tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56205275845660670542024-03-05T07:59:33.954-08:00ma vie est arrivéeA year in the life of living abroad. La vie parisienne.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-13345030197586511532011-10-14T17:55:00.000-07:002011-10-14T17:55:25.794-07:00Reverse Culture ShockIt's been over six weeks since I have returned from my year in Paris and I can honestly say that the re-adjustment to my American life is still sorting itself out in many ways both expected and unexpected.<br />
<br />
For starters, I had to retrain myself not to greet my fellow Americans with a, "<i>Bonjour</i>," and not to leave them with a, "<i>Merci, au revoir</i>." This took about three days. Yet, even though I am no longer feeling the impulse to speak French, I cannot shake the urge to say an immediate, "Hello," upon entering a place of business. I admit, this does feel a bit strange when I enter Target because usually the security guard is busy looking at the floor with his hands in his pockets and I fear that I've startled him with my Frenchie politeness. <br />
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Within hours of landing at SFO, Soren and I shifted into high-gear in order to complete a few important pieces of business: buy Soren a car and eat Mexican food, Zachary's Pizza, and BBQ. We set out on these missions and found ourselves at a cookie cutter strip mall in the East Bay between test drives ordering BBQ and requesting salad dressing on the side without so much as a raised eyebrow from the counter clerk. All the while I was lamenting the fact that my American life is not set up to operate easily as a one-car (let alone no-car) family. Nevertheless, as we ate our ribs with knife and fork (French dining habits die hard), I still fantasized about walking all over Walnut Creek to complete my weekly errands. I do not kid myself that Bart can ever replace Paris' Metro in my fantasy.<br />
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My daydreaming was interrupted when Soren and I noticed something- a boob job. She walked by, tanned, bleached blonde, and porn-star perky when suddenly, the plasticity of it all brought forth giggles from us both. Her unnatural aesthetic was a shock to my system simply because my eyes had not seen (obvious) cosmetic surgery on any French woman for an entire year. Heck, I can't go a whole day in my community without seeing an obvious mommy makeover or a female face frozen from one too many injectables.<br />
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Shocking still was the fact that at this moment a waitress approached our table to ask if everything was to our liking (what, the boob job or the BBQ ribs?) She also commented on the weather and asked if we needed a doggie-bag, a term we had forgotten even exists. We really appreciated this attentiveness at a restaurant; we had grown accustomed to going without so much as a water refill when dining out in France. Better yet, lunch cost us only $15. For the same price in Paris, only one of us could have enjoyed the BBQ.<br />
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After gorging on our ribs we began making our way to our parked car- which we purposefully parked far away from our intended restaurant so as to maximize our pedestrianism in my attempt to infuse walking into my suburban life as much as possible- when a driver in an approaching car actually slowed down and stopped to allow us to cross, even without the presence of a crosswalk! He had no clue as to why our thank-you for his kindness was so effusive. During the remainder of our long walk to our car, we began noting the barrage of culture shocks we had just encountered in this brief period of time. Little did I know that more were to come.<br />
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We finally found a car to buy and as we were completing the financial piece of the transaction, my bladder let me know that it could no longer hold the water and wine that I had consumed with my ribs (wine with lunch; another Frenchie habit that I intend to keep) and it was so nice to have access to a readily available restroom in a retail establishment. I didn't even have to buy a cup of coffee to gain access- only a car!<br />
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As if all of these weren't enough to shock my system, I realized that after spending the day driving approximately 120 miles round trip from the East to the South Bay and back, we didn't pay a single toll. Had we driven this same distance in France, we would have been at least $25 poorer. Although the condition of our American roads reflect this difference in tollbooth norms, it felt nice to be able to exclaim, "Everything is so cheap in America!" This feeling has since worn off, darn it. <br />
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Not wanting to let go of our lunching out habit just yet, Soren and I ventured to downtown Walnut Creek one afternoon and parked in a metered space (begrudgingly, we drove, but only because Soren wanted to break in his new car). Approaching the meter, we discovered that Soren had no change on him and my wallet was still filled with mostly euro coins. After digging around in my wallet, I managed to scrounge enough American change to feed the meter which provided us with 48 minutes for parking. Soren and I turned to each other and remarked, "That's not enough time for a Parisian lunch, but it's plenty for an American one!" During our half-mile drive back home (my Parisian mind now realizes this is such a walkable distance!) I realized that we had failed to recalibrate ourselves to the requirements of American dining because we neglected to remember that, on this side of the Atlantic, leaving a tip is standard practice. Oops. <br />
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On one of my first days back home, while I was grocery shopping in order to re-stock our cupboards and fridge with food, I ran into a woman I know who was shopping with her husband who, she explained, had just returned from living in Mongolia for two years. When he learned that I had just returned from living in Paris he stated, "You were still living in the Western world, I was in Mongolia, now <i>that's</i> culture shock." While I admit that varying degrees of culture shock occur depending on one's geographical location (my two weeks spent traveling in India allow me to know this for a fact), little did her husband know that, for me, shopping at Trader Joe's where I could read every single word on the labels, ask a store clerk for something without having to first silently translate my request in my head- let alone dig for the courage to do so-, buy bottled salad dressing, tortilla chips, frozen waffles, organic peanut butter, choose from a selection of salsas that made my head spin, and stand at the checkout while somebody else bags my groceries, is, what I would call culture shock. <br />
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Last week I was lunching at a downtown eatery when I heard the voice of my longtime friend call out to me from another table. As I turned to greet her with a big hug (alas, not a double cheek kiss) I realized that she was wearing workout clothes and sitting at a large table with a group of similarly clad women in exercise pants, tennis shoes, baseball caps, and racer-back jogging tops. This very Californian scenario struck me in an amusing way because I never saw anyone dine in a Parisian restaurant in workout clothes nor did I ever see large groups of Parisian women enjoying a meal together.<br />
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It occurred to me then that since moving back home, I have yet to venture out into my community without a shower and "<i>a look</i>" (as Tim Gunn from 'Project Runway' would say). I quickly learned that the Parisian norm is to be presentable at all times, even for something as mundane as taking out the garbage. Shortly after arriving in Paris I sent my velour Juicy sweatsuit home with Soren when he departed for one of his business trips and I instructed him to return with more slacks, skirts, and dresses; my fancy overpriced suburban sweats were less than chic outside the U.S. border. I instinctively retrained my brain for what passed as acceptable Parisienne errand-running and lunching attire.<br />
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It seems counterintuitive, actually, when I break it down. I had built-in anonymity in Paris where it was virtually impossible for me to be 'caught' looking less than pulled together by anyone that I know. Why should I care what strangers think of me anyway (here or in Paris)? After all, I was forced to grow a thick skin and learn how to ignore the cool stares of Parisian Metro passengers as I commuted with my girls to their school in my workout clothes. But I never dared run errands, enter a restaurant, or take out the garbage without first showering and donning acceptable duds. I guess it was my 'When in Rome' mentality, but something about the mindset has stuck with me upon returning home to my casual California community. I admit, my neighbors have since seen me taking out the garbage in my sweats (even my grubby, non-Juicy ones), but I continue to wear my best duds for the security guard at Target.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-59100192749365412282011-07-27T22:31:00.000-07:002011-07-27T22:31:27.610-07:00Dear Paris, With Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Dear Paris,<br />
<br />
By the time you read this, I will already be on an airplane. I hate to leave this way, but I have no other choice. I can't stay with you any longer. I am sad- this is for certain- but, I have learned so much from you during our year-long relationship. You have taught me so much about food, culture, history, and romance. I am not the same person that I was before I met you. You are beautiful, Paris. It's not because I am not attracted to you. I just don't think my needs can be fully met in the ways that I desire. I like to feel competent and knowledgeable and, with you, I experience a frequent feeling of inadequacy. Frankly, you and I don't seem to speak the same language. It's not you, Paris. It's me. And, it's just that, well, there's somebody else. Somebody from my past. Actually, from my childhood, and I believe that is where I belong, and, where I must return to. Please know that you have touched my life in ways that I will always appreciate and never forget. You're wonderful, Paris. I know that you will make someone else very happy. Au revoir.<br />
<br />
With love and gratitude,<br />
<br />
Holli<br />
<i>Mama, Wife, and Student of Life </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBvYM1hp5qjiCcvdAJ4X5fpXo3OyQaglcm_Jge0A41JX5lEf8WhVrf-t1TdId-ogHfkDJ_EDIHRD7vjzKLMDysw5H15EWjTw_NEuFiUxdv-lE3ud_I37Tca1bm5QsZfGBuo62fwEJTQQ/s1600/P1000525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxBvYM1hp5qjiCcvdAJ4X5fpXo3OyQaglcm_Jge0A41JX5lEf8WhVrf-t1TdId-ogHfkDJ_EDIHRD7vjzKLMDysw5H15EWjTw_NEuFiUxdv-lE3ud_I37Tca1bm5QsZfGBuo62fwEJTQQ/s640/P1000525.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-63776188323188690212011-07-18T12:53:00.000-07:002011-07-18T12:53:00.801-07:00To Live Untouched<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span>I have a new habit that I acquired during my days and weeks living in Paris. I like to watch the TED talks. A lot. I sometimes laugh and usually cry. They move me. One talk in particular recently reached out and grabbed me. Philanthropist Jacqueline Novogratz's speech, <i>Inspiring a Life of Immersion</i>, delivers a core message about living a life of purpose. She highlights stories about people that she has met through her work- people who have immersed themselves in a cause or a community of some kind. Although we have not been living a life of philanthropy in Paris, I was able to relate her message to my family's own immersion in both a cause and a community this past year. Novogratz's talk is rich with nuggets of wisdom that spoke to me particularly because each little quotable gem represents the very things that my family and I have been lucky enough to struggle with, dabble in, chew on, and embrace for an entire year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><i>"Nothing important happens in life without a cost."</i><br />
<br />
Soren and I found ourselves in the unique position of being able to pick up and move our family overseas for one year. Lucky? Yes. Brave? Definitely. Financially sound? Not really. It depends on one's values I suppose. Would we have more money in the bank had we stayed put? Lots. Could we have invested it, purchased Soren's mid-life crisis car, and continued playing the game of Keeping Up With The Jones'? You bet. Was this a foolish expenditure? Not even. I would trade any and all stock purchases, returns on investments, and even Soren's Porsche that sum of cash could have brought our way for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity this past year abroad represents.<br />
<br />
We are somewhat more cash-poor, but infinitely rich with cultural relativities and sensitivities, a new language, a deeper appreciation for food and wine, an increased zest for life experiences of all kinds, lifelong connections with previously unknown relatives and new friends, and a reaffirmation that we love all that is good about where we come from. As the MasterCard commercials state, "The cost of all this? Priceless."<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"What is the cost of not daring, what is the cost of not trying?"</i><br />
