lots of things to buy--but they all have a price attached! Taxes are high here, and are included in the price you see (not added to the bill like US sales tax.) This makes many things more expensive than you might expect, so be warned ahead of time.

Visa is accepted in France, but some other cards are not. Cash is always welcome, of course. Paris is full of souvenir stands, and if that's your thing make sure you look around a bit for a good deal and exactly what you want. Avoid buying from people who don't have their own stand--they will sell cheap junk (like plastic flashing Eiffel Towers) for too much.

Above all, look for something that will make you happy, that you can enjoy for a long time. It's better to spend a little more on one item that will please you for years to come than to buy a bunch of cheap junk that will get tossed out. If your souvenir is a Longchamp bag, or a pair of beautiful earrings that will always remind you of the city of Light, that's what's important! After all, Souvenir is the French word for "Remember"!

Here are some items that may be good candidates for a spot in your suitcase:

scarves

food

books

postcards

cookbooks

posters or old maps to frame

perfume

Music

Fashion

No matter what, have fun! It's your trip--make it what you want it to be.

Good luck, and I hope you enjoy your visit to Paris.

À bientôt!

Tips for Tourists in Paris: Part 4

2006-06-05T06:25:00.000-05:00

If you are anything like me, you don't like to waste money. (Who does?) But, France and especially Paris are expensive places to visit. Here are a few tips that will help you to save a euro or two, but be warned--you'll spend more than you want to anyway. C'est la vie! (That's life!)

Transportation (As I discussed before)

Carte Orange Hébedomaire

shuttle from the hotel

Avoid taking taxis

Eating

Skip the hotel breakfast.

Head to a grocery store

a bottle of wine for 2-5 euro

won't totally stink.

Picnic!

Sit! Stay!

Walk away from touristy areas.

Menu or Formule

Butcher, baker, cheese maker

Street Food Sometimes you won't want to take the time to sit for a meal (which is not the in-and-out affair it is in the US.) When this happens, street food can be great.

Sandwiches

Crêpes

Grèques

Street Markets

here

See Part 5 for Souvenirs and Shopping.

Tips for Tourists in Paris: Part 3

2006-06-05T04:53:00.000-05:00

Language and Politeness

You are now in France. Not America or England. People here speak French and are very proud of their wonderful culture and language. Imagine if you were in their situation: how would you like it if someone came up to you and just assumed you spoke fluent French in America?

A few polite words will get you a lot further, and the effort to try makes a HUGE difference to them. If you are too embarassed to say one or two words, they won't assume it is your hang up--they will consider you rude and insulting. They'd rather hear you butcher a "merci" than assume that they will cater to you, even though they likely speak some English, and quite possibly one or two other languages as well. Even if your accent is terrible, it's the effort that counts.

Think of it this way: by speaking a few words of French, you are showing them that people from your country are polite, care about others' feelings, are worldly, and considerate. Come on, represent us well!

Here's a few words that should help:

Merci

Bonjour, Monsieur/Madame

Les Toilettes

Au Revoir

L'addition

Parlez-vous anglais?

Je ne parle pas français.

Pardon.

Désolé.

Museum Tips

Paris is full of wonderful museums, and no trip would be complete without visiting some of them. Don't plan on seeing everything, unless you have a death wish (there's just too much!) Plan accordingly, with stops for snacks, lunch, etc., and try to pace yourself. Too long spent at any museum is just tiring, and (as my Dad, who loves museums, said,) "you'll get museumed out." A few hours, followed by lunch and then a different activity, will be much easier to swallow.

Here's some other things that can help you.

Paris Museum Pass

buy your museum tickets ahead of time

Use the bathroom when you see it

sous-sol

See Part 4 for Money Saving Tips for the City of Light!

Tips for Tourists in Paris: Part 2

2006-06-05T04:22:00.000-05:00

You're here! You've officially arrived in Paris.

At the Hotel

French hotels are generally very pleasant places to stay. The staff will work hard to help you, and most staff will speak some English (though maybe not the maids, but the front desk should.) Hotels are different here, though, so it helps to know a few things.

Rooms are smaller. MUCH smaller.

Light switches are often outside the room.

The hotel may offer a breakfast,

hair dryer

melt

room key

Getting Around

Tickets:

Carte Orange HEBEDOMAIRE

Riding:

Getting On and Off:

french don't smile

Avoid touching your face

Watch for pickpockets

Sortie

If you go to Versailles,

this is really important

you can save 90+ minutes waiting in line by buying your palace tickets with your train tickets

See Part 3 for Language, Politeness, and Museum tips.

Tips for Tourists in Paris: Part 1

2006-06-04T12:41:00.000-05:00

After many visits from family and friends, I've found myself being hit up for information, as well as offering it freely on the streets to tourists I meet. I don't know about you, but getting ripped off is not my idea of a good time, so I've compiled a few tips that will help you to really enjoy your Parisian vacation (and to feel like you've got the inside story!) You'll find more info on lots of other sites, but these are the things that have been important to the people who've been here to visit me, so I thought I'd share. If you're coming to Paris for the first time or for the fiftieth, have fun!

Packing

Pack as light as you can

Bring layers.

Plan to fit in.

"I'm American and I don't care what they say! If I want to wear my sweatshirt, cargo shorts, baseball cap and white tennis shoes, By Gum, I will!"

you may feel differently.

Essentials

The Flight

Flying through the night is often the way to go, but it can make it hard once you arrive. Paris is 6 hours ahead of the East Coast of the US (and add an hour for every time zone thereafter) so you may struggle to adjust. Some things that can help:

eye cover

melatonin

Landing

you

kyliemac

"you can book a shuttle from the airport online from the states & they will charge your credit card (so no worries about euros and no tip needed!) - they seem to run from 24€ - 30€, door-to-door service from the airport to your hotel. it's very convenient, as you avoid all kinds of hassles (like stairs with your suitcases). you can google "airport shuttle paris" and come up with a bunch of options. it's less expensive than having someone come meet you at the airport... "

KNOW YOUR PIN NUMBER.

See Part 2 for "Beyond the Airport".

Not Fair!

2006-06-02T02:58:00.000-05:00

Location: Paris, France

Date: June 2, 2006

Temperature: 8C / 47F

Cute new summer skirts and summer sandals? Just sitting there in my closet taunting me.

Sigh.

Wool sweater it is.