We made it - just walked in our South Orange front door earlier today. The dreaded 8 hour flight was actually (gasp!) pretty easy, all things considered. Most importantly, the kids were complete, absolute angels, so much so that flight attendants and fellow passengers alike asked how it was possible for us to have two such wonderfully behaved youngsters. We shared with them out own shock at how well the whole thing worked. I'd chalk it up to lots of advanced talking about it with them, lots and lots of activities bought and planned ahead of time, and of course a healthy dose of movies. Oh, and as a classic post-script, Cory fell asleep literally as the plane approached Newark airport (Addy, who has a cold and a low-grade fever, slept like a cutie on Rob's lap during the flight for about an hour). Everything went well - the kids, the airline, the baggage (all 9 huge bags, mind you).
Being home is nothing short of surreal. While we were on our trip, I did not feel that it was really speeding by. Rather, I had a healthy sense of it being a leisurely experience. But after hopping in Jill's car to come home, it felt that we had been gone on nothing more than a typical two week summer vacation. Looking back, it's hard to believe we actually went. Perhaps some reflection on a day without intercontinental travel is in order.
At any rate, the kids are glad to be home, we're glad to be home, and I think(!) our friends and family are glad to have us home. It's back to reality, but to me it feels welcome somehow. Time for the next stage in our lives.
OK, time to sign off - just thought I would get the message out that we have returned! I still owe a final entry on some lessons and reflections from the trip.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Second to Last Post
So we leave on Tuesday - back to the land of highways and fast food. But some very nice people, too, thank god! Before we depart (or maybe shortly thereafter), I promise an entry summing up our experiences, and lessons for anyone thinking of taking an extended time abroad with little ones. But for now, I could not resist sharing a photo and a story.
The photo (ok, photos) are from our the kids' Haloween Party at their small English-only preschool program. Halloween is, to say the least, not a big deal in France, and the school is out next week, so they had their festivities today. You will notice, first and foremost, I am sure, that out children are adorable. Second, I suspect you will also notice their frighteningly gendered outfits. While I am sure it all just sounds defensive, I nonetheless feel compelled to state that these outfits were selected only after long, persistent campaigns by our children. And to be fair, we have some photos we just got from our school of Cory dressed as a princess on other days - he does often have a greater appreciation for them than Addy. There is hope.
Begging your indulgence, I will now crow about my children a bit more. In our final meeting with the staff - nice, sharp folks - the teachers told us they loved the kids, that they were doing well at all the big stuff, and that they would be missed a great deal. OK, so they did have just a LITTLE difficulty sharing at the beginning, but no one's perfect! Maybe they're just following all my laissez faire, survival of the fittest, free market instincts. And what harm can come of that?
And now the story. Like many children, ours get a great deal of pleasure out of playing "make believe" at home. But given our circumstances, I would guess the make believe is a bit different. Indeed, no morning would be complete without Cory, at about 8am, after hurriedly wolfing down two yogurts (or "yo-yos," as they refer to them), saying to Addy: "Mom [he calls her mom, no idea why]! Our plane leaves at 16 o'clock, we have to get ready!" We are then required to ask "Cory, where are you guys going?" To which they will usually say "To Barcelona (or South Orange, or Rome), on a LONG airplane ride." They can then be heard stomping upstairs, where they begin the process of packing one of our large pieces of rolling luggage with a strange assortment of "fancy clothes" [for "fancy dinners" - wherever would they get that idea?], books, toy cars, pyjamas...you get the picture. They then usually ask for help getting the luggage downstairs, and they give us wet kisses as they pretend to leave to catch their "double decker train" to the airport. This whole process can take over an hour, and I should be clear that it is not just a sometimes kind of thing, it is positively a RITUAL. Every day, in some fashion or form, they pack and head for the airport. If it's not with us after breakfast, it's certainly with Eryn after we're gone for the gym.
This was all well and good until they recently became fixated on Peter Pan, and that's where (I at least) think it gets funny. They watched the Disney Peter Pan movie once several months ago and, as usual, Cory was just not into the mean characters, let alone the "hittin'". Addy got into it though, and ever since Jill brought us a Peter Pan book, Cory showed more interest, so we tried the movie again. He somehow got comfortable with the whole thing, and they have pretty much not stopped asking to watch it ever since. And this has translated into a new twist on all the morning role-playing. It seems they just aren't quite sure how to integrate their old routine and their new content. The role playing is now usually instigated by Addy, who says "Hey Cory! Hey Cory! How 'bout you be Captain Hook and I be Peter Pan?!?!?!" This is usually followed by a lengthy period of yelling, sword fighting, floating boats, etc." Then, at some point, Hook tells Pan that they have to stop the pretend flying because they have a plane to catch, so swords, pixie dust, and mermaids must now go into the luggage and they have to catch a plane to Never Land.
Well, maybe you have to be there.
The photo (ok, photos) are from our the kids' Haloween Party at their small English-only preschool program. Halloween is, to say the least, not a big deal in France, and the school is out next week, so they had their festivities today. You will notice, first and foremost, I am sure, that out children are adorable. Second, I suspect you will also notice their frighteningly gendered outfits. While I am sure it all just sounds defensive, I nonetheless feel compelled to state that these outfits were selected only after long, persistent campaigns by our children. And to be fair, we have some photos we just got from our school of Cory dressed as a princess on other days - he does often have a greater appreciation for them than Addy. There is hope.
Begging your indulgence, I will now crow about my children a bit more. In our final meeting with the staff - nice, sharp folks - the teachers told us they loved the kids, that they were doing well at all the big stuff, and that they would be missed a great deal. OK, so they did have just a LITTLE difficulty sharing at the beginning, but no one's perfect! Maybe they're just following all my laissez faire, survival of the fittest, free market instincts. And what harm can come of that?And now the story. Like many children, ours get a great deal of pleasure out of playing "make believe" at home. But given our circumstances, I would guess the make believe is a bit different. Indeed, no morning would be complete without Cory, at about 8am, after hurriedly wolfing down two yogurts (or "yo-yos," as they refer to them), saying to Addy: "Mom [he calls her mom, no idea why]! Our plane leaves at 16 o'clock, we have to get ready!" We are then required to ask "Cory, where are you guys going?" To which they will usually say "To Barcelona (or South Orange, or Rome), on a LONG airplane ride." They can then be heard stomping upstairs, where they begin the process of packing one of our large pieces of rolling luggage with a strange assortment of "fancy clothes" [for "fancy dinners" - wherever would they get that idea?], books, toy cars, pyjamas...you get the picture. They then usually ask for help getting the luggage downstairs, and they give us wet kisses as they pretend to leave to catch their "double decker train" to the airport. This whole process can take over an hour, and I should be clear that it is not just a sometimes kind of thing, it is positively a RITUAL. Every day, in some fashion or form, they pack and head for the airport. If it's not with us after breakfast, it's certainly with Eryn after we're gone for the gym.
This was all well and good until they recently became fixated on Peter Pan, and that's where (I at least) think it gets funny. They watched the Disney Peter Pan movie once several months ago and, as usual, Cory was just not into the mean characters, let alone the "hittin'". Addy got into it though, and ever since Jill brought us a Peter Pan book, Cory showed more interest, so we tried the movie again. He somehow got comfortable with the whole thing, and they have pretty much not stopped asking to watch it ever since. And this has translated into a new twist on all the morning role-playing. It seems they just aren't quite sure how to integrate their old routine and their new content. The role playing is now usually instigated by Addy, who says "Hey Cory! Hey Cory! How 'bout you be Captain Hook and I be Peter Pan?!?!?!" This is usually followed by a lengthy period of yelling, sword fighting, floating boats, etc." Then, at some point, Hook tells Pan that they have to stop the pretend flying because they have a plane to catch, so swords, pixie dust, and mermaids must now go into the luggage and they have to catch a plane to Never Land.
Well, maybe you have to be there.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Back on the Blog!
I begin with a non-sequitur. Many of you know how famous France is for its strikes. But today the country reached a new apex in the field. At lunch in a lovely little organic restaurant inside our local market, we sat next to a very nice couple who informed us that today retired people in all of France are on strike. How can someone who does not work go on strike? You got me, and no one in the restaurant seemed to know or really think the question was worth asking, much less a funny topic. All I can say is that the action seemed to explain the masses of elderly people we saw all over the city today, waiting to go into comedy clubs, restaurants, movie theaters, you get the idea. "Hey Barb, we're striking today. Yeah, instead of coffee at the cafe, let's get 'em by goin' shopping instead!"
OK, sorry, had to share. Now for the serious part. The blog hiatus is over. Yes we are fine, as evidenced by the lovely photo to the left. So why have I left this blog untended for over a month? Two reasons, I think ("laziness," I am told by those in the know "is not a very useful word"). First, and if I'm being honest, the more important, is that I think I have begun to emotionally finish this trip - I have gone from not thinking about the end to thinking mainly about what life will be like when we return. That takes away from my enjoyment of the day to day, not to mention my desire to report on it to others. Second, and connected to this, is that it has been hard to do anything but stare at web sites and plummeting credit and equity markets every time I turn on the computer - it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and it's really hard to just turn away. Over the last 10-15 years of being on or connected to Wall Street, I learned that in times like these, sometimes you just have to turn off the screen and get back to analysis and life. I have been poor at best at following this advice for the last 4-5 weeks.