<br />
Looking back to the time, almost three years ago, when Soren first mentioned the idea of living abroad, quicker than I could reply, "No way," I had already created my mental list of the reasons why not: Too disruptive to our daughters' education, we can't afford it, I don't want to leave my friends and family, Raelyn’s interest in soccer and Nola’s love of guitar are too important to stop now. Plus, what about our cat, our house, and who will make sure our plants don't die? But where is the fun in this kind of thinking? And, after all, this was Paris we were talking about, not Omaha or Duluth.<br />
<br />
Gradually, I began to listen to the brave part of myself, the daring part. The part of myself that, although rarely, can and does function without making mental lists that compare pros and cons, lists that- for all practical purposes- are my attempt to control the world around me and make it appear more predictable than it is. I instead decided to embrace the part of myself that can tolerate the unknown. I listened to the part of me that endured my three hour tattoo session. I tapped into the part of me that learned to swim so that I could complete two triathlons despite my dislike of swimming and my fear of the open water (which shifted to fear of swimming amidst duck poop). I called upon the part of me that rides up and down mountain trails on my bike despite my fears that I will topple head first into a ditch. And I trusted the part of me that gave birth to two children despite what my obstetrician calls my incompetent cervix (as a woman, I think I already had enough complexes about my body, thank you very much doctor).<br />
<br />
For me, not daring, not trying, not pushing myself outside of my comfort zone costs me my spirit. My true spirit (when I don't ignore it or invalidate it) yearns to stretch beyond complacency, the status quo, and even the simple satisfactions that contribute to my American life. Now that I recognize this about myself- more clearly than ever before- the exciting question is, "What's next?" For me, this question is like the 'free, with purchase' hook that marketers use and, in this case, actually is better than advertised.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Your job in life is not to be perfect. Your job is to be human."</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
I pretty much suck at speaking French and my daughters- Raelyn especially- do not hesitate to let me know when they are embarrassed by my accent, mispronunciation, or my incorrect use of the masculine and feminine definite article. I have been known to smile my way through this year with strangers, thinking- rather naively- that showing some teeth during situations where the language barrier is getting in the way will help my cause. This flawed assumption is cultural in nature. We Americans tend to smile a lot in an attempt to establish an immediate feeling of friendliness; the French do not. So instead of communicating with my smile, “I come in peace and isn’t my butchering of your language cute and endearing?” I am instead letting them know that I am a foreigner ready to take our connection, however brief and superficial, to the next and, as far as they are concerned, unwelcomed level. I have learned two things about this: Not to take their stone cold stares personally and that their reactions are no less human than my goofy smiles.<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Sometimes, the most important things we do, that we spend our time on, are those things that we cannot measure."</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
I can count the number of countries we have visited this year. I know what my new favorite food and wines are. I can name each of the French friends and relatives whom we have met. I know how much one euro really costs me in U.S. dollars. I know I have three minutes to make it down to the station to catch the next Metro train after I hear the previous one pass under our apartment building. I am familiar enough with Paris to help a lost tourist (a French one, no less) navigate their way. I can give a percentage to the amount of French that Raelyn and Nola now speak, read, and write. All of these new experiences and changes are measurable and we certainly spent a lot of our time focused on them. But are they the most important?<br />
<br />
Hindsight is, as they say, 20/20. Yet, I am still too close to my Paris experience to truly understand the essence of what has been most important for us individually and collectively. Sure, I can recognize surface level transformations that have occurred this year – for instance, my daughters speak French now and have accumulated a European wardrobe - but what shifts lay beneath the surface? To what extent will living abroad shape my girls’ future attitudes, my desires, our assumptions, or Soren’s motivations in life?<br />
<br />
When I moved to Paris, I had a decent sense of knowing what I didn’t know and therefore proceeded to ask the right people and/or learn by trial and error. But, even more profound for me is the recognition of another truth that was unknowingly present upon our arrival: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t know what I don’t know</i>.<br />
<br />
For example, I didn’t know that I didn’t know about bathroom etiquette as a guest in a French person’s home nor that my smiles will rarely win me any friendliness from French strangers. And, I didn’t know that I didn’t know my Paris life will now cause me to yearn for city living and prompt Soren and I to seriously consider buying an apartment in San Francisco. I didn’t know that I didn’t know the amazingly wonderful French friends and relatives that I now can’t imagine a life without. Can I quantify this new knowledge and qualify it as important? Indeed I can.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Focus on honoring what is most beautiful about our past and building into the promise of our future."</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
Soren has a robust and complicated family tree. Delving into the French side of it this year has been an engaging focus for us. Exploring the former Paris and Antibes stomping grounds of Soren’s grandmother and great grandmother has tickled our sense of wonder about France in the early twentieth century. We feel lucky to be embraced and welcomed by the staff at Puiforcat, the namesake store of Soren’s great grandfather just off the Champs Elysees that continues to sell his exclusive art deco silver designs. We experienced shock and awe from learning more than we ever knew before about the French Resistance for whom Soren’s Jewish grandfather fought during WWII. These are significant pieces of my daughters’ ancestral past and how fortunate they are to have both the oral stories and now the actual sights to accompany them.<br />
<br />
We have had the pleasure of meeting many of Soren’s French relatives this year; no less than thirty of them, in fact. They have been warm and gracious, helpful and curious. And nice enough to speak English- sometimes- for my benefit. Our French elders have added context and details to stories we already knew and also told us ones we did not know about the Kaplan and Puiforcat relatives that came before us. Raelyn and Nola have come to know their French cousins by playing Elastique, going to Euro Disney, and picnicking in Parisian parks. These new personal connections help to provide meaning and purpose to our lives by bridging the past with the future. For this we are forever grateful.<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"It is a long baptism into the seas of humankind, my daughter. Better immersion than to live untouched... yet how will you sustain?"</i><br />
<i> </i> <br />
One question that keeps coming up for us is, “How will Raelyn and Nola continue learning and speaking French after our return home?” <i> </i>I love the idea of my girls sustaining and building upon their acquired language skills. But is this a realistic goal? Again, I think it boils down to personal values. I’d love to be able to say that I will be hiring a thrice weekly private tutor or driving them to and from the Alliance Française in Berkeley for classes. But, my guess is, upon returning home, their interests in music, dance, sports, and friends will leave little time for much else outside of school.<br />
<br />
Part of my family’s immersion this year was all about experiencing work/life balance. We have enjoyed our leisure time consisting of travel, visiting with family, sleeping in on weekends, and not running errands on Sundays. Therefore, I am reluctant to commit ourselves to yet another obligation for fear of returning to our harried and overscheduled American lives. Is it possible to sustain both their language skills and a more balanced life in America? <i>Je ne sais pas</i>. I am most likely inclined to allow for a more relaxed pace of life and let the French language build upon itself when Raelyn and Nola enter French class in 7th grade and blow their teacher away with their perfect accents. Learning French, although an important piece of my girls’ experiential puzzle this year, is only one of several dimensions that have helped to create the depth and breadth of their life of immersion in Paris. <br />
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Upon returning to our American life, how do I sustain an atmosphere for my daughters- one that continues to broaden their horizons, create additional pathways for compassion and empathy, generate a thirst for knowledge, and inspire a life of purpose? For starters, keeping the spirit of exploration alive by behaving like tourists in our own state and country shouldn’t be too difficult (as long as I manage that darned life balance thing; I am a Libra after all). Additionally, volunteering, donating, and continuing to be good neighbors, friends, and family members will maintain the connectedness that we, as humans, crave. Finally, honoring our true selves by acting upon our innermost desires rather than what others- or even ourselves- think we should be doing. Had I not regarded my true spirit with the honor it deserves when Soren proposed a move abroad, this blog would be non-existent for Paris would have remained untouched by us and we would be untouched by Paris.<br />
<br />
<i></i> We have completed our mission that we set out upon one year ago. The cause was basic: To expose ourselves and our children to another way of living. Our selected community of Paris and our French relatives was a no-brainer. Our new French friends are icing on the cake. <br />
<br />
Above all else, my daughters have hopefully been touched, not so much by the differences between French and American cultures, but by the similarities. For when we peel back the layers of cultural norms, we’re all simply human, needing connection to something larger than ourselves that provides meaning and purpose to our lives. I don’t know if Raelyn and Nola will sustain their French. At least I know that I don’t know this. What lies before me as I enter my final handful of days in my Paris life is the knowledge that I still don’t know what I don’t know. But I have been deeply touched. And that is enough glorious knowledge for now. To what degree will reverse culture shock affect each of us upon returning to our American life? Only time will tell. And I bet that, when and if I do know, it will feel profoundly important.<br />
<br />
TED Talk<br />
http://www.ted.com/talks/jacqueline_novogratz_inspiring_a_life_of_immersion.html <br />
<br />
Jean Emile Puiforcat<br />