The truth is that, despite my fascination with the financial abomination on display nearly every day, I do feel some perspective. On one day several weeks ago in which the market for financials - and Morgan Stanley's stock in particular - was taking its first of many huge dives, I began to take my stress out on my innocent children. Nothing awful, just a higher level of impatience and distraction on my part. As usual, they took my grouchiness in stride, forcing me into an epiphany about all this nonsense. I paused, sat quitely for a few minutes, and then gave them big hugs, saying "I'm just glad Wall Street can't take away you guys." Addy of course asked "What's Wall Street?" Having learned my lesson in front of the renaissance Crucifixion painting, I just ignored her question and asked if she wanted a cookie at 9 in the morning. That did the trick.
So how is Paris? It's pretty close to divine if I can just force myself to focus on it. While we loved Barcelona, we both agree that it's pretty much a cow town compared to this huge, international metropolis. What a place! The best thing is that I feel like our months here have allowed us to really get to know the city - having walked many of the same streets in the nicer neighborhoods now dozens of times. The food, the history, and just the beauty are pretty much everything I hoped they would be, and make this city one of the finest in the world.
We have settled into a comfortable routine - on weekdays, one of us wakes up with the kids, feeds them breakfast, gets them dressed, and plays a while with them (all with the help of Eryn, of course), and then we both head out to the gym for an hour or so. Exercise has been a great addition to my life, and it has been years since I have felt this good physically. Indeed, some modest weight loss (and prodding by Rob and Jill) persuaded me to buy a rather tailored winter overcoat and sweater, both of which help keep me from eating that fifth pain au chocolate each morning in the hopes of still being able to fit into them when I return home.
We typically get back from exercising in time to meet the kids back home after they've been out at the park with Eryn. They eat their lunch and get ready for a brief nap before heading to a small pre-school program we've enrolled them in. In contrast to the lovely all-Castillian program in Barcelona, this one is in English. While we couldn't have been happier with the Barcelona kids and teachers, both Rob and I still feel pangs of guilt for having sent them into a context in which they would be entirely unable to communicate. The language obstacles were in fact so significant that we heard back from teachers after the first few weeks that the kids had actually been hitting, something we all agreed was a direct by product of the language barrier. Cory and Addy impressively desisted immediately after we spoke to them about it, but we had no desire to inflict the same stuggle again, let alone in an entirely new language. I am pleased to report that on day one of the Paris program, the kids walked into the new classroom, saw the other children and the toys, and yelled "bye!" over their shoulders as they ran to join in. I feel strongly that one of the positive things our kids have gotten out of this trip - and I do not think it has been all positive for them - is a greater ability to adapt to new circumstances.
After watching the kids go - usually uneventfully upstairs with Eryn for their naps - Rob and I often head out for lunch and some sight seeing. Depending on the day and the agenda, lunch is typically of the bistro variety, which is to say delicious, but perhaps not the healthiest. And the sight seeing has often focused around museums or gardens, of which we have now seen many, but still have plenty left on our to-do list. Rob sometimes skips the sight seeing in favor of continuing to write his book. On this topic, Rob has chosen a couple of generous souls - both well-versed in the genre he has chosen - to read a preliminary draft of his first chapters. Indeed, writing this book has become Rob's garden away from his garden - something he chooses to do with his free time mainly because he enjoys it and finds it gratifying. If he can turn it into a career, all the better, but those of us who love him are just glad he's found yet another passion. And before you ask, no, I do not have any hopes that this will mean a smaller order of bulbs next year.
An exception to our routine is that on Wednesdays I typically take one of the kids somewhere on my own. The first of these trips was to the Louvre, as I described in previous entries. Since then, I have taken both Cory and Addy on solo trips to the BatoBus - a sort of water taxi - as well as to multiple museums and parks. Here are links to some pics: Addy on the boat, Cory on the boat/Musee D'Orsay, and Cory at the Centre Pompidou.
We return home on most non-Wednesdays at 5 or 5:30, in time to be greeted enthusiastically by the kids on their way home from school. The return is marked by two traditions - 1) an attempt to surprise us, which usually backfires (we can hear them coming and take great pleasure in startling them) and 2) regaling us with something they have seen (typically an ad for a movie or show) on their 15 subway stop commute ("Dada, we saw CAPTAIN HOOK today!!!"). We then spend the next few hours eating dinner, playing, bathing, and watching a little video of some kind before bed.
The weekends, of course, are different, and we have the kids to ourselves for two days. We typically do something more ambitious on one of the days - like head to Disneyland when Jill was here, or an extraordinary garden with lots of amenities for kids (huge slides, four person bike-contraptions, and a kid-sized car ride, not to mention free outdoor orchestra music every afternoon) on the outskirts of town.
Mainly, I think the kids are doing great, and I feel like we are doing really well with them. It may have taken months of practice, and clearly their getting a bit older has helped, but I no longer fear having to care for both of them on my own. Perhaps it's partly watching Eryn do it so gracefully, but it's also largely about getting to know them, their needs, and their patterns much better. Thank you, sabbatical. This has translated into a much less pronounced preference by the kids for Rob over me at key times like reading books at night or going to run errands. They seem to enjoy both of us now, which certainly feels much better, even if it could change when I return home and start a more rigorous work routine again.
Our typical routine has been interrupted for the positive in the last few weeks by a string of visitors. First, Jill made her third and final treck to Europe, this time for five days. As usualy, her presence was an amazingly calming one for the kids, and I don't think she'd disagree if I said the highlight was a trip to Euro Disney we all took (including Eryn, an ex-Disneyworld employee, who tagged along to help show us the ropes). The kids are obviously still a bit young for Disney, but they did seem to thoroughly enjoy certain things. Among these was the "It's a Small World" ride, which I thus had the great pleasure of enduring something like five times, and, more importantly, a live appearance by Mary Poppins herself. Ms. Poppins provided what was no doubt the cutest moment of the day, when, during a brief silent moment during her crowded performance near the entrance to the theme park, Cory yelled "I love you Mary Poppins!" Judging by the tone of his voice, not to mention the number of times he insists on watching the movie, he meant it.
We were also joined in Paris in by my folks, who came for what turned out to be an eventful few weeks. I think, in all, they actually fell in love with this city, if only because the food is so undeniably fantastic, but they also had to endure some trauma along the way. First, as many of you who know my mother's bird-like eating habits (with the exception, of course, of ice cream, candy, and pastries of any kind, which she will consume voraciously when given an opportunity), the cuisine of the city took a little getting used to. Indeed, she does not enjoy eating meat, and Paris' most famous nod to vegetarians is an haute cuisine restaurant that has (gasp!) eliminated all red meat from the menu. Needless to say, the cream sauces, frites, and healthy portions at traditional brasseries took a little getting used to.
No sooner had they adapted to the eating habits here and spent a few half-days with the kids then Rob and I took off for a few alone days in Rome, leaving them to cope with the children solo. We had, of course, learned that this could be a traumatic experience for virtually anyone, when even Jill and her all-loving friend Ginny expressed second thoughts about having cared for them on their own while we took a different trip to Venice from Barcelona (Jill returned from the trip so exhausted and depleted - though happy, of course - that she ended up sick and in bed for over a week). Needless to say, my folks were a little traumatized by the workload, and this was made worse by being pick-pocketed twice during visits to tourist attractions with the kids while we were gone. My mom says she's never coming back, but I know the chocolate and pastries here are too good for her to be able to resist. Childcare and minor theft trauma aside, it was great to have my folks here, and we were thrilled that they got to spend so many uninterrupted days getting to know our children better.
Our third - but certainly not final! - set of visitors was Steven and Nina Lerner, who came for a long weekend vacation. The trip was a very big deal for them not just because it involved a significant flight - Nina is not a plane fan - but because it was a rare time away from their three lovely kids, whom they left in South Orange in the able hands of Nina's mom. While Rob and I thoroughly enjoyed being with our respective parents multiple times on this trip, Steven and Nina's visit was a welcome opportunity to hang out with peers, and we loved it. We loved showing them the city, the food (they are true foodies as well, making the meals even more fun), and the life we have built here. They promise us they had fun too.
Well, that's it for now - sorry again for the long pause in entries. I promise to be back with at least one more discussing some of the things that seem most important about our trip in hindsight, if not some advice for others thinking about taking some time off.
* Trips we took to a fantastic botanical garden on the outskirts of Paris with both Jill and my folks - rides for kids, free orchestra music, and lovely flowers included.
* A trip we took with our friend Emily to Park Asterix - France's somewhat feeble answer to Disney. Think all the crowds, but about half the fun and customer service!
* Some pics from Cory's 4th Birthday Parties - I use the plural because many visitors insisted on mini-celebrations before the actual day. I also have some pics from Jill's pre-birthday party, for which she baked a "house cake."
OK, sorry, had to share. Now for the serious part. The blog hiatus is over. Yes we are fine, as evidenced by the lovely photo to the left. So why have I left this blog untended for over a month? Two reasons, I think ("laziness," I am told by those in the know "is not a very useful word"). First, and if I'm being honest, the more important, is that I think I have begun to emotionally finish this trip - I have gone from not thinking about the end to thinking mainly about what life will be like when we return. That takes away from my enjoyment of the day to day, not to mention my desire to report on it to others. Second, and connected to this, is that it has been hard to do anything but stare at web sites and plummeting credit and equity markets every time I turn on the computer - it's like watching a train wreck in slow motion, and it's really hard to just turn away. Over the last 10-15 years of being on or connected to Wall Street, I learned that in times like these, sometimes you just have to turn off the screen and get back to analysis and life. I have been poor at best at following this advice for the last 4-5 weeks.The truth is that, despite my fascination with the financial abomination on display nearly every day, I do feel some perspective. On one day several weeks ago in which the market for financials - and Morgan Stanley's stock in particular - was taking its first of many huge dives, I began to take my stress out on my innocent children. Nothing awful, just a higher level of impatience and distraction on my part. As usual, they took my grouchiness in stride, forcing me into an epiphany about all this nonsense. I paused, sat quitely for a few minutes, and then gave them big hugs, saying "I'm just glad Wall Street can't take away you guys." Addy of course asked "What's Wall Street?" Having learned my lesson in front of the renaissance Crucifixion painting, I just ignored her question and asked if she wanted a cookie at 9 in the morning. That did the trick.So how is Paris? It's pretty close to divine if I can just force myself to focus on it. While we loved Barcelona, we both agree that it's pretty much a cow town compared to this huge, international metropolis. What a place! The best thing is that I feel like our months here have allowed us to really get to know the city - having walked many of the same streets in the nicer neighborhoods now dozens of times. The food, the history, and just the beauty are pretty much everything I hoped they would be, and make this city one of the finest in the world.
We have settled into a comfortable routine - on weekdays, one of us wakes up with the kids, feeds them breakfast, gets them dressed, and plays a while with them (all with the help of Eryn, of course), and then we both head out to the gym for an hour or so. Exercise has been a great addition to my life, and it has been years since I have felt this good physically. Indeed, some modest weight loss (and prodding by Rob and Jill) persuaded me to buy a rather tailored winter overcoat and sweater, both of which help keep me from eating that fifth pain au chocolate each morning in the hopes of still being able to fit into them when I return home.We typically get back from exercising in time to meet the kids back home after they've been out at the park with Eryn. They eat their lunch and get ready for a brief nap before heading to a small pre-school program we've enrolled them in. In contrast to the lovely all-Castillian program in Barcelona, this one is in English. While we couldn't have been happier with the Barcelona kids and teachers, both Rob and I still feel pangs of guilt for having sent them into a context in which they would be entirely unable to communicate. The language obstacles were in fact so significant that we heard back from teachers after the first few weeks that the kids had actually been hitting, something we all agreed was a direct by product of the language barrier. Cory and Addy impressively desisted immediately after we spoke to them about it, but we had no desire to inflict the same stuggle again, let alone in an entirely new language. I am pleased to report that on day one of the Paris program, the kids walked into the new classroom, saw the other children and the toys, and yelled "bye!" over their shoulders as they ran to join in. I feel strongly that one of the positive things our kids have gotten out of this trip - and I do not think it has been all positive for them - is a greater ability to adapt to new circumstances.
After watching the kids go - usually uneventfully upstairs with Eryn for their naps - Rob and I often head out for lunch and some sight seeing. Depending on the day and the agenda, lunch is typically of the bistro variety, which is to say delicious, but perhaps not the healthiest. And the sight seeing has often focused around museums or gardens, of which we have now seen many, but still have plenty left on our to-do list. Rob sometimes skips the sight seeing in favor of continuing to write his book. On this topic, Rob has chosen a couple of generous souls - both well-versed in the genre he has chosen - to read a preliminary draft of his first chapters. Indeed, writing this book has become Rob's garden away from his garden - something he chooses to do with his free time mainly because he enjoys it and finds it gratifying. If he can turn it into a career, all the better, but those of us who love him are just glad he's found yet another passion. And before you ask, no, I do not have any hopes that this will mean a smaller order of bulbs next year.An exception to our routine is that on Wednesdays I typically take one of the kids somewhere on my own. The first of these trips was to the Louvre, as I described in previous entries. Since then, I have taken both Cory and Addy on solo trips to the BatoBus - a sort of water taxi - as well as to multiple museums and parks. Here are links to some pics: Addy on the boat, Cory on the boat/Musee D'Orsay, and Cory at the Centre Pompidou.We return home on most non-Wednesdays at 5 or 5:30, in time to be greeted enthusiastically by the kids on their way home from school. The return is marked by two traditions - 1) an attempt to surprise us, which usually backfires (we can hear them coming and take great pleasure in startling them) and 2) regaling us with something they have seen (typically an ad for a movie or show) on their 15 subway stop commute ("Dada, we saw CAPTAIN HOOK today!!!"). We then spend the next few hours eating dinner, playing, bathing, and watching a little video of some kind before bed.
The weekends, of course, are different, and we have the kids to ourselves for two days. We typically do something more ambitious on one of the days - like head to Disneyland when Jill was here, or an extraordinary garden with lots of amenities for kids (huge slides, four person bike-contraptions, and a kid-sized car ride, not to mention free outdoor orchestra music every afternoon) on the outskirts of town.
Mainly, I think the kids are doing great, and I feel like we are doing really well with them. It may have taken months of practice, and clearly their getting a bit older has helped, but I no longer fear having to care for both of them on my own. Perhaps it's partly watching Eryn do it so gracefully, but it's also largely about getting to know them, their needs, and their patterns much better. Thank you, sabbatical. This has translated into a much less pronounced preference by the kids for Rob over me at key times like reading books at night or going to run errands. They seem to enjoy both of us now, which certainly feels much better, even if it could change when I return home and start a more rigorous work routine again.
Our typical routine has been interrupted for the positive in the last few weeks by a string of visitors. First, Jill made her third and final treck to Europe, this time for five days. As usualy, her presence was an amazingly calming one for the kids, and I don't think she'd disagree if I said the highlight was a trip to Euro Disney we all took (including Eryn, an ex-Disneyworld employee, who tagged along to help show us the ropes). The kids are obviously still a bit young for Disney, but they did seem to thoroughly enjoy certain things. Among these was the "It's a Small World" ride, which I thus had the great pleasure of enduring something like five times, and, more importantly, a live appearance by Mary Poppins herself. Ms. Poppins provided what was no doubt the cutest moment of the day, when, during a brief silent moment during her crowded performance near the entrance to the theme park, Cory yelled "I love you Mary Poppins!" Judging by the tone of his voice, not to mention the number of times he insists on watching the movie, he meant it.
We were also joined in Paris in by my folks, who came for what turned out to be an eventful few weeks. I think, in all, they actually fell in love with this city, if only because the food is so undeniably fantastic, but they also had to endure some trauma along the way. First, as many of you who know my mother's bird-like eating habits (with the exception, of course, of ice cream, candy, and pastries of any kind, which she will consume voraciously when given an opportunity), the cuisine of the city took a little getting used to. Indeed, she does not enjoy eating meat, and Paris' most famous nod to vegetarians is an haute cuisine restaurant that has (gasp!) eliminated all red meat from the menu. Needless to say, the cream sauces, frites, and healthy portions at traditional brasseries took a little getting used to.No sooner had they adapted to the eating habits here and spent a few half-days with the kids then Rob and I took off for a few alone days in Rome, leaving them to cope with the children solo. We had, of course, learned that this could be a traumatic experience for virtually anyone, when even Jill and her all-loving friend Ginny expressed second thoughts about having cared for them on their own while we took a different trip to Venice from Barcelona (Jill returned from the trip so exhausted and depleted - though happy, of course - that she ended up sick and in bed for over a week). Needless to say, my folks were a little traumatized by the workload, and this was made worse by being pick-pocketed twice during visits to tourist attractions with the kids while we were gone. My mom says she's never coming back, but I know the chocolate and pastries here are too good for her to be able to resist. Childcare and minor theft trauma aside, it was great to have my folks here, and we were thrilled that they got to spend so many uninterrupted days getting to know our children better.Our third - but certainly not final! - set of visitors was Steven and Nina Lerner, who came for a long weekend vacation. The trip was a very big deal for them not just because it involved a significant flight - Nina is not a plane fan - but because it was a rare time away from their three lovely kids, whom they left in South Orange in the able hands of Nina's mom. While Rob and I thoroughly enjoyed being with our respective parents multiple times on this trip, Steven and Nina's visit was a welcome opportunity to hang out with peers, and we loved it. We loved showing them the city, the food (they are true foodies as well, making the meals even more fun), and the life we have built here. They promise us they had fun too.
Well, that's it for now - sorry again for the long pause in entries. I promise to be back with at least one more discussing some of the things that seem most important about our trip in hindsight, if not some advice for others thinking about taking some time off.
* Trips we took to a fantastic botanical garden on the outskirts of Paris with both Jill and my folks - rides for kids, free orchestra music, and lovely flowers included.* A trip we took with our friend Emily to Park Asterix - France's somewhat feeble answer to Disney. Think all the crowds, but about half the fun and customer service!* Some pics from Cory's 4th Birthday Parties - I use the plural because many visitors insisted on mini-celebrations before the actual day. I also have some pics from Jill's pre-birthday party, for which she baked a "house cake."
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Things I Like About Paris and Life in General
Hi. Rob again, feeling slightly shame-faced that every time I write something for this blog that it comes across a bit, well...bitter. I am only the teensiest bit a bitter person; much of the time I'm feeling either fairly neutral or even somewhat pleased about things. So I thought I'd share some of these latter experiences and perhaps ask Matt to add some illustrations as well so Jessie doesn't yell at me again.