http://www.puiforcat.com/<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ir7OtiKadjcS6QsSM-ecpbuj5ha993K1IW14vMFPCr5H0YDTHMP22kBW0LYzfuZEjkLGJl72KDxOy5zjSu_VNkpfUgFdgA0RYX6Xhpwm_-741_dX_YFoaBsR9Cugkyc5jjA_YAUzAo/s1600/IMG_9282.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1ir7OtiKadjcS6QsSM-ecpbuj5ha993K1IW14vMFPCr5H0YDTHMP22kBW0LYzfuZEjkLGJl72KDxOy5zjSu_VNkpfUgFdgA0RYX6Xhpwm_-741_dX_YFoaBsR9Cugkyc5jjA_YAUzAo/s640/IMG_9282.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lise and Taha (Puiforcat family)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sarah, our American babysitter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marion, our French babysitter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bachelier Family (Kaplan family)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF61kg-A5Z2fM7cRtUkEounkKYFxTpC3Tro4EcKiIoQa61QFSK9ZCJvwmN7cdKk4H-oiEihMri-kZa1HOa_AQ0Ao8ACLMHTS_ZVw02VxWiVuQEkkEkp1wLsFvToFl23e69p0eb9UyRg2g/s1600/IMG_9194.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF61kg-A5Z2fM7cRtUkEounkKYFxTpC3Tro4EcKiIoQa61QFSK9ZCJvwmN7cdKk4H-oiEihMri-kZa1HOa_AQ0Ao8ACLMHTS_ZVw02VxWiVuQEkkEkp1wLsFvToFl23e69p0eb9UyRg2g/s640/IMG_9194.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends Bejamin and Annette.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJE4XP7XX3AVz46eScaKK2OYrR7Rf_fnTv1NJJVIaAbF25RHUSD8D9n6i7LM0K51CJTHcHLxqecdTixt-YxfGuUSWLfCIDrIsxqTRoL1WfhkavL2JvQRcmnnc7pKIu29C2Ssrz2GxY9fg/s1600/IMG_5823.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJE4XP7XX3AVz46eScaKK2OYrR7Rf_fnTv1NJJVIaAbF25RHUSD8D9n6i7LM0K51CJTHcHLxqecdTixt-YxfGuUSWLfCIDrIsxqTRoL1WfhkavL2JvQRcmnnc7pKIu29C2Ssrz2GxY9fg/s640/IMG_5823.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Annie and Claude with grandson Mathias. (Puiforcat Family)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mg_jjxa0MhBV2kMdFfTSOxj_IHnzMz8DqhRlsgwx0NkgbqHq_BC1N75OYzsyjzihVErd4uCfISfK6tgl15J0_XL_pa_pnJpSnNtAMGIFY18tMYTYjB12OMI0e40xEH2tOWSMXBL7F6I/s1600/IMG_9299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3mg_jjxa0MhBV2kMdFfTSOxj_IHnzMz8DqhRlsgwx0NkgbqHq_BC1N75OYzsyjzihVErd4uCfISfK6tgl15J0_XL_pa_pnJpSnNtAMGIFY18tMYTYjB12OMI0e40xEH2tOWSMXBL7F6I/s640/IMG_9299.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnicking with David, Nathalie, and Mathias (Puiforcat family).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdxo_LxqZau9Eu88IYNzTg2mB_za6eacREOxSKn3yetb60MVZz1TCg4r1IV1tmRgfWI4y3qWwwb_A7Or0OqbRkmOqd3gu7_zgRzSeSlwHe4Y3S5E-bu1CqTl9l4TehvI1gyjxzNqUKGo/s1600/Florence.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdxo_LxqZau9Eu88IYNzTg2mB_za6eacREOxSKn3yetb60MVZz1TCg4r1IV1tmRgfWI4y3qWwwb_A7Or0OqbRkmOqd3gu7_zgRzSeSlwHe4Y3S5E-bu1CqTl9l4TehvI1gyjxzNqUKGo/s640/Florence.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousin Florence (Kaplan family).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnSXoZD_VCuQ8kHOk7qCYcFUYyEp2Co66IPkWMexlAsvA2ygZxiKil7PQgRp4pZ0IymuBhU1j2JktPlzYKfqVWwZd54kw9mqjCxKSKrRh3OO7jPC1Gc1ahVzq1Vwvsw_NtOirIS3elWw/s1600/IMG_8939.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgnSXoZD_VCuQ8kHOk7qCYcFUYyEp2Co66IPkWMexlAsvA2ygZxiKil7PQgRp4pZ0IymuBhU1j2JktPlzYKfqVWwZd54kw9mqjCxKSKrRh3OO7jPC1Gc1ahVzq1Vwvsw_NtOirIS3elWw/s640/IMG_8939.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friend Lucas, son of friends Sara and Laurent.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB70ndBirusco0jBOsD6R0c3OGiHQhHdHl6jBAVoNSD2lqe0lldG50p5P8yEemsGgAwmgY0mAZEl9vcyZwCnDGLFPn0cSMO_c-lqatazBt9infvrYqAX8HogbQvRhEGyAL3YZPxAUC3Q/s1600/IMG_8390.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZB70ndBirusco0jBOsD6R0c3OGiHQhHdHl6jBAVoNSD2lqe0lldG50p5P8yEemsGgAwmgY0mAZEl9vcyZwCnDGLFPn0cSMO_c-lqatazBt9infvrYqAX8HogbQvRhEGyAL3YZPxAUC3Q/s640/IMG_8390.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soren after private sale at Puiforcat.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKLmpXYEzOg5MPtBNfgpS-OOuijHIIgqIaylIjU8T_4a_qaX106uTVZ8B_kNJtUHkIZKAtrEF4GGoo_1AgSHUG8eSyLpC0YFM4HrgzDUWOLmau7j69tQHT1KwnW5C9T7Qo0gwBk6odbpo/s1600/IMG_6169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKLmpXYEzOg5MPtBNfgpS-OOuijHIIgqIaylIjU8T_4a_qaX106uTVZ8B_kNJtUHkIZKAtrEF4GGoo_1AgSHUG8eSyLpC0YFM4HrgzDUWOLmau7j69tQHT1KwnW5C9T7Qo0gwBk6odbpo/s640/IMG_6169.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sylvia and Gerard with grandchildren (Kaplan family).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUaaY39i251u5ySoloN7gz8fA_GxX_21ZvZEjthrrt2u66QbqyOOXtoZb-cjR3Dhyphenhyphenj-PqkSdxwMDPATTOFiu13aubDpTGVUiKlE-EqyUjIE2dQwWOnPOFCH0lNSed5_VXL8qw2JaafE0/s1600/CLIN+Girls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUaaY39i251u5ySoloN7gz8fA_GxX_21ZvZEjthrrt2u66QbqyOOXtoZb-cjR3Dhyphenhyphenj-PqkSdxwMDPATTOFiu13aubDpTGVUiKlE-EqyUjIE2dQwWOnPOFCH0lNSed5_VXL8qw2JaafE0/s640/CLIN+Girls.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">School friends Katie, Wafaa, and Lucy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja41zsa3gq09JEz5GnUJGJg1zb7Og5YFLVHnHqaIi6BDULcjsPI0GNk3QFLHNErGF7_xaurHYsMcoPYRp9-iZyVAC_vkUyR1EcByKhGoe-bzJIy_s-12uPtIpE2QFLn48wu9TbA60XGn4/s1600/P1000025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja41zsa3gq09JEz5GnUJGJg1zb7Og5YFLVHnHqaIi6BDULcjsPI0GNk3QFLHNErGF7_xaurHYsMcoPYRp9-iZyVAC_vkUyR1EcByKhGoe-bzJIy_s-12uPtIpE2QFLn48wu9TbA60XGn4/s640/P1000025.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cousins Franck, Kathrine, Marion, Pauline, and Laura (Puiforcat family).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vu4sIFMK3xaHdwL_HiEQrN1krysjRH0nVt0zRBog8haD0UXnq2B1zJkfNfMXeJr-MHdKsYT9YmBVpXPctHAMzLxYiW_cOERFbNqEgBSICQea-iG5nadeg3EAVRTSF_4Z7CcEebVaa4c/s1600/IMG_9212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3vu4sIFMK3xaHdwL_HiEQrN1krysjRH0nVt0zRBog8haD0UXnq2B1zJkfNfMXeJr-MHdKsYT9YmBVpXPctHAMzLxYiW_cOERFbNqEgBSICQea-iG5nadeg3EAVRTSF_4Z7CcEebVaa4c/s640/IMG_9212.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends Juan Carlos and Mariel.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJzkrQCgZiVIb8meicgnyhmrquo2R4uJMKphVd0EoO_ZKO4DaqdbDrTjxGgHTfr8a0xnpM68J4-pe-DKE2MwQCVIk1IDAMjGAwmvm18U9Rc9d-9Nu-zz6zlygwyf0C1rFd7OL2Vt5B7I/s1600/IMG_2776.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJzkrQCgZiVIb8meicgnyhmrquo2R4uJMKphVd0EoO_ZKO4DaqdbDrTjxGgHTfr8a0xnpM68J4-pe-DKE2MwQCVIk1IDAMjGAwmvm18U9Rc9d-9Nu-zz6zlygwyf0C1rFd7OL2Vt5B7I/s640/IMG_2776.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olivier and Valentine (Kaplan family).</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZDa1R3XgDS_mEIUAFp5DKAUXK9FE9ucX0UJ_TzwXqz8y3UycWbZrPrhyphenhyphenJXnACCNak-O44E5I06O9nVsp7q-ynC81KWvGioLF2cPyqpuCsM-nBpzaEBjDcgkXkW7_TnoKvnAwGBAYUgc/s1600/IMG_9157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqZDa1R3XgDS_mEIUAFp5DKAUXK9FE9ucX0UJ_TzwXqz8y3UycWbZrPrhyphenhyphenJXnACCNak-O44E5I06O9nVsp7q-ynC81KWvGioLF2cPyqpuCsM-nBpzaEBjDcgkXkW7_TnoKvnAwGBAYUgc/s640/IMG_9157.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Friends Fabienne and Patrique</td></tr>
</tbody></table>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-85233989619920606592011-06-30T15:14:00.000-07:002011-07-04T13:59:28.664-07:00MetamorphosisThe Kaplans are now proud owners of one tadpole turned frog and one tadpole soon-to-be frog. The frog was unsuspectingly snatched up from the waters of the Seine river in Gye-sur-Seine, a small village in France's champagne region where the Seine begins as a small stream winding its way through similar quaint villages and towns before reaching Paris. Our second little tadpole guy (or gal?)- who is morphing as I type- was plucked from a pond on the lush grounds of a chateau near France's Fontainbleu. The first tadpole was brought home for curiosity's sake, the second tadpole for the sake of guilt because we never expected the first one to live let alone morph into a frog. That's why Soren made the girls put back the other 38 tadpoles they had collected that day from the Seine, figuring taking the life of one was bad enough, we didn't want 39 dead tadpoles weighing on our conscience. Shortly thereafter, we feared that our frog felt lonely, hence the decision to kidnap his friend from the chateau pond. Bearing witness to amphibian metamorphosis over the past month has helped me to reflect upon the many changes that have occurred individually and collectively for our family as we near the end of our year living in Paris.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYYYcG_lvE4MbChV0UoQy_uPg0E29mvYzLu_mohyUDu7f-4IKfMEHt4BZokQ2qde5aVeVSKaI114ElG-E37kuJtFmlAF9I13Q_eT5wnzB6OxWamhMeMUBEEMApKf7Nii8Hh7Zzt627HU/s1600/IMG_8711.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYYYcG_lvE4MbChV0UoQy_uPg0E29mvYzLu_mohyUDu7f-4IKfMEHt4BZokQ2qde5aVeVSKaI114ElG-E37kuJtFmlAF9I13Q_eT5wnzB6OxWamhMeMUBEEMApKf7Nii8Hh7Zzt627HU/s640/IMG_8711.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Introducing "Sparky".</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDx6x2IxMl_Z7rT4cDpbsyVw2Q9W0o9jlE55SDHzA58d_PVOREjsqeXdqwJUXCYE3cobDDnFj8WboQcaCIYxyEbCrmthp44fJBzUd9rKXZF3th8nGd-_CPYNpUAO7pvgYo1vvRuRLiDh0/s1600/IMG_9344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDx6x2IxMl_Z7rT4cDpbsyVw2Q9W0o9jlE55SDHzA58d_PVOREjsqeXdqwJUXCYE3cobDDnFj8WboQcaCIYxyEbCrmthp44fJBzUd9rKXZF3th8nGd-_CPYNpUAO7pvgYo1vvRuRLiDh0/s640/IMG_9344.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet "Cheesecake".</td></tr>
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One of the more mild, yet pleasing changes (at least in my opinion) is that my husband dresses a little better now. I always call Soren my "cartoon character", an endearing term to describe how, since I first met him, he repeatedly wears the same beloved outfit when we venture out in public (thankfully, not the same ensemble as when we started dating twenty years ago). I think very few people know that my husband actually does own a closet full of clothes. It's just that he ignores most of them in favor of his go-to outfit. A shopper he is not. Soren lives in Banana Republic men's crew neck t-shirts and he stocks up on them once a year during sales. The guy never wears v-necks, never veers away from plain styling, and besides preferring a tight crew neck, he likes the rest of the t-shirt to fit loose and comfortable. Unexpectedly, Soren actually ventured out this week without his fashion consultant (a.k.a., Me) to take advantage of the bi-annual Paris sales. True to form, Soren went hunting for specific items, t-shirt and shorts, in preparation for our upcoming road trip to the south of France. It will be quite hot there and he can more easily get away with the Parisian male fashion no-no of wearing shorts. Soren proudly modeled his four new t-shirts and one pair of shorts. He did good! His t-shirts were undeniably more stylish than usual; tighter, with a slight v-neck, and a little button detail along the shirt's placket. In other words, euro-male, which in my book equals sexy. He even wears a winter scarf now (I'm working on the spring one, haven't sold that idea just yet). My husband came to Paris a cutie and is leaving Paris a hottie. <span class="st"><i>C'est très chic</i></span>!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZ-WokVgM6_iDIQSHza7SSext5WtOYH_RtoEke0ZR_fxJ708CUvxFWDeCkYaanP05dpNWewzGhmYXQFjA-bJpMM-l8bxRsda_j1Y5TqRfZNfp17mLuSr7jtL7mM7_6vbA3e7gds-guqU/s1600/IMG_9157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeZ-WokVgM6_iDIQSHza7SSext5WtOYH_RtoEke0ZR_fxJ708CUvxFWDeCkYaanP05dpNWewzGhmYXQFjA-bJpMM-l8bxRsda_j1Y5TqRfZNfp17mLuSr7jtL7mM7_6vbA3e7gds-guqU/s640/IMG_9157.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With hip Parisian friends, the bar is set high. Soren covers up one of his Banana Republic tees with a euro shirt, one that is a slimmer cut, a tad shiner, and more stylish than what he typically purchases. Bravo Soren!</td></tr>
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As for Raelyn, well, she has developed into quite the young Francophile. She woke up one morning, six months into our Parisian experience and declared, "I am not the same person I was when I came to Paris." Like Soren's, Raelyn's fashion sense has also developed in a European way. She pairs boots with shorts, dares to wear only one knee sock with skirts or shorts, accessorizes with hats and goofy black-framed 3D glasses with the lens popped out, and begs me weekly to be allowed to wear bright red lipstick so as to emulate the young French women (Um, she's eleven, so that is <i>not</i> happening). She has contracted designer fever in that whenever we find ourselves on the high-end shopping streets of Paris, Madrid, or Florence, she likes to go into Chanel, Prada, Fendi, and Gucci and have a look around. I tease here that she'd better start thinking about how she's going to support her high-end tastes. She tells me that she is going to become a fashion designer herself someday and that, when she does, she'll buy me a house. I told her that's great, as long she buys me one in Paris.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a shoelace turned bracelet and self-designed doodles on her formerly 3D glasses.</td></tr>
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When shopping with Raelyn in France she is very handy to have at my side because her knowledge of French has flourished. I can rely on her to ask the store clerk things like, "<i>Ma mère veut savoir si vous avez des soutien-gorge invisible.</i>" (My mother wants to know if you have some invisible bras."). Flushed with embarrassment, Raelyn exclaimed afterwards, "Mom, that is <i>the</i> most embarrassing thing ever!" I need my south of France summer clothing items too ya know. Raelyn also gets embarrassed when Soren or I speak French. Last week, when Soren was speaking French to the pharmasist, Raelyn turned to me while simultaneously crossing her arms, rolling her eyes, and exclaiming through clenched teeth, "Dad is <i>such</i> an American!", because little Miss Frenchie here has adopted the French attitude of linguistic superiority to perfection. Our American accents drive her nuts and she does not hesitate to show us just how much.<br />
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As for me, I understand much more French now than when I arrived. The problem with this, however, is that when the French person speaking to me learns that I have just understood what they have said, they simply continue speaking French to me. So, once a French person and I get past the usual and customary utterances during my daily outings and activities, communication can go downhill quickly. If the French words are unfamiliar and/or spoken too fast and contextual clues go over my head, which, sometimes they do, then I become lost in a linguistic fog and the French person becomes confused too because they had me pegged for a Parisian at first (I certainly do try to look like one). When they learn that I am an imposter, my cover is blown, but I do feel secretly pleased when they think I am British rather than American. <br />