Some Thoughts sur la belle France:
Les Parfums de France/Flavors of France
We have something like eight kinds of jam now in our petite French fridge: Coing (Quince), Fraise (Strawberry), Cerise Noir (Black Cherry), Groseille (Gooseberry) and Confiture de Petalles de Rose (Rose Petal). How entirely cool is that?
Then there is the yogurt selection at our neighborhood supermarket, Monoprix. You can have yogurt from some old lady's farm out in Brittany, or yogurt made from authentic looking French cows someplace tres rustique in Normandy. You can have blackberry, strawberry, lychee, passion mango, black currant, red currant, and even rhubarb rose (I had to buy that one, will let you know how it is) yogurt. Some of them come in neat little glass jars, like souped-up baby food containers. The best.
Like pastries? (What a question.) There are two patisseries within 3 blocks of us, not counting the enormous pastry counter at Monoprix. There are the ones you'll already recognize: les eclairs (coffee or chocolate), millefeuilles (Napoleons), palmiers, Opera (mocha filled cream cake).
Then there are the uniquely French pastries: Paris Brest (wheel-shaped cream puffs filled with chestnut flavored whipped cream...yum) and les religeuses: another take on the cream puff, filled with coffee or chocolate flavored pastry cream and then iced with a yummy, chocolate-y glaze. They're called "religeuses" because they supposedly look like nuns, though I confess that I fail to see the connection.
And one shouldn't forget the many whacky fruity pastries: pistachio. passion fruit, strawberry, raspberry, black currant, apricot, pear in every shade of green, yellow, pink, red and purple, all looking quite good enough to eat if it weren't for all the chocolate/coffee flavored goodies stretched out luxuriantly next to them. We'll let you know how the former taste once we move beyond our current chocolate/cream puff fixation. Might have to wait for another trip.
Cafes
I have entered fully into the land of cliches, I realize, but let me put in yet another good word for French cafe culture. I go to cafes a lot, my 11 lb. Monster Laptop in tow, working on what might one day turn into some sort of novel thing, maybe. My point, though, is not about writing, but about the remarkable cultural agreement in France that a person has the absolute right to sit down at a table, order a drink...and then keep on sitting, empty drink by one's side, for as long as one is able to brazen one's way through the day. As an American, I find I can last about 1/2 hour before breaking down and ordering something else, whether I want it or not. The French, however, and Parisians especially, can sit for HOURS. The key, it seems, is to have one of the following three things in one's possession:
1) A half-full, or even long empty, demitasse of espresso. There's something about the sacred nature of espresso drinking in Europe that allows the drinker to do about anything he or she wants, as long as they are hunched over a little tiny cup on a little tiny saucer.
2) As good as espresso, perhaps even better, is a pack of cigarettes laying on the table. I don't even think you have to smoke them; indeed, I've considered buying a pack so I can cart it around from cafe to cafe and thereby gain immunity from waiterly glares. Because once you've got your cigs on the table, everyone knows you'll be hanging out for at least 2 hours--and there's nothing anyone can do about it.
3) Another person. You don't even have to be talking, though as this is Paris, everyone seems to be discussing critically important subjects all the time. It can give a person a bit of a complex; when Matt and I sit down, for example, inevitably the conversation drifts into brief sentences that usually go something like this:
"So, Addy was a bit of a pain this morning, huh?"
"Yeah, she's really getting into her Terrible Twos these days."
"Yeah, she is."
Slurp, slurp.
At this point we've probably only been sitting for 10 minutes but you can bet we are already feeling guilty and wondering what we should order next. Meanwhile, the handsomely dressed couple next to us are arguing about the current situation in South Ossetia or the latest Sartre/de Beauvoir anthology...I think I'm going to spring for a pack of Lucky Strikes. I suspect it'll make me feel so much better.
The Inexpressible Joy of Being in Paris
I don't know, maybe it's the fact that autumn is around the corner, or that I've now turned 40, or that I've got so much pastry surging through my veins that I'm preternaturally pleased with life, but the final thing I'd like to natter on and on about is the inexpressible joy one often feels simply walking around Paris. For example: I went to the Cite de l'Immigration yesterday, a remarkable Art Deco, "Temple of Luxoresque" building constructed for the 1931 Colonial Exposition. It's a particularly striking, even heroic, building, in large part because of the enormous bas relief that covers the entire front of the building. About 50 ft. tall by 150 ft. across, it looks like one of those gigantic Assyrian temple carvings, except that this one illustrates the people and products of the Great French Empire circa the 20s and 30s. Horribly racist, imperialist, sexist, you name it -ist, but still, to my mind, weirdly beautiful.
I walked around it, then got a cup of (you guessed it!) espresso and went back outside to the slightly shabby terrace to read my Histoire francaise book, French-English dictionary close to hand. The horse chestnut trees outside were green and lovely, the Art Deco interior was vast and impressively gloomy, and then I scurried back down (on my way to meet Cleaning Lady #2, see previous Blog entry) into the Metro, emerging at the Place de la Republique surrounded by women in full African boubous, Turkish kebab stores, REAL, like-they-talk-about-in-cookbooks-but-that-don't-really-exist-in-the-U.S. butcher shops, and lots and lots of French looking people (hard to describe, but you know them when you see them). And it's sort of overwhelming simply being here. And now you're walking down your block, baguette in hand (and it's entirely normal to be swinging your baguette along, thinking French thoughts) and for a moment there are no tantrum-throwing children to confront, no worries that the Dems will once again muff a presidential election, or that (worse) Americans are, on the whole, too stupid to vote in a way that will actually serve them better. There are no SUVS or rows of soulless MacMansions stretching to the horizon, no giant chain stores or grumpy Jersey drivers.
Look, I'm no dummy. Not usually. There are still horrifically cynical French politics, dog crap on every pavement in Paris, and unemployment that hovers around, what...12%? 15%? It's simply the golden glow of alone time spent in a beautiful city, the illusion of "time enough" to wander a bit, moments when something ineffable moves in and through you, and the pulse--the pulse of pastry cream oozing through your bloodstream, making everything...just...a...little...bit...better. Aah. La belle France; je t'adore.
See, told you I wasn't always bitter.
Some Thoughts sur la belle France:
Les Parfums de France/Flavors of France
We have something like eight kinds of jam now in our petite French fridge: Coing (Quince), Fraise (Strawberry), Cerise Noir (Black Cherry), Groseille (Gooseberry) and Confiture de Petalles de Rose (Rose Petal). How entirely cool is that?
Then there is the yogurt selection at our neighborhood supermarket, Monoprix. You can have yogurt from some old lady's farm out in Brittany, or yogurt made from authentic looking French cows someplace tres rustique in Normandy. You can have blackberry, strawberry, lychee, passion mango, black currant, red currant, and even rhubarb rose (I had to buy that one, will let you know how it is) yogurt. Some of them come in neat little glass jars, like souped-up baby food containers. The best.
Like pastries? (What a question.) There are two patisseries within 3 blocks of us, not counting the enormous pastry counter at Monoprix. There are the ones you'll already recognize: les eclairs (coffee or chocolate), millefeuilles (Napoleons), palmiers, Opera (mocha filled cream cake).
Then there are the uniquely French pastries: Paris Brest (wheel-shaped cream puffs filled with chestnut flavored whipped cream...yum) and les religeuses: another take on the cream puff, filled with coffee or chocolate flavored pastry cream and then iced with a yummy, chocolate-y glaze. They're called "religeuses" because they supposedly look like nuns, though I confess that I fail to see the connection.
And one shouldn't forget the many whacky fruity pastries: pistachio. passion fruit, strawberry, raspberry, black currant, apricot, pear in every shade of green, yellow, pink, red and purple, all looking quite good enough to eat if it weren't for all the chocolate/coffee flavored goodies stretched out luxuriantly next to them. We'll let you know how the former taste once we move beyond our current chocolate/cream puff fixation. Might have to wait for another trip.
Cafes
I have entered fully into the land of cliches, I realize, but let me put in yet another good word for French cafe culture. I go to cafes a lot, my 11 lb. Monster Laptop in tow, working on what might one day turn into some sort of novel thing, maybe. My point, though, is not about writing, but about the remarkable cultural agreement in France that a person has the absolute right to sit down at a table, order a drink...and then keep on sitting, empty drink by one's side, for as long as one is able to brazen one's way through the day. As an American, I find I can last about 1/2 hour before breaking down and ordering something else, whether I want it or not. The French, however, and Parisians especially, can sit for HOURS. The key, it seems, is to have one of the following three things in one's possession:
1) A half-full, or even long empty, demitasse of espresso. There's something about the sacred nature of espresso drinking in Europe that allows the drinker to do about anything he or she wants, as long as they are hunched over a little tiny cup on a little tiny saucer.
2) As good as espresso, perhaps even better, is a pack of cigarettes laying on the table. I don't even think you have to smoke them; indeed, I've considered buying a pack so I can cart it around from cafe to cafe and thereby gain immunity from waiterly glares. Because once you've got your cigs on the table, everyone knows you'll be hanging out for at least 2 hours--and there's nothing anyone can do about it.
3) Another person. You don't even have to be talking, though as this is Paris, everyone seems to be discussing critically important subjects all the time. It can give a person a bit of a complex; when Matt and I sit down, for example, inevitably the conversation drifts into brief sentences that usually go something like this:
"So, Addy was a bit of a pain this morning, huh?"