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My fashion sense has shifted a little thanks to Parisian influences. I do wear scarves year-round now, and boots too. I love wearing therm with shorts. My makeup routine is fresh too; it had become minimal when I became a mother. It just wasn't something I felt like making time for in the morning. Besides, as any new mom knows, when it's a luxury to find time for a shower, there is little time left for any other kind of self-care or primping. For me, this lack of a beauty routine became a habit. My eye makeup routine rarely even consists of makeup. Just curled eyelashes because the beauty magazines tell me that this will help me to look more awake. Paris has helped me to redefine my signature look of curled eyelashes paired with my dark circles and puffy under-eye bags. Now, I have added the quintessentially French and simplistic dark liner on my upper lid paired with red lipstick and a slight hint of blush on my cheeks. With my red lips, who's going to notice my puffy bags and dark circles now? Wish I had known about this trick sooner. <br />
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Ever so gradually over the past six months, Nola has taken an interest in things of a feminine nature like never before. This, from a girl who, at age three, declared, "I hate pink and purple, dresses, and skirts. I want pants and shorts with lots of pockets for my rocks and shells." At age 7, Nola was sporting a mohawk and wearing football jerseys. She came into this world a nonconforming female whose path has kept us guessing and who has needed us to remain open-minded and ever so flexible. Our Nola mantra has been, "Who made up these stupid gender rules anyway?" While she is still not a fan of dresses and skirts, Nola is, for the first time ever, shopping in the girls' department. Her new interest in female clothing extends to her expressing desires for my clothing when she grows big enough to wear them. Raelyn is claiming dibs however, since she beat her little sister's request by about three years. Nola's hair has not been cut for one year. I keep thinking she is going to ask for a short cut again, but the other day she stated, "I like my hair long, I want to put it in a ponytail." I thought it was my imagination at first, then I saw her emerge from my bathroom with one of my ponytail holders. I assumed she needed a lesson on how to make a ponytail since her hands had never before attempted this task. But she brushed me off and had a completed ponytail within a couple of minutes. I had another mind-blowing moment yesterday when Nola asked to buy a purse. Well, she didn't use the word purse, my guess is that some things are still considered too girly for her. She actually used the word "bag" instead. Taking advantage of the Paris sales, she happily selected her first ever "bag", girl shorts and girl t-shirt which even has a slight sparkle to it. Nola made sure to stipulate that pink and purple and anything flowery were off-limits. Like mother, like daughter. For the past three weeks, Nola has taken to polishing her nails. She especially likes that new Crack product which she purchased in black and layers on top of red or nude nails. The other day, we ladies enjoyed our first at-home mom/daughter mani-pedi session. Nola had always opted out before. I think that Nola is deserving of her own word given the mega evolution she has undergone this year. I refer to her process as "Nolamorphosis". She came to Paris looking like a boy, but she is preparing to leave looking like a girl. I can't help but wonder if this transformation would have occurred if we hadn't moved to Paris? Is Parisian fashion culture truly that powerful? Are hormones at work? Or is it the long-term separation from her male buddies back home? I'll never know. But that's okay, I like both Nolas and should she gravitate back towards boyish Nola, well then, we have our mantra for that.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moving Day August 3, 2010. Short hair and football jersey.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nola in transition. Boy clothes paired with Mama's boots.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFUUXTce1FB1ogM0EaAnWhhi24J4YcdQi_00Bp8CThZOVBVpP2D61RPM5g_aNVt9ZV16B5Q231FcKaWhcpA7NLfXU97i6fOnYb_RFM9Lrn-Wb8LkrkETyDrk-xLB3hja9igvg_ZP3_do/s1600/IMG_9341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFUUXTce1FB1ogM0EaAnWhhi24J4YcdQi_00Bp8CThZOVBVpP2D61RPM5g_aNVt9ZV16B5Q231FcKaWhcpA7NLfXU97i6fOnYb_RFM9Lrn-Wb8LkrkETyDrk-xLB3hja9igvg_ZP3_do/s640/IMG_9341.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">June 30, 2011. Nola modeling her new girl clothes, purse, er- bag, and new hairstyle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IXkv4QfCNSjx-NXdC3_hTX6lfs7sjLy0Vz0diUnPo9kwV3SnVA8aeUNDjp-2inWpwNDPL3UqToMmBOyyiJe_UQSkotBR4yNrUyo1lBReKK5Og7zFxh_daDyaU22jqnElrpIRsxc6OlY/s1600/IMG_8733.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9IXkv4QfCNSjx-NXdC3_hTX6lfs7sjLy0Vz0diUnPo9kwV3SnVA8aeUNDjp-2inWpwNDPL3UqToMmBOyyiJe_UQSkotBR4yNrUyo1lBReKK5Og7zFxh_daDyaU22jqnElrpIRsxc6OlY/s640/IMG_8733.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kaplan gals version of the French manicure. Cut strips from French newspaper and apply to nude painted nails using rubbing alcohol. <span class="st"><i>Voilà</i></span>!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GNtfyUM67jzMPwSTxtcsbypzh5-8l72ouv4Xr7MkK6VfgaQDxlWNzKm9YADaJfTHNYbhaIVXHyAzqTPhFfna9mkUDUbIVVTFcK8mGLdXGM2Irq-gqDacSS64zn34wPc3CaHQ08PW5iI/s1600/IMG_8371.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GNtfyUM67jzMPwSTxtcsbypzh5-8l72ouv4Xr7MkK6VfgaQDxlWNzKm9YADaJfTHNYbhaIVXHyAzqTPhFfna9mkUDUbIVVTFcK8mGLdXGM2Irq-gqDacSS64zn34wPc3CaHQ08PW5iI/s640/IMG_8371.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trying out the French look of red lips.</td></tr>
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Granted, I am skimming the surface, literally, of my family's changes this year by focusing on those that don't go past skin-deep. Or do they? More on that when you tune in next time. Suffice it to say, the Kaplans that arrived here last August the 3rd will not be the same Kaplans who return to Walnut Creek this upcoming July 28th. For one thing, we might be arriving home with two frogs. That is, if we can get them past airport security.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-22165304618044142142011-06-17T04:03:00.000-07:002011-06-17T04:03:02.952-07:00French FoodiesTwenty years ago, at the age of twenty-one, I traveled to Europe for six weeks of backpacking with my great friend Sarah. Our travel budget was bare bones and miniscule, we aimed to live on something close to $25 per day. This meant that our culinary experiences left a lot to be desired. A French baguette, a jar of confiture, and a can of corn enjoyed while sitting on a bench at le Jardin des Tuileries helped us stick to our daily budget (and left more funds available for the booze and nightlife). And besides, we needed a reason to put our Swiss Army knife's can opener to good use.<br />
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My forty-one year old palate thankfully does not need to restrict itself to surviving on $25 per day. Given the weak dollar, that's only 17 euros as of today. That amount won't go far in Paris, especially considering the inflated food prices at the Michelin-rated and tourist trap restaurants. Soren and I have succeeded in doing a pretty good job circumventing the pricey tourist traps and instead live like locals by seeking out Paris's lesser-known restaurant gems. Lunchtime is the best time to capitalize on Paris's great food at lower cost. Formules du midi are our friend because they allow us to dine at a Michelin-rated restaurant for lunch and spend sometimes as little as 17-19 euros each on a prefix menu that consists of either a two or three course meal. This is a fraction of the cost we would incur if we were to dine at the same establishment for dinner.<br />
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Parisian cafes are hopping at lunchtime. Why? Well, France has this little obscure law that we recently learned about: Since 1903, it has been illegal for a French employee to eat lunch at his or her desk. Incredulous upon learning this fact, we told just about every one of our French friends and relatives what a splendid law we think this is for the sake of workday balance and for sustaining the restaurant economy which includes over 35,000 cafes and bistros scattered about Paris. Guess what? Nobody we spoke to knew about the existence of this law. What they do know, as French citizens, is that dining out, especially at lunchtime, is just part of one's day. Amazing how laws can influence culture to the extent that the source of the resulting cultural norm becomes forgotten. However, not all Parisians can afford a daily lunchtime formule du midi that costs, on average, around 13 euros. No worries, the French have this problem figured out. Their solution is called Ticket Restaurant<i> </i>and<i> </i>Chèque Déjeuner; incentive programs offered by employers that give employees meal vouchers that are each worth around 10 euros and that are accepted at participating restaurants who post a sticker on their window indicating that vouchers are accepted at their establishment. Ingenious!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even at the carnival, food vendors accept the Ticket Restaurant.</td></tr>
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I haven't gone all snobby during my stint in Paris and seeking out Michelin-rated restaurants, although fun and delicious, is not a prerequisite. In fact, I've enjoyed some of the better meals at restaurants off the beaten path in some of Paris's less swanky neighborhoods such as in the 14th and 20th arrondissments. Of course, there have been restaurants on our list that are well-known for one reason or another and our year abroad would feel incomplete without experiencing them. For example,<i> Les Duex Magots</i>, a famous cafe that, in its heyday, was patronized by the likes of Sartre, Camus, and Hemingway. Like many of these nostalgic cafes and bistros, they are overpriced (because they can get away with it) and their food, in my opinion, is not memorable. But, in keeping with history, we got into literary character, so to speak, and made a fun experience out of it with a heady brainstorm and a glass of rosé. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notes dictated by Soren on his thoughts for an upcoming book. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our growing collection of Paris restaurant calling cards.</td></tr>
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Dining out has provided me with all kinds of cultural learning opportunities. French etiquette requires one to use a knife and fork for foods, such as hamburgers, that Americans eat with their hands. Salads are made with untorn lettuce leaves so that both a knife and fork are required to cut the big leaves into bite-size pieces. The way one orders a meal in France is different too. In America, when I place my order I typically say, "I would like the," or, "I'll have the...". Therefore, American French instructors teach Americans to say, "Je voudrais..." ("I would like...") when ordering meals. It took us several weeks to realize that the French <i>take</i> a meal, beverage, or food item. Therefore, unless I order with the words, "Je prends le salade de chevre chaud si vous plait," ("I'll <i>take</i> the warm goat cheese salad please,") my waiter will be hard-pressed not to activate his hard-wired French linguistic superiority.<br />
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Another issue for me is the fact that I drink a ton of water at mealtimes. This is very un-French. So I've had to learn how to say to my waiter, "Je prends une carafe d'eau si vous plait," ("I'll take a carafe of water please,"). If I simply order water, a costly bottle will arrive at my table. But, if I insert the word 'carafe', my server is obliged to bring me free water. The water may or may not be chilled, and, for my family of four, the amount of water may only be enough for two of us, but that just means that I get to practice more 'je prends' when I ask for 'un autre carafe' (another carafe), that is, if I can get my waiter's attention since he doesn't work for tips.<br />
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Paris is known for its rude waiters, but I haven't had any personal experiences with a server I would label as rude. Some are more aloof or abrupt than others, but so far, none have been as offensive as one waitress that we overheard admonishing other diners last weekend when we lunched at Chez Louisette; a restaurant known for its cheeky atmosphere and entertainment by singers belting out the Edith Piaf more so than for its food. Raelyn translated for us that our waitress was scolding two French women for not finishing their plate that, from where I was sitting, looked like it contained a variety of different meats. This waitress was speaking to her patrons with a volume and tone that I have used (on more occasions than I care to admit) when my children have pushed all of my buttons and then some. Had this incident occurred in an American restaurant, it would have likely resulted in the loss of the waitress' job. Given that the worst treatment any of us has received from a Parisian waiter was when one laughed in Soren's face for bungling the word 'moelleaux', we consider ourselves lucky. <br />
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I also consider ourselves lucky because we finally found a Mexican restaurant in Paris, and, better yet, it's in our neighborhood. Thankfully, an American friend read a NY Times review about this new taqueria and e-mailed the article to us. With only six weeks left before our return home, we are going to try to get our frequent fill of the amazing tostadas, tacos, and homemade quacamole at Candelaria. Just in time too since, last week, I ran out of my Trader Joes supply of chunky salsa, vegetarian chili, and organic tortilla chips (my mom brought an entire suitcase full of TJs items to Paris for me). The overpriced Pace salsa, the Dennison's meaty chili, and the bland tortilla chips sold at Thanksgiving, our local American food store, just won't cut it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parisian tacos? Sounds like an oxymoron to me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French grocery stores devote only about 1/4 of an aisle to chips. And then, only to potato chips. No tortilla chips in sight.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never fear, Thanksgiving is here! This American food store specializes in stocking all things processed. MSG and hydrogenated oil lovers will, however, be shocked by the sticker price for such luxuries.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soren still has not let me live it down that I spent 17 U.S. dollars on a box of Cheerios.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The source for our organic peanut butter that costs a whopping 3.50 euros per jar and is actually labled, 'American Style Beurre de Cacahouete'. The French don't touch the stuff .</td></tr>
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My favorite place to buy all natural food is at one of Paris's many open-air markets. Luckily, we have one nearby at Bastille that operates twice a week. I'll never forget my daughters' collective shock and awe the first time we went there last August. Their American eyes had never before seen things such as these:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These little piggies definitely went to market.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's no hair on this hare!</td></tr>
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The novelty of these creatures that the French call food has since worn off. We love visiting our local outdoor market because of the lively atmosphere, the better deals, and the freshest food. It's also fun to watch Soren request two grapefruit, in French, and get twelve of them instead. Lucky for us, we all love grapefruit.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To market, to market to buy a fresh...</td></tr>
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While in Paris, I have attempted to shift my Californian health-conscious mindset to become more in line with the French way of thinking about and eating food. This shift has enabled me to try new things, required me toss out my assumptions that carbs and sugar are pure evil, and allowed me to relish in ingesting more animal fat and animal based protein in one year than I have over the past five. I have eaten foie gras (fattened duck or goose liver), ordered joues de couchon (pig cheeks), enjoyed cofit de canard (cured duck poached in its own fat), layered on the butter (the <i>real</i> stuff, not Earth Balance natural buttery spread), and I have even drank (gasp!) whole milk (fat free milk is non-existent in Paris, the best my California-bred self can do is buy half-fat milk known as demi-écrémé<i>)</i>. Our special treat weekend breakfasts rotate between homemade <i>crêpe</i><i>s</i> spread with Nutella or, flaky, buttery croissants dabbed with raspberry confiture. My taste buds have loved every minute of what feels like a gluttonous lifestyle. <br />
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My enjoyment has been intermittently interrupted by some unpleasant culinary dabblings. While lunching with a French friend, she explained that she orders blood sausage at least once a week because it's a great source of iron. The word 'blood' should have tipped me off, but I naively responded, "Yes, please," when she offered me a bite of her darkly colored link when it arrived at our table. I thought it tasted disgusting. And that was before I came home and googled 'blood sausage'. Having learned my lesson, I declined to try a bite of andouillette when it was offered while visiting the town of Troyes. Soren, however, braved the experience. I watched Soren's face as he attempted to swallow his bite. His post-swallow review went something like, "It tasted just like the inside of a pig intestine would be expected to taste- like shit. Literally." I'm glad I passed. We generally love salmon and recently, when our dinner hostess informed us that was going to be our main dinner course, we responded with encouraging smiles. That was until we tasted it. She had taken what, we think, was a salmon fillet, placed it in a blender and pureed it with what we assume was salmon roe, then poured this mixture into a loaf-shaped mold to firm up, and then she served it, sliced like meatloaf, accompanied by white rice. It took me until my 30's to even try sushi (now I'm an addict) and I won't touch anything with a fishy aroma let alone put it in my mouth. This salmon loaf was the fishiest thing I have ever experienced. Thank god for the rice; it provided a hiding place for the bites my kids and I pretended to eat. Soren took one for the team and reluctantly gulped his entire serving down, all the while exclaiming, "C'est tres bon." To her credit though, our hostess is responsible for Raelyn's and Nola's expanded knowledge of French cheeses so I will forgive her for the salmon. <br />
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It has been a delight to witness my daughters' progression away from being kids who tended to- like most American kids- gravitate towards chicken nuggets, mac-n-cheese, or hot dogs as safe bets in restaurants. Their attitudes about food have really changed this year as their palates have been exposed to new dishes, tastes, and textures. While Raelyn and Nola still tend to gravitate towards the familiar poulet roti avec frites et haricot verts (roasted chicken, fries, green beans) while dining out, sometimes, they bravely venture outside of this safety net. They have tried many varieties of gourmet cheeses and are in agreement that Comté is one of their new favorites. Last weekend, we enjoyed a picnic with friends at Fontainbleu. In preparation, Soren ordered some Comté at the fromagerie. Upon tasting it, Raelyn declared, "Dad, this Comté is okay, but what you need to ask for next time is a Comté<i> </i>that is plus fort (more strong), plus jaune (more yellow), and plus vieux (more aged)." I can't wait to send her into Berkeley's Cheese Board after we move back home where she can order up some of their finest. Nola is a fan of not only the Comté, but any goat or sheep cheese as well. If she had her way, she'd accompany her cheese selections with a perfectly paired wine or champagne as her exposure to these spirits has confirmed what we already suspected- this girl really appreciates her beverages. And, I could have never predicted that all four of us would come away with a newfound liking for radishes- criss cut on the top with a dab of pure butter inserted inside- simply delish. Dessert, needless to say, is never a problem in France. We just love getting our hands on tarte tatin<i>, </i>moelleaux au chocolat, and tarte au citron. Lucky for us, there is a pâtisserie<i> </i>on almost every corner.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picnicing, French style.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our favorite neighborhood boulangerie/pâtisseries. Like most, figuring out their business hours is nearly impossible.</td></tr>
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A popular French dish that I cannot wrap my American brain around is steak hache or steak tartare. This raw or sometimes nearly raw meat dish is ubiquitous in France. Not only did I stop eating red meat two decades ago (and before that, I never cared for it anyway), American news stories about E. coli and mad cow disease have forever brainwashed me into believing that if I am in the same room as raw beef, I may be stricken with bloody diarrhea and possibly die. And if you've ever driven down California's Highway 5 and seen the conditions of those cattle ranches, or, watched the film <i>Food, Inc</i>., well then, can you blame me? <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raelyn and Nola ate steak hache at school before they realized what it was. Then, naturally, they became grossed out. Now they have a method of eating their yogurt, then placing their bites of steak hache in the emptied yogurt cup, turning it upside down before returning their lunch tray to the unsuspecting lunch ladies who demand the children eat everything on their plates. </td></tr>
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The thing about the beef and other meat and animal products served and eaten in France is that folks can trust in their knowledge of not only where these foods come from, but also how they were raised. With this knowledge, the French can mindlessly enjoy their steak hache without fear of gastrointestinal revolt- or worse.<br />
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The French traditionally have a close relationship with their food. Unlike in the U.S., a larger measure of French food is still produced by small, local ranchers and growers using traditional (natural and/or organic) methods. The U.S. has expressed frustration with France's refusal to back EU approval to import genetically modified crops. France's refusal is tied to their demand that any food product containing or derived from genetically modified organisms be labeled and any GM ingredients in food be traceable. The American agricultural industry has argued for free trade and is strongly opposed to labeling, saying it gives the food a negative connotation by implying that there is something wrong with genetically modified food and that this could create a trade barrier. Furthermore, these officials believe that since the United States does not require labeling, Europe should not require labeling either. As a mother, one who is responsible for the meal planning, shopping, cooking, and general health and well-being of my household, I'd really like to know if that succulent tomato at my local grocer's produce section has had its molecules tinkered with. Then, at least, I can choose to buy a real tomato instead, you know, the kind of tomato without the negative connotation that is derived from the fact that the U.S.'s FDA does not have the time, money, or resources to carry out health and safety studies before trying to sell me that imposter of a tomato.<br />
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Since farming is one of France's most important industries, and the country is widely self-sufficient in food supplies, France has the freedom to, and rationale for, resisting America's ethnocentric trade demands. After all, French people take pride in seeking genuine regional products. French grocery stores, restaurants, street vendors, fromageries, and butcher shops take care in letting their customers know exactly what region of France their beef, pork, and cheese products originated from. Most Americans know only that our beef comes from the meat section of the grocery store. Many of us don't want to think about where that cow- or multiple parts from several cows- ground up and pre-wrapped in styrofoam and plastic, spent most of its predestined life; on an overcrowded, disease-ridden cattle ranch eating feed laced with antibiotics and growth hormones while wallowing in its own manure. France's former Agriculture Minister Jean Glavany once slammed the U.S.'s industrialized practice of treating its beef cattle with hormones. He also added, "(The United States) is the country that has the worst food in the world." While my exposure to France's cultural norms around food help me to understand Glavany's viewpoint, I wonder if it's not so much that the U.S. has the worst food, but rather, if we have the worst governmental oversight that is rife with conflict of interest issues when it comes to agricultural health and safety?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKUbasB5NOkI6RPZT2oypatdZvV0ogmCbQqbH-gI7H0OuhkVN52h6peZznbiXU3OrtREAEhcDbfnr-Zw13o8fj-lLrC65qEo1Bbt6blAurCmxWEt2Mnz3OTqaPGrRBQQhrzt0WdY12Mk/s1600/IMG_8717.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggKUbasB5NOkI6RPZT2oypatdZvV0ogmCbQqbH-gI7H0OuhkVN52h6peZznbiXU3OrtREAEhcDbfnr-Zw13o8fj-lLrC65qEo1Bbt6blAurCmxWEt2Mnz3OTqaPGrRBQQhrzt0WdY12Mk/s640/IMG_8717.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"All of our meats are of French origin."</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqsb8znzy302x_PRC33HyoeJcVV4QpOfRkbOf1Zl6eEaizW8xuK_x9h610RJcY3NqyvTm0LvzeB8yR46S4FIqhyphenhyphenh9-_FAb90QfzPd_4jUYfX2tPKVfs3pt5lAFB51iJkM6pMgLIikh6k/s1600/IMG_5923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTqsb8znzy302x_PRC33HyoeJcVV4QpOfRkbOf1Zl6eEaizW8xuK_x9h610RJcY3NqyvTm0LvzeB8yR46S4FIqhyphenhyphenh9-_FAb90QfzPd_4jUYfX2tPKVfs3pt5lAFB51iJkM6pMgLIikh6k/s640/IMG_5923.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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Daily, after I drop the girls off at school, I see meat making its way from ranch to grocery store via delivery truck. I also regularly pass by the windows of my local boucherie and witness them plying their craft. Dining in restaurants means I come in close proximity with the meat that is prominently displayed before being sliced and distributed to diners. One thing is clear: it would be very difficult for me to live in Paris if I were still a vegetarian. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNoEJZbYTlg7H5HNzlerTeRlchzOxLO2UvnykCniAE2Qb2D75-7pTGBVqjabY5AS9eJkh2zI6NjhTV7iDIiVnBez9zLLwuli_fTTjnQlPoEJAaXtYEEcHTBBW40xDKwLmXR1My7KeGtE/s1600/IMG_8470.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNoEJZbYTlg7H5HNzlerTeRlchzOxLO2UvnykCniAE2Qb2D75-7pTGBVqjabY5AS9eJkh2zI6NjhTV7iDIiVnBez9zLLwuli_fTTjnQlPoEJAaXtYEEcHTBBW40xDKwLmXR1My7KeGtE/s640/IMG_8470.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzDy_Q97Fzc8U7O36hS4By6hyphenhyphenjSQQPhPpy8d3rExd84zg-OmeU91DTBbLZxNXALYhgAgSiG_nD_QFMzR5Ddtaa-DmnbFajgC0X3sgwLQHPdgE22YsLgtbPTB35Rr6hrDkgiD0yEf7xxc/s1600/IMG_8474.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzDy_Q97Fzc8U7O36hS4By6hyphenhyphenjSQQPhPpy8d3rExd84zg-OmeU91DTBbLZxNXALYhgAgSiG_nD_QFMzR5Ddtaa-DmnbFajgC0X3sgwLQHPdgE22YsLgtbPTB35Rr6hrDkgiD0yEf7xxc/s640/IMG_8474.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder if this came from that shopping cart?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL8OwA5GytZBa6n1jF2r1C6TDSY8ln0-x7Bxla4S3LazCmIuARGJvinJrAYasMcf4TI9cOrwiiZiICfEgOcTKPvs2-DrZSkX7pOh_xt-PnUgiwXVXwFjpopbFJkv0OmJLS9cvr0Iu-WE/s1600/IMG_6508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfL8OwA5GytZBa6n1jF2r1C6TDSY8ln0-x7Bxla4S3LazCmIuARGJvinJrAYasMcf4TI9cOrwiiZiICfEgOcTKPvs2-DrZSkX7pOh_xt-PnUgiwXVXwFjpopbFJkv0OmJLS9cvr0Iu-WE/s640/IMG_6508.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtGmexWfo7tP2hfs4W1zlFo5ztfxLaaoKm2Q2Tk3X8hlLJPFLOGvR_dLa6QAv9SlJ-7GeMstvR2tNrbR-nNVRXcBqkNCBSQhUkKbLlEfp58KbBLxL7o5uAuNF8wWKgeBOFDiLQbHTGog/s1600/IMG_8458.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYtGmexWfo7tP2hfs4W1zlFo5ztfxLaaoKm2Q2Tk3X8hlLJPFLOGvR_dLa6QAv9SlJ-7GeMstvR2tNrbR-nNVRXcBqkNCBSQhUkKbLlEfp58KbBLxL7o5uAuNF8wWKgeBOFDiLQbHTGog/s640/IMG_8458.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Can you picture Diablo Magazine endorsing a local butcher with this kind of ad? Well, that's exactly what this French magazine highlighting local merchants and events called "Bon Bon" does. I told you sex and blatant objectification is everywhere!</td></tr>
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While the French are generally spared the worry about E. coli and salmonella, they somehow manage to ignore potential contamination from the common cold and viruses due to dirty and germy hands. In boulangeries, pâtisseries, and counter service restaurants, the person who prepares my food is also the same person who takes my money. When I order a baguette, it is handed to me nearly naked with only a small band of thin paper loosely wrapped around the center. At least the baguette can be protected from my dirty hands provided that I only hold it where the paper cover is. But try walking down a narrow and crowded sidewalk. Do you know how many arms and shoulders belonging to strangers brush up against my exposed baguette? The French have been operating in these ways for so long that they most likely have stronger immune systems because of it. Recently, I saw a toddler get the attention of her mother to indicate that her piece of bread had fallen into the gutter outside of my daughters' school. It took longer than the three second rule for the child to get her mother's attention, more like a minute as the mother was absorbed in a conversation. When her mother finally noticed, she picked up the fallen bread, handed it to her child, and told her to eat it. Maybe gutters are considered relatively clean since Parisian dogs seem to poop only on the sidewalks? The bread served in Parisian restaurant bread baskets is recycled. My guess is that this practice occurs in the states as well, but I think it's less blatant and obvious than it is here. We have witnessed the recycling of the bread and, one time, we even ate bread out of our basket before discovering this:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diners, do you know where your bread has been?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal3Gt73LLZlDYwhoZ9icbiAOVIzXA_U3KOsi-umcq-_QW1bO0Isk3olj5U1WvolNdX4J0cQzeCOWQzEn7D-S86V5zgSi8dGlaaP8aFIvfWCjTujNLo33NwrrJidFOfiQNTiPU3w8_R7g/s1600/IMG_2766.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhal3Gt73LLZlDYwhoZ9icbiAOVIzXA_U3KOsi-umcq-_QW1bO0Isk3olj5U1WvolNdX4J0cQzeCOWQzEn7D-S86V5zgSi8dGlaaP8aFIvfWCjTujNLo33NwrrJidFOfiQNTiPU3w8_R7g/s640/IMG_2766.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
I changed my eating habits prior to our move to Paris, adding a bit of white meat and the occasional pork ribs back into my diet. What I did not expect to change are my drinking habits. Pre-Paris, I was an occasional wine and champagne drinker, usually enjoying it socially and sometimes having a glass with dinner at home. Unlike many of our friends, I had remained uneducated about wine and could count on one hand the number of times I had gone wine tasting in the Napa Valley. Post-Paris, I will likely keep up my new habit of ordering a glass of wine or champagne when I dine out at lunchtime and also drink it much more frequently with dinner meals at home. Touring wineries and champagne cellars in France has unleashed in me a greater knowledge of and appreciation for good wine and champagne and I look forward to taking advantage of the Napa Valley wineries right in my own backyard.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJXJLgTMuAtcuLr8eEecJnbLeZ6PllQsn_bEfKBaGLfL0AfS10rdhhpQl5jRraTLvukdgRCUXHTtmA3YX4AvRWItMeOZTbdol3ScIv2_FN_te7CrnnaMZu5qcizMNv_YflYp-izt_MuM/s1600/IMG_6543.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFJXJLgTMuAtcuLr8eEecJnbLeZ6PllQsn_bEfKBaGLfL0AfS10rdhhpQl5jRraTLvukdgRCUXHTtmA3YX4AvRWItMeOZTbdol3ScIv2_FN_te7CrnnaMZu5qcizMNv_YflYp-izt_MuM/s640/IMG_6543.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post tour at Mumm's Champagne caves in Reims, France</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAlyRtzC8GAZbpum3UC5hT_vGZqXEeILGpHn46fbL05SZyWzwwTnL3i-SuuSb6aduqDMRLw9FlcmJmJNHjy1qlzo4Y9dhQGuj2uue1NBNitGjUFzgy_tLnJ2uk4Zvcrs-ExbdHTWcmro/s1600/IMG_7523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZAlyRtzC8GAZbpum3UC5hT_vGZqXEeILGpHn46fbL05SZyWzwwTnL3i-SuuSb6aduqDMRLw9FlcmJmJNHjy1qlzo4Y9dhQGuj2uue1NBNitGjUFzgy_tLnJ2uk4Zvcrs-ExbdHTWcmro/s640/IMG_7523.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of our favorite wines comes from this small winery in the Chianti region in Italy- <i>Casa Emma</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvBNV7bTOc06jAkO4ACMfw2j47c8bXOqwUwfVULQ4TsgNEHMJvpQ4LnOMBDhVoRFUWM_elUOIIhXLogURJBO6b0TpIXO9VGRLJuF8D0uIGNM6PLnlpxM2UKvSgQ49DSGV19wY-2ZuAMk/s1600/IMG_6511.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAvBNV7bTOc06jAkO4ACMfw2j47c8bXOqwUwfVULQ4TsgNEHMJvpQ4LnOMBDhVoRFUWM_elUOIIhXLogURJBO6b0TpIXO9VGRLJuF8D0uIGNM6PLnlpxM2UKvSgQ49DSGV19wY-2ZuAMk/s640/IMG_6511.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris's annual <i>Salon Vins Vignerons Independants</i>, a 3-day expo featuring all of France's independent wine makers.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwBRYN9tNJI3wFbKhfznwG7GNfxw-Ki5j9FuH9rZkTY_j2MM76GaXrM0ZmMQ1FJWwuHSLuEzXkcepowjcgCf70OY7BZs3IS6Z3R39GHME-XxTPuxQmft8RpXiHRiKdPmmN5IE5ZE3JUo/s1600/IMG_6520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPwBRYN9tNJI3wFbKhfznwG7GNfxw-Ki5j9FuH9rZkTY_j2MM76GaXrM0ZmMQ1FJWwuHSLuEzXkcepowjcgCf70OY7BZs3IS6Z3R39GHME-XxTPuxQmft8RpXiHRiKdPmmN5IE5ZE3JUo/s640/IMG_6520.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another favorite- <i>Château </i><i>Belles-Graves</i>. If only we had a dolly to transport it on the Metro, we would have purchased more than two cases.</td></tr>
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Another change has affected my disinterest in coffee. It's not that I detest it, I've just always been a tea drinker. Back home, I don't make daily Peet's or Starbucks visits and if I happen to be in one I will occasionally order a non-fat chai tea latte if I'm feeling really crazy. So, while I can say that during my time living in Paris I have acquired new French food and beverage tastes and appreciation, I don't quite place myself in the category of French foodie snob or wine snob. I do declare, however, that I am now an official coffee snob. Thanks to Caféothèque, an in-house roasting, single source bean serving coffee house that treats coffee with the same respect and appreciation that a sommelier treats wine. Pre-Paris, I didn't even know how to operate the electric coffee pot we received as a wedding gift. Post-Paris, I will be creating space on my kitchen counter for a new top-of-the-line coffee maker and scouting out my sources for single-source beans. And as for Starbucks and Peet's? They'll still get my business when I'm looking to spice things up with a chai tea latte.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr9p2FUH3qFdMs4fZOV2B5be46FRqymnvmGDe7bWDKoQtFhvFZgk4gfag9QtlM-GVJ69MstRbwphKXOycpgeueax-kkrPgk3228DTdNnCXaOyvhsi_OMN9d1uc-dpMXU9w8eWtBBS7ww/s1600/IMG_8714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDr9p2FUH3qFdMs4fZOV2B5be46FRqymnvmGDe7bWDKoQtFhvFZgk4gfag9QtlM-GVJ69MstRbwphKXOycpgeueax-kkrPgk3228DTdNnCXaOyvhsi_OMN9d1uc-dpMXU9w8eWtBBS7ww/s640/IMG_8714.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a whole milk flower and it's crazy good.</td></tr>
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One of my take-aways for me as a newbie French foodie is summed up by this French proverb: <i>A good meal ought to begin with hunger.</i> Such a simple concept that has eluded so many Americans. Of the many things that differentiate the way in which the French relate to their food, one of them is portion size. The French people we know who have eaten at a Cheesecake Factory are quick to point out how one main entree can easily feed a family of four. Doggie bags are non-existent in Paris. There is a reason for this: diners are served a reasonable amount of food that a reasonably hungry person can reasonably finish and feel reasonably satiated. For the French, food is so much more than about eating. Mealtimes are considered more sacred and they allow themselves to relax rather than rush through a meal. Mindless and frequent snacking is not a habit in France. Instead, the French enjoy their traditional afternoon snack or, le goûter, between 4-5 p.m. to tide themselves over until dinner. These habits are core to the French dietary lifestyle and my Parisian food experiences have taught me not only to appreciate French cuisine, but also the simple and commonsensical cultural norms that accompany it. Heck, my American refrigerator may just see its first carton of whole milk ever! Hormone-free, of course. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-68639015083910015072011-06-07T15:57:00.000-07:002011-06-07T15:57:31.577-07:00Sexualitease<div style="text-align: center;">*CONTENT INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS ONLY*</div><div style="text-align: center;">(Unless, of course, you are French)</div><br />
This blog post has been percolating for some time. As is usually the case with my posts, the subject is decided upon and then the material basically writes itself because my mind and energy become attuned to the topic and- much like when I plan to buy a new car- I begin to notice it all around town. However, not much conscious attuning is necessary when it comes to sexuality in Paris – to not take notice would be like taking a trip to the zoo and not noticing any animals there.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Sexuality is just about everywhere I look in Paris. The main difference is, there is a more balanced display of sexuality, nudity, and objectification across genders than there is in America. In Paris, I see advertisements of naked men almost as often as ones of naked women. One second I'm strolling along the boulevard and the next second- BAM!- there’s a life-size poster of a naked man right in front of us at the newsstand. There is a wide variety of nudity on these nearly life-size ads and it's quite a novel sight to see such a lack of censorship out on the streets. The Americanized parent in me had a knee-jerk reaction during our first few weeks in Paris. I eventually allowed myself to let go of my tendency to distract my daughters from these bold and prominent displays by calling attention to, "That something over there". I'm fairly certain that French parents don’t censor what their children see while walking down the street, so why should I? Besides, it was becoming difficult for me to multitask; holding Raelyn's and Nola's attention via distraction while at the same time snapping photos of these sexy ads. So I gave up on distraction techniques altogether and instead invited my girls to gaze and gawk together with me; comparing, contrasting, and remarking, “We’d never see anything like these back home!” (I didn’t tell them they’re behind the counter and brown wrapper at our local 7-11).<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZTfpEls8mMtRFw8qa3A2hodWoUlMi-w-yLpCCG87K8VhOBp0RnuG9ys6MJIn80REWaDD_gO5-mfOLmn6Qm-34d-BCAOkLS8d3y54QTMT1KcOE_aYDmxFzdNdrPRFmwQvlnM3S3tpdBw/s1600/IMG_5058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZTfpEls8mMtRFw8qa3A2hodWoUlMi-w-yLpCCG87K8VhOBp0RnuG9ys6MJIn80REWaDD_gO5-mfOLmn6Qm-34d-BCAOkLS8d3y54QTMT1KcOE_aYDmxFzdNdrPRFmwQvlnM3S3tpdBw/s640/IMG_5058.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFn8k7Zl2i9uUfeOv38WRTDfpLxoI1VUknlQNO33vYWXO2QAQS_4ugVXXfmO-Ef0taW2f1_xhGKA5O7A4dnBVvFgWOcbolb9ODS_777bSzRiWnSzaMOaM0k2N0Hq9H0XgtQIok0mrNK3M/s1600/IMG_5681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFn8k7Zl2i9uUfeOv38WRTDfpLxoI1VUknlQNO33vYWXO2QAQS_4ugVXXfmO-Ef0taW2f1_xhGKA5O7A4dnBVvFgWOcbolb9ODS_777bSzRiWnSzaMOaM0k2N0Hq9H0XgtQIok0mrNK3M/s640/IMG_5681.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Back in the U.S., I find my mommy self highly sensitized to potentially harmful, negative, and demeaning marketing, media, and role models for my daughters. America’s early sexualization of young girls is, in my opinion, becoming more omnipotent and our rigid cultural norms are ready to attach labels to those on either side of its fence. Take, for example, Miley Cyrus. She seems intent on distancing herself from her teeny-bopper Hanna Montana character and reestablishing herself as an over-sexualized wannabe adult. Taylor Swift? With her sweetness and modesty, she represents the other end of America’s spectrum for women and girls. While Miley’s public persona is characterized as “The Slut”, Taylor’s is, “The Pure Girl”. My guess is, like for all of us females out there, much more is to be found underneath the labels ascribed to us by society.<br />