"Yeah, she's really getting into her Terrible Twos these days."
"Yeah, she is."
Slurp, slurp.
At this point we've probably only been sitting for 10 minutes but you can bet we are already feeling guilty and wondering what we should order next. Meanwhile, the handsomely dressed couple next to us are arguing about the current situation in South Ossetia or the latest Sartre/de Beauvoir anthology...I think I'm going to spring for a pack of Lucky Strikes. I suspect it'll make me feel so much better.
The Inexpressible Joy of Being in Paris
I don't know, maybe it's the fact that autumn is around the corner, or that I've now turned 40, or that I've got so much pastry surging through my veins that I'm preternaturally pleased with life, but the final thing I'd like to natter on and on about is the inexpressible joy one often feels simply walking around Paris. For example: I went to the Cite de l'Immigration yesterday, a remarkable Art Deco, "Temple of Luxoresque" building constructed for the 1931 Colonial Exposition. It's a particularly striking, even heroic, building, in large part because of the enormous bas relief that covers the entire front of the building. About 50 ft. tall by 150 ft. across, it looks like one of those gigantic Assyrian temple carvings, except that this one illustrates the people and products of the Great French Empire circa the 20s and 30s. Horribly racist, imperialist, sexist, you name it -ist, but still, to my mind, weirdly beautiful.
I walked around it, then got a cup of (you guessed it!) espresso and went back outside to the slightly shabby terrace to read my Histoire francaise book, French-English dictionary close to hand. The horse chestnut trees outside were green and lovely, the Art Deco interior was vast and impressively gloomy, and then I scurried back down (on my way to meet Cleaning Lady #2, see previous Blog entry) into the Metro, emerging at the Place de la Republique surrounded by women in full African boubous, Turkish kebab stores, REAL, like-they-talk-about-in-cookbooks-but-that-don't-really-exist-in-the-U.S. butcher shops, and lots and lots of French looking people (hard to describe, but you know them when you see them). And it's sort of overwhelming simply being here. And now you're walking down your block, baguette in hand (and it's entirely normal to be swinging your baguette along, thinking French thoughts) and for a moment there are no tantrum-throwing children to confront, no worries that the Dems will once again muff a presidential election, or that (worse) Americans are, on the whole, too stupid to vote in a way that will actually serve them better. There are no SUVS or rows of soulless MacMansions stretching to the horizon, no giant chain stores or grumpy Jersey drivers.
Look, I'm no dummy. Not usually. There are still horrifically cynical French politics, dog crap on every pavement in Paris, and unemployment that hovers around, what...12%? 15%? It's simply the golden glow of alone time spent in a beautiful city, the illusion of "time enough" to wander a bit, moments when something ineffable moves in and through you, and the pulse--the pulse of pastry cream oozing through your bloodstream, making everything...just...a...little...bit...better. Aah. La belle France; je t'adore.
See, told you I wasn't always bitter.
"Muy Complicado, no?"--en Paris!
Hi there, Rob here for my once-a-month (or less) guest appearance. I began telling our friend, Emily Abbott from Barcelona, our latest round of "Muy Complicado, no?" stories and thought I would share the experience with you as well. Hardly as thoughtful as Matt's story about Cory and Jesus, but it's time someone brought the educational tone of this blog down a notch.
In case you're unclear of the meaning behind "Muy complicado, non?" it refers to a series of experiences we and our smattering of friends in Barcelona (OK, we only had one friend in Barcelona, Emily, but SHE has friends with some whopping good stories) had that highlighted some of the cultural "differences" between Americans and los Espanols. Now that we are in Paris, it turns out that those crazy French ALSO do things differently than we do Across the Pond. Here, gentle reader, is the tale of one such difference.
We needed someone to help keep our apartment clean. We are lazy and given to slovenliness (well, Matt is) and the kids show remarkably little concern about grime, so it's high time we hired a cleaning service. I found a list of recommended cleaners on the very helpful AngloInfo website and one of them agreed to come, look the place over, and give us his price for a weekly cleaning.
So far, so good. The day of the appointment I hang out at our scheduled time and...quel surprise! No cleaner. After leaving the guy a message on his cell phone, I pack my bags and take off an hour later. And then...un autre surprise!...The guy calls 15 mins. after I leave and is kind enough to leave me this CLASSIC "muy complicado, non?" message: "Nous sommes en train de partir...a bientot!" (We have just left--see you soon!) "A bientot" my ass.
As if this were not enough, he THEN calls back, 45 minutes later--which means two hours after our scheduled appointment--with this helpful message: "Uh, nous sommes maintenant a l'addresse que vous m'avez donner, mais, uh, vous n'etes pas la, alors...a bientot." (Um, we are now at the address you gave us, but you aren't here, so...hope to see you soon.")
No mention of being late, no apology. Call me puritanical, call me an uptight American capitalist (though I'll thank you NOT to call me a Republican) but this just struck me as being a bit "de trop"--too much. He did have the courtesy to call me every other hour (literally) on my cell phone, but as I now recognized his number, my reaction was simply to give my phone the raspberry and move on with life.
Lest you think that's the END of the story: non, non, non. Attempt #2: Call ANOTHER recommended service de nettoyage. Not only does the woman on the other end of the line commit to coming out, but she actually DOES come out to give us an estimate. Merveilleux! Formidable! Wahoo! Mind you, we've done only minimal cleaning for nearly a month now, so are feeling a bit desperado. We await the cleaning lady's arrival with bated breath...partly because of our excitement, partly because of the various smells wafting through the place.
We have to wait a week until Person #2 is able to stop by; finally the big day arrives. I, the appointed Speekair of Zee French, wait. Again. An hour goes by. I can't remember the name of the company she works for so I can't call to check on her. She, however, does have my number, or did anyway. I decide that we are cursed, cursed, cursed and leave an hour and a bit later to join Matt and Cory to go see Wall-E. Fun, fun, fun. After the movie I notice that someone using a Parisian number has called twice. Could it be the cleaning lady? Let's find out.
I call back:
It's me, Robear Gregsohn. Is this the cleaning service I spoke with earlier?
Oui, c'est moi.
Um...what happened today?
Well, I had a problem and couldn't come.
Oh. But we waited for you for an hour, unh? (This "unh" is a quintessentially French sound that's means something like, "What the $#*&?" and "What do you say to that?!")
Yeah, well, I had a problem. But I can come another time?
Yeah, my ass you can. However, after consulting with Matt, I cave in and say "OK, come back tomorrow." So now our muy complicado cleaning lady is scheduled to come the following day.
The more I think about it, though, the more pissed I become. "Sod cultural differences; the French will not do this to me!" I shall search for someone who actually wants this job if I have to clean the whole damn apt. by myself for the entire 3 months we are here, so help me Dieu.
I call a THIRD place, were the person on the other end of the line happens to speak English, and who also agrees to come today (Weds.) by 1:00--"Though I may be as late as 1:15." I take this admission to be a very good sign.
I call Mademoiselle Ne Fait Rien back and tell her, "Je m'excuse, mais nous avons decides de faire le menage nous memes. Merci!" (Sorry, but we decided to do the cleaning ourselves. Hasta la vista!)
Hah! Take that. Today a LOVELY Ghanaian lady showed up right on time, gave the apt. a thorough once over, and agreed that she and another TERRIFICALLY WONDERFUL woman will be here next week to help us reclaim our soil-laden home. And that, gentle reader, is installment #2 of "Muy Complicado, no?--En Paris." I promise that soon I will share thoughts about all the GOOD things that have happened to me/us here in the City of Lights which--despite our various Service de Nettoyage disasters--is a thoroughly delightful town with delicious food, engaging people, and fantastic sights galore. Really. I am not a bitter person; I just love telling trashy stories.
The End.
In case you're unclear of the meaning behind "Muy complicado, non?" it refers to a series of experiences we and our smattering of friends in Barcelona (OK, we only had one friend in Barcelona, Emily, but SHE has friends with some whopping good stories) had that highlighted some of the cultural "differences" between Americans and los Espanols. Now that we are in Paris, it turns out that those crazy French ALSO do things differently than we do Across the Pond. Here, gentle reader, is the tale of one such difference.
We needed someone to help keep our apartment clean. We are lazy and given to slovenliness (well, Matt is) and the kids show remarkably little concern about grime, so it's high time we hired a cleaning service. I found a list of recommended cleaners on the very helpful AngloInfo website and one of them agreed to come, look the place over, and give us his price for a weekly cleaning.
So far, so good. The day of the appointment I hang out at our scheduled time and...quel surprise! No cleaner. After leaving the guy a message on his cell phone, I pack my bags and take off an hour later. And then...un autre surprise!...The guy calls 15 mins. after I leave and is kind enough to leave me this CLASSIC "muy complicado, non?" message: "Nous sommes en train de partir...a bientot!" (We have just left--see you soon!) "A bientot" my ass.
As if this were not enough, he THEN calls back, 45 minutes later--which means two hours after our scheduled appointment--with this helpful message: "Uh, nous sommes maintenant a l'addresse que vous m'avez donner, mais, uh, vous n'etes pas la, alors...a bientot." (Um, we are now at the address you gave us, but you aren't here, so...hope to see you soon.")
No mention of being late, no apology. Call me puritanical, call me an uptight American capitalist (though I'll thank you NOT to call me a Republican) but this just struck me as being a bit "de trop"--too much. He did have the courtesy to call me every other hour (literally) on my cell phone, but as I now recognized his number, my reaction was simply to give my phone the raspberry and move on with life.