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More recently, Reese Witherspoon, during her acceptance speech for MTV’s Generation Award, stated that, “It’s possible to be a good girl and I’m going to try to make it cool,” after slamming her peers who have become more famous for their sex tapes and naked photos than for possessing any actual talent. While I applaud Reese for daring to challenge the new norm in show business, I can’t help but notice that she is doing so by clinging to the only other viable option for American women; by glamorizing the Good Girl. I detest that a ‘Virgin-Whore’ model of sexuality is the only one that is presented by American popular culture and I resent that it is the only perceived choice given to my daughters.<br />
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Living in the midst of Parisian sexuality allows me to examine the polarized sexual norms, behaviors, and double-standards that I grew up with in America. It is liberating, as a woman who is raising two future women, to recognize our time in Paris as an opportunity to expose my young daughters to different and more expansive possibilities rather than these limiting and stereotypical dichotomies that I grew up with:<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s a charmer and a flirt if he’s sexually forward or suggestive; she’s a tease for the same behavior. </i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s a Casanova and a stud for having many sexual partners; she’s a slut for the same behavior.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s to be sexually experienced; she’s to be virginal.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s to be sexually aggressive, she’s to be sexually submissive.</i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He’s always interested in sex. She never is.</i><br />
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America tends to cling stubbornly to black and white where the French approach sexuality, in many ways, more honestly by allowing for shades of grey. The French have fewer sexual inhibitions and a more open attitude towards sex. The sexual double-standard between genders, while I lament that it will probably always exist to some extent in any culture, is at least less definitive here in France than it is in America.<br />
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For one thing, my observations show me that French culture allows young girls to be just that- girls. The early sexualization of young girls is not ubiquitous here like it is in the states. The majority of clothing that is available to young French girls is less adult and more youthful. Advertisements for sparkly cosmetics are not aimed their way. I see fifth-grade Parisian girls wearing Hello Kitty and other kid-oriented character backpacks that many of their U.S. counterparts have, by that age, deemed too babyish.<br />
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French public middle schools lack dress codes unlike the one back home that Raelyn will attend next year as an incoming sixth grader. She complains that she will not be allowed to wear the spaghetti strap tank tops that she finds so comfortable to wear on warm days. Raelyn wonders why her future school has such a rule. I wonder why the French don't. My guess is that without the early and unnatural sexualization of its girls, French boys can concentrate on their studies, French girls can concentrate on theirs, and walking down the halls in between classes is not fraught with hormones potentially going awry at the sight of some tween girl's nearly bare shoulder. In France, bare skin does not equal slut, which does not equal sex, which does not equal depravity. But in America, school administrators tend to clamp down on this cultural force of early sexualization and all the potential labels attached to it by oppressing girls even further with, in my opinion, silly dress code rules.<br />
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In music videos, young French female pop stars look their age, they wear clothing that is not revealing, and there is an absence of footage that glamorizes sex.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7Iem1bGGZkNwVpRZjDcZZQn-VPjDV2ryFNsKDurwSjnC3MlNnpplBTW6KAETbkn4dWYqIo1WLWuH1R-YuhP8jtPRR_qE6z_VEWu8gEkBD4_B7ie7rRlGdVp40KyU8hPdZyq-Reo5Qxs/s1600/IMG_8480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7Iem1bGGZkNwVpRZjDcZZQn-VPjDV2ryFNsKDurwSjnC3MlNnpplBTW6KAETbkn4dWYqIo1WLWuH1R-YuhP8jtPRR_qE6z_VEWu8gEkBD4_B7ie7rRlGdVp40KyU8hPdZyq-Reo5Qxs/s640/IMG_8480.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iselym is a 16 year old French singer who is not Britney-fied in any way in her video.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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However, by the time they reach their mid-late teens, many French girls are both sexually assertive and sexually active. While the same has increasingly been the case in America for the past couple of decades (thanks Madonna), the French teen girl does not have to worry about incurring a negative reputation for such behavior. I recently learned of a nineteen year old French girl who had sex with a guy and then had sex with their mutual male friend that same month. Having heard about this directly from one of the guys she slept with, I was surprisingly shocked to hear him say, "She's a friend of mine, and my buddy is a friend of hers too. It's no big deal that she had sex with both of us. She knows what she wants, she's a friend to us both, and it's cool. She's still our friend." <br />
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Conversely, I know a guy who, back when we were in high school, learned that a girl with whom he had been sexual had gotten together with another guy. So this guy and his buddies hiked up into the nearby hills where they proceeded to write on a hillside in huge chalky white letters, "(FEMALE'S FIRST AND LAST NAME) IS A SLUT". This shaming message was prominently displayed for days on the hillside for all motorists driving on the highway below to see. Now, this example is nearly twenty-five years old, so it makes me wonder if today's American teens' sexual attitudes have changed since then? I'd be surprised if they have.<br />
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French children grow up in a culture that embraces sex and sexuality as a natural expression of human beings. They are exposed to sensual PDAs, sexy adult models posing partially and sometimes fully naked in both print and television ads, and films that would be restricted to adult viewers in the U.S. with an R rating are viewed much more leniently in France. Yet, despite this exposure, France's youth fare far better, statistically, as sexually active teens than their American peers. America's teen pregnancy rate is almost three times that of France's. America's teen birth rate is over five times higher than France's. And, not surprisingly, researchers found that French youth were significantly more likely to have used contraception during their most recent sexual encounter than were their U.S. peers. I can't help but wonder about the correlation between cultural norms and attitudes and these statistics.<br />
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A few months ago, I visited the home of French friends who have male and female teenage children. Upon saying our <i>au revoirs</i>, I reached for my coat that I had hung on their coat rack, noticing that it had fallen to the floor. While bending down to retrieve my coat, I saw, on the floor underneath the family's coats, a condom in its wrapper, presumably one that had fallen out of one of their coat's pockets. Though I'll never know who the owner of the fallen condom is, I'm guessing it belonged to one of the teens. <br />
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By now, I am beginning to see more clearly how these puzzle pieces of French sexual culture fit nicely together. There is a protective piece that allows French youth to naturally embrace their sexual latency and an interlocking piece which is exposure to and an embracing of, the natural teen emergence of, and eventual full-blown adult sexuality. Somehow, their culture manages to fit these two pieces nicely together to create a more balanced whole rather than the incomplete and limiting portrait of sexuality in America. <br />
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This helps me to relax a bit and embrace the sexual images that my daughters see on a regular basis. We are a music loving family and one of the things we have enjoyed is familiarizing ourselves with French pop by watching NRG, one of France's music television stations. Below is one of their promotional ads by Lady Gaga which is not at all shocking, unless, of course, you are American: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNaaiX9vpgfb5PVWPjyWOHTs6YXxHzfBKxeBjc4owm7mQz7XGQG8ACOU6OM7PYMuqtgZ4_b7Am8msRKlCXtt3ZrZlXYLFqUuJIgTr3k9hlJc2XAzT4Kx8aJ8XL5kx8evupLrCejIxgVZg/s1600/IMG_8412.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNaaiX9vpgfb5PVWPjyWOHTs6YXxHzfBKxeBjc4owm7mQz7XGQG8ACOU6OM7PYMuqtgZ4_b7Am8msRKlCXtt3ZrZlXYLFqUuJIgTr3k9hlJc2XAzT4Kx8aJ8XL5kx8evupLrCejIxgVZg/s640/IMG_8412.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think NRG should change their tagline to "Tit Music Only!".</td></tr>
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Here's another sight for our eyes at, of all places, a kid-friendly carnival:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpH-M6YsowEDMBuiJTQbWkX93lbzJcvomMPhyZioDVjIe0kGCIUTOyH1gPuzBqleOystiwh5TFnRsVjEovmj43HWSfIhsg1ZHcJ7JIwk4ouq6a0I_k7Iu9pB7mWmaRek5dVIqrUW9iL8/s1600/IMG_8307.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpH-M6YsowEDMBuiJTQbWkX93lbzJcvomMPhyZioDVjIe0kGCIUTOyH1gPuzBqleOystiwh5TFnRsVjEovmj43HWSfIhsg1ZHcJ7JIwk4ouq6a0I_k7Iu9pB7mWmaRek5dVIqrUW9iL8/s640/IMG_8307.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They don't call this the Fun House for nothin'!</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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A visit to a neighborhood restaurant would be incomplete without at least a little something more than good food to peak our interest:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BbYWej0a6lSiht95QCtjkJl6C_meIfR5bkVa2lHfwlz_bGeNgWmAEp95iCfUyRx_JBSv1XrHFaEsJsMwpBn19XAzyP-2rE5NaYslR2fYeHPDU6hA3UH9BEuMUek-4zTLOeqvhXSzWtY/s1600/IMG_8268.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_BbYWej0a6lSiht95QCtjkJl6C_meIfR5bkVa2lHfwlz_bGeNgWmAEp95iCfUyRx_JBSv1XrHFaEsJsMwpBn19XAzyP-2rE5NaYslR2fYeHPDU6hA3UH9BEuMUek-4zTLOeqvhXSzWtY/s640/IMG_8268.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll have the breast of chicken or duck, whatever, just give me some breast!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I now realize that there is a reason the chorus in the song <i>Moulin Rouge</i> is, "<i>Voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir</i>?" ("Will you sleep with me tonight?") French women are sexually assertive and asking somebody if they will sleep with her tonight is not considered to be trampy. French women, beginning in their teens, are free to claim their own sexuality, be in touch with their desires, and remain unencumbered by, and unafraid of being slapped with a negative, hypocritical label for doing so. What a novel concept! The label, 'slut', based on my inquiries, does not gain the same traction in France as it does in the U.S. How could it, when, in France, sexuality is embraced for what it is: a natural drive and expression of the human brain and body, regardless of gender.<br />
<br />
It was in this spirit of embracing what is natural that Soren and I decided to take Raelyn and Nola to a Parisian cultural institution. The back story is that a French relative invited us to join him and his eleven year old daughter at a vintage brocante (flea market) and variety show. He told us that he had seen an advertisement in one of the freebie Metro newspapers. He scanned this ad and e-mailed it to me so that I would have the location information. Upon receiving his e-mail, I copied and pasted the ad's text into Google Translate and read this:<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="hps"><span lang="EN">An</span></span><span lang="EN"> <span class="hps">event</span> <span class="hps">Sunday</span> <span class="hps">in paris</span> <span class="hps">with</span>:<br />