Lest you think that's the END of the story: non, non, non. Attempt #2: Call ANOTHER recommended service de nettoyage. Not only does the woman on the other end of the line commit to coming out, but she actually DOES come out to give us an estimate. Merveilleux! Formidable! Wahoo! Mind you, we've done only minimal cleaning for nearly a month now, so are feeling a bit desperado. We await the cleaning lady's arrival with bated breath...partly because of our excitement, partly because of the various smells wafting through the place.
We have to wait a week until Person #2 is able to stop by; finally the big day arrives. I, the appointed Speekair of Zee French, wait. Again. An hour goes by. I can't remember the name of the company she works for so I can't call to check on her. She, however, does have my number, or did anyway. I decide that we are cursed, cursed, cursed and leave an hour and a bit later to join Matt and Cory to go see Wall-E. Fun, fun, fun. After the movie I notice that someone using a Parisian number has called twice. Could it be the cleaning lady? Let's find out.
I call back:
It's me, Robear Gregsohn. Is this the cleaning service I spoke with earlier?
Oui, c'est moi.
Um...what happened today?
Well, I had a problem and couldn't come.
Oh. But we waited for you for an hour, unh? (This "unh" is a quintessentially French sound that's means something like, "What the $#*&?" and "What do you say to that?!")
Yeah, well, I had a problem. But I can come another time?
Yeah, my ass you can. However, after consulting with Matt, I cave in and say "OK, come back tomorrow." So now our muy complicado cleaning lady is scheduled to come the following day.
The more I think about it, though, the more pissed I become. "Sod cultural differences; the French will not do this to me!" I shall search for someone who actually wants this job if I have to clean the whole damn apt. by myself for the entire 3 months we are here, so help me Dieu.
I call a THIRD place, were the person on the other end of the line happens to speak English, and who also agrees to come today (Weds.) by 1:00--"Though I may be as late as 1:15." I take this admission to be a very good sign.
I call Mademoiselle Ne Fait Rien back and tell her, "Je m'excuse, mais nous avons decides de faire le menage nous memes. Merci!" (Sorry, but we decided to do the cleaning ourselves. Hasta la vista!)
Hah! Take that. Today a LOVELY Ghanaian lady showed up right on time, gave the apt. a thorough once over, and agreed that she and another TERRIFICALLY WONDERFUL woman will be here next week to help us reclaim our soil-laden home. And that, gentle reader, is installment #2 of "Muy Complicado, no?--En Paris." I promise that soon I will share thoughts about all the GOOD things that have happened to me/us here in the City of Lights which--despite our various Service de Nettoyage disasters--is a thoroughly delightful town with delicious food, engaging people, and fantastic sights galore. Really. I am not a bitter person; I just love telling trashy stories.
The End.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Explaining Jesus to a Three Year Old
I have been fantasizing about taking my kids on regular trips to the Louvre since the moment we began considering visiting Paris. What better place, I have long thought, to begin exposing them to fine art? And what better story to tell them when they of course inevitably develop a deep love for 16th and 17th Century portraiture as adults then "you began loving the arts as a toddler, when I took you to museums in Paris"? Indeed, I have my own very fond memories of games my dad had us play as children at various museums in San Antonio and I attribute much of my appreciation of the visual to his sharing his enthusiasm about the topic.
As usual, fantasies are one thing, reality another. As you may have seen in my last posting, I first tested out my dream of showing my own kids the Louvre with Addy, taking her for a father daughter day at the museum. I developed a special game of "I spy" for the occasion: we together made small drawings of various objects (fruit, horses, water, etc) and I explained to Addy it was her challenge to find these objects (and record them with a tick mark) in the many paintings we would see that day.
Alas, Addy was not a taker. She was unimpressed with the Louvre's scale, it's throngs of people, and least of all its art. I attribute most of the problem to her discovery early in our visit that I really wanted her to like the game and the museum. And as a two year old, she decided to get attention by showing disdain for anything I was enthusiastic about (shades of adolescence, I know). That's what I get for starting with the two year old. I started with Addy because I thought she might have a longer attention span than Cory, and would thus have more interest in staring at things on the wall that don't move, dance, or have flashing lights.
I am proud to say that after last Wednesday's trip with Cory, I wholly underestimated the little fellow. Of course, it helped that his sister went before him - he had been constantly asking when it would be his turn to go and play a game at "the Looooooooove." He was thus enthusiastic from the beginning, and when we emerged from a series of underground passageways leading from the subway to the vast space below the famous glass pyramid, he said "dad, this place is giant!" It seemed the right time to explain that this was the largest art museum in the world, and he paid appropriate respect by silently looking around and then asking what we were going to see. It helped, of course, that we decided to ride the giant cylindrical elevator in the lobby up and down a couple of times.
I chose Renaissance art for our first exposure. Before judging me too harshly, recall that the Louvre has very little modern art, and it's hard to see the kids getting really jazzed up over a headless sculpture called winged victory. I also thought that all the symbolism that appears in the Renaissance paintings would lend itself to our game. True enough, except that I had also forgotten that early Renaissance painting, which is of course exactly where we ended up, is dominated by scenes of Jesus in general and the Crucifixion more specifically. Indeed, the very first painting we stepped in front of was of Jesus hanging from the cross. Cory looked for a moment, tilted his head, and then asked in a very endearing, very concerned voice: "Dada, why's that guy bleedin'?"
That may seem like a simple question, and thus easy enough to answer, but to a toddler vet like me, it was instantly clear where this was going. I would say "because he got hurt," to which I would be asked "how?" or worse "why?" Even you non-parents should be able to see that answering the inevitable and endless string of genuine toddler "why?" questions would lead into very touchy territory. Indeed, in that one question, I realized I was facing the unenviable choice of lying to my son in front of a centuries old image of Jesus (even agnostic Jews take pause, trust me) or telling him a tough story.
I chose, of course, the latter, and it wasn't easy. In the end, I left Cory with the basic message that Jesus was a good guy and that sometimes yucky people are mean to really good people. We left the Jesus image and found many others with horses and birds and all sorts of I Spy opportunities, but Cory was not done, and kept focusing in on why people would be mean to someone nice. Yup, he got it, and a lot quicker and more thoroughly than the average right wing Christian, in my opinion.
After about thirty minutes of early Renaissance (about all I could ask anyway), Cory wandered over to a window which happened to overlook a stunning indoor courtyard full of classical sculptures. He lit up and would hear nothing of finishing the room of paintings we were in - he wanted to see the statues. I was happy to abandon our game for something he was showing interest in, and we proceeded to spend another 45 minutes in the courtyard - he loved the statues, and I loved that he loved them. Should have started with Winged Victory after all.
On our way home, Cory said he didn't want to go back to the Louvre. I asked him why, and he said that Jesus was too scary. I asked if it would be OK if we came back and skipped Jesus, and he said yes, as long as we also got a ride on the big ferris wheel in front of the museum. Seems like a reasonable compromise to me.
Paris remains wonderful. The food - my god, the food. Rob and I had begun working out regularly in Barcelona after an, oh, six or seven year hiatus, but we have ramped up our regimen since arriving in Paris so we can eat what we want. And if you know the two of us at all, that means a lot of exercise. We have yet to indulge in a really fancy meal because all of the bistros, brasseries, and little markets have been so damned good.
We've visited a bunch of places both with and without the kids - the Eiffel Tower, the zoo, Luxembourg Gardens, a beautiful old amusement park on the outskirts of town, and a big water park with the kids, and on sans kids days we have seen Les Invalides (Napoleon's spectacular tomb), the decorative arts museum (where I saw a spectacular Valentino exhibit - being surrounded by so much couture was really a fantastic, moving experience), the museum of Paris history, the Bon Marche food market, and endless amounts of walking around. There is so much to see and do in this city, I think we'll feel that we just began getting to really know it by the time we leave.
I have posted three photo albums - one of our first couple of weeks in the city here, one documenting Jill's first Paris trip here, and one from the last couple of weeks here. And please check out the movie below for a chuckle.
As usual, fantasies are one thing, reality another. As you may have seen in my last posting, I first tested out my dream of showing my own kids the Louvre with Addy, taking her for a father daughter day at the museum. I developed a special game of "I spy" for the occasion: we together made small drawings of various objects (fruit, horses, water, etc) and I explained to Addy it was her challenge to find these objects (and record them with a tick mark) in the many paintings we would see that day.
Alas, Addy was not a taker. She was unimpressed with the Louvre's scale, it's throngs of people, and least of all its art. I attribute most of the problem to her discovery early in our visit that I really wanted her to like the game and the museum. And as a two year old, she decided to get attention by showing disdain for anything I was enthusiastic about (shades of adolescence, I know). That's what I get for starting with the two year old. I started with Addy because I thought she might have a longer attention span than Cory, and would thus have more interest in staring at things on the wall that don't move, dance, or have flashing lights.I am proud to say that after last Wednesday's trip with Cory, I wholly underestimated the little fellow. Of course, it helped that his sister went before him - he had been constantly asking when it would be his turn to go and play a game at "the Looooooooove." He was thus enthusiastic from the beginning, and when we emerged from a series of underground passageways leading from the subway to the vast space below the famous glass pyramid, he said "dad, this place is giant!" It seemed the right time to explain that this was the largest art museum in the world, and he paid appropriate respect by silently looking around and then asking what we were going to see. It helped, of course, that we decided to ride the giant cylindrical elevator in the lobby up and down a couple of times.
I chose Renaissance art for our first exposure. Before judging me too harshly, recall that the Louvre has very little modern art, and it's hard to see the kids getting really jazzed up over a headless sculpture called winged victory. I also thought that all the symbolism that appears in the Renaissance paintings would lend itself to our game. True enough, except that I had also forgotten that early Renaissance painting, which is of course exactly where we ended up, is dominated by scenes of Jesus in general and the Crucifixion more specifically. Indeed, the very first painting we stepped in front of was of Jesus hanging from the cross. Cory looked for a moment, tilted his head, and then asked in a very endearing, very concerned voice: "Dada, why's that guy bleedin'?"That may seem like a simple question, and thus easy enough to answer, but to a toddler vet like me, it was instantly clear where this was going. I would say "because he got hurt," to which I would be asked "how?" or worse "why?" Even you non-parents should be able to see that answering the inevitable and endless string of genuine toddler "why?" questions would lead into very touchy territory. Indeed, in that one question, I realized I was facing the unenviable choice of lying to my son in front of a centuries old image of Jesus (even agnostic Jews take pause, trust me) or telling him a tough story.
I chose, of course, the latter, and it wasn't easy. In the end, I left Cory with the basic message that Jesus was a good guy and that sometimes yucky people are mean to really good people. We left the Jesus image and found many others with horses and birds and all sorts of I Spy opportunities, but Cory was not done, and kept focusing in on why people would be mean to someone nice. Yup, he got it, and a lot quicker and more thoroughly than the average right wing Christian, in my opinion.
After about thirty minutes of early Renaissance (about all I could ask anyway), Cory wandered over to a window which happened to overlook a stunning indoor courtyard full of classical sculptures. He lit up and would hear nothing of finishing the room of paintings we were in - he wanted to see the statues. I was happy to abandon our game for something he was showing interest in, and we proceeded to spend another 45 minutes in the courtyard - he loved the statues, and I loved that he loved them. Should have started with Winged Victory after all.
On our way home, Cory said he didn't want to go back to the Louvre. I asked him why, and he said that Jesus was too scary. I asked if it would be OK if we came back and skipped Jesus, and he said yes, as long as we also got a ride on the big ferris wheel in front of the museum. Seems like a reasonable compromise to me.
Paris remains wonderful. The food - my god, the food. Rob and I had begun working out regularly in Barcelona after an, oh, six or seven year hiatus, but we have ramped up our regimen since arriving in Paris so we can eat what we want. And if you know the two of us at all, that means a lot of exercise. We have yet to indulge in a really fancy meal because all of the bistros, brasseries, and little markets have been so damned good.We've visited a bunch of places both with and without the kids - the Eiffel Tower, the zoo, Luxembourg Gardens, a beautiful old amusement park on the outskirts of town, and a big water park with the kids, and on sans kids days we have seen Les Invalides (Napoleon's spectacular tomb), the decorative arts museum (where I saw a spectacular Valentino exhibit - being surrounded by so much couture was really a fantastic, moving experience), the museum of Paris history, the Bon Marche food market, and endless amounts of walking around. There is so much to see and do in this city, I think we'll feel that we just began getting to really know it by the time we leave.
I have posted three photo albums - one of our first couple of weeks in the city here, one documenting Jill's first Paris trip here, and one from the last couple of weeks here. And please check out the movie below for a chuckle.
Friday, August 8, 2008
So Here We Are In Paris...
First, the most important thing: we made it. We arrived in one piece and got keys to our apartment. And we are sooooo happy to be here - after our first day re-discovering the city, and after three months in the relatively small city of Barcelona, Rob and I both sort of looked at each other in wonderment of how awesome, beautiful, big, diverse, cosmopolitan, and (most importantly), spectacularly declicious this place is. But I'm getting ahead of myself - first some amusing points about our commute to the City of Light:
Our departure from Barcelona, sadly, did not go quite as planned. I am proud to report that there were no packing civil wars this time, and we even arrived at the Barcelona airport 2.5 hours ahead of the flight. That's the good news. The bad news is that immediately after watching our taxis drive away, we realized we did not have our mission critical gray backpack containing items such as planners, passports, checkbooks, and birth certificates. Don't worry, you might think, surely Matt and Rob made color photocopies of all those items in preparation for just such an eventuality. And in fact we did make such copies...we just put them in the backpack. The discovery of the missing parcel was followed by several frantic phone calls to the taxi company (Matt was told by a snippy dispatcher to call the corporate office in order to contact our taxi drivers, only to find no answer whatsoever at the corporate offices, at which point he called snippy dispatcher and begged - BEGGED - her to call the taxis herself, which she actually did) and an equally frantic trip back to the apartment to try to find the bag.
As it turns out, Rob recovered the backpack at the apartment building - turns out we had conveniently left it propping open the front door of the building, where it remained fully one hour later, just waiting for Rob to retrieve it. Eryn and I attribute this incredible good fortune to her recital of a silent prayer to St. Anthony (for those of you not in the know, some sort of Catholic god of travelers or lost items, or both, I think) while we were waiting, and she and I and the kids could be seen screaming and jumping for joy at the airport when Rob called us to relay the good news.
At any rate, we got the gosh darned (I am newly devout) backpack and then had to contend with the fact that we were now effectively arriving at the airport quite a bit later than planned. This might not be a big deal for a normal air carrier, but not having learned their lesson, Matt and Rob bought tickets for this trip on yet another discount European carrier (picture festival seating, charges for so much as breathing in the plane, passengers herded like cattle, and no pre-flight announcements whatsoever), so time was of the essence. Eryn and I ran with the 35 bags and two giggling toddlers to the EasyJet (a greater oxymoron has never been coined) ticket counter. Silly me, I was initially worried we might reach the front of the line prior to Rob's victorious return to the airport. But no, the line was as long as China's Wall, and took the better part of an hour to navigate. That left us with 10 minutes prior to boarding, which if you are dealing with festival seating, have 15 carry-ons, and two toddlers is something equivalent to d-day or zero hour or something very serious sounding.
We not surprisingly ran from the ticket counter to security (yes, we are "those people" whom many of you have learned to watch with equal parts amusement and pity trying to yell at their kids, tie three shoe laces, and keep 5 over the shoulder bags on all at the same time as they have to disrobe before going through a metal detector) in the hopes of getting on the plane early enough for Addy not to be sitting in the middle seat between two overweight Germans or something. OK, I actually always think "make my day" to that scenario, but we still felt like we had to rush. Imagine then, our relief when we passed through security to find the departure screen was saying our flight was conveniently 15 minutes delayed. Pleasure turned to horror as we literally watched the screen changing before our very eyes at the departure gate, informing us the flight was now 30 minutes...no, 45 minutes...no 1 hour...no 2 hours delayed.
The rest of our time trying to depart was something out of a sitcom. First, as the much delayed departure time approached, a large crowd of people would accumulate, herd-style, in front of the assigned gate, only to make a mad dash, now mob-like, to a suddenly, surprisingly newly assigned gate. The pre-boarding call for people like us with "special assistance" hurriedly scrawled on their boarding passes by the ticket agent could generously be called feeble, and other passengers were in a Darwinian rush to get decent seats so were nonetheless totally uninterested in letting those of us with the previously described load of children and bags cut in line (more like "cut in throng"). We were then greeted in our sweaty, exhausted state by a bitter flight attendant at the top of the stairs - no convenient gangway tunnels for these discount guys - asking for our boarding stubs. He was lucky Rob didn't hit him, but Rob did manage to produce a snippy and decidedly Ostrower-like "You mean it wasn't enough that you guys have already checked our tickets four times before getting on the plane? Don't you have something better to do?" in response. Needless to say, we boarded without searching for the stubs again, and we basically got our seats together too. Rob and I were happy, Eryn looked a little disappointed not be stuck 20 rows behind us.
But we got to Paris fine so the flight nonesense doesn't matter, and neither does the fact that we are back in shipping hell all over again. Those of you who have been reading these postings since our May arrival in Barcelona will recall that we waited nearly three weeks for our shipped boxes to clear Spanish customs. We naively thought that the lack of customs crossings between Spain and France (God bless the E of U, as it were) would make shipping boxes "easier." Surely UPS can easily handle getting us our stuff in the allotted ~1 week, we thought. No siree. The boxes actually arrived 24 hours earlier than we did and, with nary an email or phone call notice, were promptly sent right back to Barcelona because our names had not yet been scotch (le scotch?) taped next to the bell for our apartment. Or, rather, 3 boxes were shipped back, 1 was in limbo in some kind of limbo distribution center, and the other four were ready to be re-delivered. As it turns out, there's no approximate delivery time here, so we were told to wait in our apartment all day waiting for the four survivors, and when they did not arrive, were told that the bureaucratic problem with the box in limbo created a problem and so we had to wait in the apartment another day. I can happily report we have received half our shipment, and fully expect the other half to arrive sometime in the next 2 months. This, by the way, is why I have not posted photos - the download cord is in UPS's hands. Whenever I despair of our travel luck, I remind myself that this sort of nonsense is why we are among the only people we know who have tried this long term travel to a foreign country with two toddlers, and I just try to be proud of my new found battle stripes.
The important thing is that we are here, happy, and we have a pretty great living situation. Paris is awesome, something everyone already knows, so there's a limit to how unhappy one can be about anything. Our apartment, while a far cry in terms of luxury from our Barcelona pad - it hasn't been renovated in oh, 10-15 years and we have seen some mice - is within 500 feet of a huge subway stop, has a garden/patio/courtyard for the kids to play in, is about three blocks to a cool park/playground (very, very, very rare in Paris) and is about four blocks from the very chic part of the Marais. The less fancy part of our abode is good - we don't worry much about the kids messing with the decor or finishes, and it just feels much more comfortable.
Our neighborhood reminds me of what Central Square in Cambridge or Davis Square in Sommerville both used to be like. Maybe the best description is "poised to become up and coming." No, definitely not up and coming, but you can just tell it will be in a little while. For now, it's very mixed - lots of un-fancy little bistros next to McDonalds or KFC, a decent grocery store (even lousy grocery stores in France are better than the best in the US, in my humble opion) right next to a dollar store and a discount luggage center. Africans wearing traditional batique next to Chasidic Jews next to Trendy Bohemian types. In short, it's sort of Matt and Rob's kind of place (hello South Orange, not Short Hills), and it seems right for our family. People are not nearly as nice as in Barcelona, but we've only encountered a few of the infamous sour Parisians. People still grin and touch Addy's hair all the time, so all is right in the world.
Rob and I have only just begun to explore the city. In a typical move, we went first to the Institute of the Arab World, but only had a meal there (mediocre food, but fantastic view of Paris, I might add), and we've done a lot of walking around the area nearest our apartment, but there is SO much more to do and see, it's sort of overwhelming. I took Addy on my own to the Louvre yesterday and tried to play a special "I Spy" game I had constructed especially for the occasion - she hated the game and museum, but loved the big ice cream sundae I bought her on the walk (yes, we're a 20 minute stroll away) home. But that's another story for another blog entry.
We are very lucky to be here, we have a lot to do in the next three months, and we miss all of you back home!
Our departure from Barcelona, sadly, did not go quite as planned. I am proud to report that there were no packing civil wars this time, and we even arrived at the Barcelona airport 2.5 hours ahead of the flight. That's the good news. The bad news is that immediately after watching our taxis drive away, we realized we did not have our mission critical gray backpack containing items such as planners, passports, checkbooks, and birth certificates. Don't worry, you might think, surely Matt and Rob made color photocopies of all those items in preparation for just such an eventuality. And in fact we did make such copies...we just put them in the backpack. The discovery of the missing parcel was followed by several frantic phone calls to the taxi company (Matt was told by a snippy dispatcher to call the corporate office in order to contact our taxi drivers, only to find no answer whatsoever at the corporate offices, at which point he called snippy dispatcher and begged - BEGGED - her to call the taxis herself, which she actually did) and an equally frantic trip back to the apartment to try to find the bag.
As it turns out, Rob recovered the backpack at the apartment building - turns out we had conveniently left it propping open the front door of the building, where it remained fully one hour later, just waiting for Rob to retrieve it. Eryn and I attribute this incredible good fortune to her recital of a silent prayer to St. Anthony (for those of you not in the know, some sort of Catholic god of travelers or lost items, or both, I think) while we were waiting, and she and I and the kids could be seen screaming and jumping for joy at the airport when Rob called us to relay the good news.
At any rate, we got the gosh darned (I am newly devout) backpack and then had to contend with the fact that we were now effectively arriving at the airport quite a bit later than planned. This might not be a big deal for a normal air carrier, but not having learned their lesson, Matt and Rob bought tickets for this trip on yet another discount European carrier (picture festival seating, charges for so much as breathing in the plane, passengers herded like cattle, and no pre-flight announcements whatsoever), so time was of the essence. Eryn and I ran with the 35 bags and two giggling toddlers to the EasyJet (a greater oxymoron has never been coined) ticket counter. Silly me, I was initially worried we might reach the front of the line prior to Rob's victorious return to the airport. But no, the line was as long as China's Wall, and took the better part of an hour to navigate. That left us with 10 minutes prior to boarding, which if you are dealing with festival seating, have 15 carry-ons, and two toddlers is something equivalent to d-day or zero hour or something very serious sounding.
We not surprisingly ran from the ticket counter to security (yes, we are "those people" whom many of you have learned to watch with equal parts amusement and pity trying to yell at their kids, tie three shoe laces, and keep 5 over the shoulder bags on all at the same time as they have to disrobe before going through a metal detector) in the hopes of getting on the plane early enough for Addy not to be sitting in the middle seat between two overweight Germans or something. OK, I actually always think "make my day" to that scenario, but we still felt like we had to rush. Imagine then, our relief when we passed through security to find the departure screen was saying our flight was conveniently 15 minutes delayed. Pleasure turned to horror as we literally watched the screen changing before our very eyes at the departure gate, informing us the flight was now 30 minutes...no, 45 minutes...no 1 hour...no 2 hours delayed.
The rest of our time trying to depart was something out of a sitcom. First, as the much delayed departure time approached, a large crowd of people would accumulate, herd-style, in front of the assigned gate, only to make a mad dash, now mob-like, to a suddenly, surprisingly newly assigned gate. The pre-boarding call for people like us with "special assistance" hurriedly scrawled on their boarding passes by the ticket agent could generously be called feeble, and other passengers were in a Darwinian rush to get decent seats so were nonetheless totally uninterested in letting those of us with the previously described load of children and bags cut in line (more like "cut in throng"). We were then greeted in our sweaty, exhausted state by a bitter flight attendant at the top of the stairs - no convenient gangway tunnels for these discount guys - asking for our boarding stubs. He was lucky Rob didn't hit him, but Rob did manage to produce a snippy and decidedly Ostrower-like "You mean it wasn't enough that you guys have already checked our tickets four times before getting on the plane? Don't you have something better to do?" in response. Needless to say, we boarded without searching for the stubs again, and we basically got our seats together too. Rob and I were happy, Eryn looked a little disappointed not be stuck 20 rows behind us.
But we got to Paris fine so the flight nonesense doesn't matter, and neither does the fact that we are back in shipping hell all over again. Those of you who have been reading these postings since our May arrival in Barcelona will recall that we waited nearly three weeks for our shipped boxes to clear Spanish customs. We naively thought that the lack of customs crossings between Spain and France (God bless the E of U, as it were) would make shipping boxes "easier." Surely UPS can easily handle getting us our stuff in the allotted ~1 week, we thought. No siree. The boxes actually arrived 24 hours earlier than we did and, with nary an email or phone call notice, were promptly sent right back to Barcelona because our names had not yet been scotch (le scotch?) taped next to the bell for our apartment. Or, rather, 3 boxes were shipped back, 1 was in limbo in some kind of limbo distribution center, and the other four were ready to be re-delivered. As it turns out, there's no approximate delivery time here, so we were told to wait in our apartment all day waiting for the four survivors, and when they did not arrive, were told that the bureaucratic problem with the box in limbo created a problem and so we had to wait in the apartment another day. I can happily report we have received half our shipment, and fully expect the other half to arrive sometime in the next 2 months. This, by the way, is why I have not posted photos - the download cord is in UPS's hands. Whenever I despair of our travel luck, I remind myself that this sort of nonsense is why we are among the only people we know who have tried this long term travel to a foreign country with two toddlers, and I just try to be proud of my new found battle stripes.
The important thing is that we are here, happy, and we have a pretty great living situation. Paris is awesome, something everyone already knows, so there's a limit to how unhappy one can be about anything. Our apartment, while a far cry in terms of luxury from our Barcelona pad - it hasn't been renovated in oh, 10-15 years and we have seen some mice - is within 500 feet of a huge subway stop, has a garden/patio/courtyard for the kids to play in, is about three blocks to a cool park/playground (very, very, very rare in Paris) and is about four blocks from the very chic part of the Marais. The less fancy part of our abode is good - we don't worry much about the kids messing with the decor or finishes, and it just feels much more comfortable.
Our neighborhood reminds me of what Central Square in Cambridge or Davis Square in Sommerville both used to be like. Maybe the best description is "poised to become up and coming." No, definitely not up and coming, but you can just tell it will be in a little while. For now, it's very mixed - lots of un-fancy little bistros next to McDonalds or KFC, a decent grocery store (even lousy grocery stores in France are better than the best in the US, in my humble opion) right next to a dollar store and a discount luggage center. Africans wearing traditional batique next to Chasidic Jews next to Trendy Bohemian types. In short, it's sort of Matt and Rob's kind of place (hello South Orange, not Short Hills), and it seems right for our family. People are not nearly as nice as in Barcelona, but we've only encountered a few of the infamous sour Parisians. People still grin and touch Addy's hair all the time, so all is right in the world.
Rob and I have only just begun to explore the city. In a typical move, we went first to the Institute of the Arab World, but only had a meal there (mediocre food, but fantastic view of Paris, I might add), and we've done a lot of walking around the area nearest our apartment, but there is SO much more to do and see, it's sort of overwhelming. I took Addy on my own to the Louvre yesterday and tried to play a special "I Spy" game I had constructed especially for the occasion - she hated the game and museum, but loved the big ice cream sundae I bought her on the walk (yes, we're a 20 minute stroll away) home. But that's another story for another blog entry.
We are very lucky to be here, we have a lot to do in the next three months, and we miss all of you back home!
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