<span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">a</span> <span class="hps">beautiful</span> <span class="hps">vintage</span> <span class="hps">antique</span><br />
<span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">an open stage</span> <span class="hps">for</span> <span class="hps">striptease</span> <span class="hps">burlesque</span> <span class="hps">pinups</span><br />
<span class="hps">- A</span> <span class="hps">review</span> <span class="hps">with</span> <span class="hps">the</span> <span class="hps">New</span> <span class="hps">Burlesque</span> <span class="hps">Cabaret</span> <span class="hps">Daughters</span> <span class="hps">of</span> <span class="hps">Joy</span><br />
<span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">a</span> <span class="hps">live band</span> <span class="hps">rock</span><span class="atn">-</span>n<span class="atn">-</span>roll <span class="hps">60</span>'s<br />
<span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">a</span> <span class="hps">contest</span> <span class="hps">of</span> <span class="hps">dance</span> <span class="hps">(</span>s)<br />
<span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">a</span> <span class="hps">dance</span> <span class="hps">rock</span> <span class="hps">until</span> <span class="hps">midnight</span><br />
<br />
<span class="hps">A</span> <span class="hps">good</span> <span class="hps">fifteen</span> <span class="hps">of</span> <span class="hps">world-class artists</span><br />
<span class="hps">muscians</span><br />
<span class="hps">dancers</span><br />
<span class="hps">singers</span> <span class="hps">and</span> <span class="hps">strippers</span>, <span class="hps">good</span> <span class="hps">humor</span>, <span class="hps">and</span> <span class="hps">rock</span><span class="atn">-</span>n<span class="atn">-</span>roll<br />
<br />
<span class="hps">Flea</span>: <span class="hps">9h</span>-19h <span class="hps">/</span> <span class="hps">2</span> <span class="hps">Euros</span><br />
<span class="hps">Review</span> <span class="hps">and</span> <span class="hps">Bal</span>: <span class="hps">17h</span> <span class="hps">-</span> <span class="hps">midnight</span> <span class="hps">/</span> <span class="hps">4</span> <span class="hps">euros</span> <span class="hps">/</span> <span class="hps">free</span> <span class="hps">for children</span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">Yes, I was thinking what you are thinking, "A strip show! Free for children?!</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">" </span></span></i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">I promptly</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">contacted our friend</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">who had exten</span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">ded the invitation as well as our French babysitter to get a reality check. I just had to gain a better understanding of what, exactly, our family was going to be exposing ourselves to.</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">Both sources had the same reply, "Oh it's really quite tame, no full nudity, perhaps hot pants and pasties. Burlesque is really fun to see." </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">The casual and blase nature of their responses made me check my assumption that as a parent, I would be exposing my children to lewd and indecent </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">behavior.</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> </span></span></i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">After some thought, I came to the following conclusions: 1) </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">Attaching the words 'lewd' and 'indecent' to non-predatory sexual behavior and expression is a social construction of reality, 2) </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">Burlesque as a cultural experience in Paris is to France what a rodeo in Wyoming is to America and, 3) </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">We currently reside outside of the jurisdiction of U.S. Child Protective Services</span></span><i><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">. </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">It was with this new perspective that our family went to our first burlesque show. </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">I</span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> can attest to the fact that it felt odd to sit in a 2-drink minimum cabaret environment while the sun was still shining </span></span><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">and while surrounded by many other families with young children. Then the show started and instead of feeling odd, I felt rather exhilarated by what I saw. But not for the reasons you'll think. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">Several burlesque performers took to the stage. All dancers followed the same format, beginning with a tease, like this:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyTlOeYn98KlDXb6a7PZJ7g4d7-izNe_MKVGJv513aoJa1RRsl1nWul871TzTSKq5wnznlv74A1se08uEFDmQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> And ending their routines by stripping, like this:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxaifNHh25fozRMiB-eTieP_NvvWvF45XzDYmAxTFBtyKEV2Zj_O9KMIOISiwVOpruy0DSNMXZb0gU9AZM8kg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">And for the grande finale, audience participation, like this:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzgt8jFft7qoZD9mbbmwbcZGtnxcPbGKL7FAS3Wka2QNkV6Pdu_1tAp3T0c5LMokaP-aJ-tunM4IGqhDc4jRA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN"><span class="hps">What was exhilarating for me, an American female, was the fact that all sizes and shapes of the female form were displayed- all natural too, I might add- and there was a male burlesque performer as well, masquerading as a matador. As interested as I was in the show itself, I was even more keen in observing my daughters reactions to the live action onstage. They loved it! Nola even wondered when and if we were going to be able to see another one. I am pleased that my daughters were able to witness the actual art and gift of the 'tease' free and clear of it being labeled negatively. </span></span> </div><br />
I got to thinking about this after the show: Much female power is in the tease- keep em' guessing, keep em' interested, keep em' from seeking out the cave woman next door. For if man has an innate drive to procreate with as many females as possible thereby increasing his chances for viable offspring, then woman, I argue, has an innate drive to tease her sexual partner so as to keep him intrigued and coming back for more. The better teasing skills a woman has, the more likely that she'll be experienced as more alluring than her cave woman neighbor and thus secure ongoing food, shelter, and sustenance for her offspring. So, I say, if teasing is natural and biologically necessary for the continuation of the species, why does America have such a problematic relationship with it and the women who do it? (I am not about to get into the topic of religion here...)<br />
<br />
Speaking of problematic, we know all too well the dicey relationship America has with its politicians and their private lives. The French expect their politicians to have a sex life; they even believe that their politicians can have extra-marital affairs, and- get this- still do their jobs effectively. In other words, cheating on one's spouse does not equal cheating on one's country. In fact, Carla Bruni, wife of French President Nicolas Sarkozy, was quoted in a French magazine article, "I am a tamer [of men], a cat, an Italian- monogamy bores me terribly. I am faithful, to myself! I am monogamous from time to time, but I prefer polygamy and polyandry [its female equivalent]."<br />
<br />
Can you imagine if Michele Obama revealed the same attitude towards sex and relationships? As soon as the story broke, the First Lady's lovers would sell their exclusive stories and photos to tabloid magazines and television shows, the religious right would have a field day, no doubt a sex tape would surface, and Obama would begin to openly chain smoke causing his country to wonder if he was still fit to lead as a cuckolded president.<br />
<br />
As illustrated, in France there is a more equal playing field upon which both men and women can express their sexual needs, desires, and behaviors. In fact, this equality came up in a recent conversation with a French friend regarding the act of kissing. In France, one does not <i>give</i> a kiss. To say, "I'll give you a kiss," is to be presumptuous simply because, from the French perspective, a kiss is not given, it is made, as the language demonstrates. <i>Faire un bisou </i>literally, to make a kiss. One that is <i>ours</i> to share, not <i>yours</i> to give. <br />
<br />
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UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/> <w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span>In light of the recent and shocking headlines concerning France's DSK (Dominique Strauss-Kahn), I can't help but wonder if, had he remembered this cultural norm, he wouldn't find himself on house arrest, unemployed, no longer a presidental hopeful, and in a whole heap of trouble. Perhaps, had he visited Paris's <span style="color: black;"><i>Musée de l'Erotisme </i>like I recently did with Soren, he would have been further reminded of the natural order of things as was I, by reading this:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span><br />
<br />
Shared Pleasure<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">In love the two sexes are equal and pleasure should be shared equally. If the partners do not feel the same satisfaction once the act is accomplished it is not fair to pretend that they have made love. Love should be a shared reward and neither an egotistic satisfaction nor a duty. </i><br />
Ovid- <i>The Art of Love</i>, penned around 2 CE<br />
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If my daughters can begin to internalize this valuable message during their time spent living in Paris, I will be one satisfied American mama.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span lang="EN"><span class="hps"></span></span>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-44183506438165332212011-05-27T10:02:00.000-07:002011-05-27T10:43:18.010-07:00Ifs, Ands, & Cigarette ButtsHaving grown up in America, I recall the days of my youth when cigarette smoking was still considered to be more vogue than it is now, and certainly, at least, more tolerated. I recall ads featuring pretty ladies smoking Virginia Slims on the back covers of my mom's subscription magazines. At age eleven, I recall flying on my first commercial domestic flight seated two rows away from the smoking section and thinking to myself, "How does the smoke know to stay in its designated section?" I soon learned that it doesn't. I had friends whose mothers smoked Camels and Pall Malls. My grandmother had a two-pack-a-day habit that lasted through my childhood years until she quit at the age of eighty. I blew my allowance on candy, and, more than once, purchased those candy cigarettes laced with powder that mimicked smoke. I attended a high school that had its very own outdoor smoking section called "Smokers' Cove" or simply, "The Cove". At age fourteen I was pressured to smoke a cigarette by well-intentioned friends who simply wanted me to feel like part of the group (this is a nice way to re-frame peer pressure, don't you think?). Despite my not wanting to, I took a puff and tried to look and act cool when I began coughing uncontrollably. That was the end of that. Somehow, despite all of my exposure to smoking during my formative years, I knew it was not my thing.<br />
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Thankfully, California voters decided years ago, it's not their thing either, at least in public places. My state's tendency to attract those leading a health-conscious lifestyle also contributes to a relatively low number of smokers. I go about my daily life without hardly ever coming into contact with cigarette smoke.<br />
<br />
Then I moved to Paris.<br />
<br />
There are three significant ways in which French smoking negatively affects my Parisian life: <br />
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1) I can't walk out the entry door of our building without being enveloped by a cloud of cigarette smoke.<br />
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There is a daily mob of smoking teens who attend the private Catholic school across the street that congregate on the sidewalk inches away from our building's entry. Turns out, this is because by age 11 about 10% of French kids start smoking and by the age of 15 over 50% of French youths are regularly inhaling tobacco. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALBog5Oxe-6vG-20p7GIDUSCPFq61ugyrxxXe0mg752GVssSRhVhIwqD0KhCGayFbVdrvbeT9EnHRaY5iNUbhCbPov7AMMrDpD5KZu0_beW_HNpCJw9si8jD2Y8RgxFU6z5SJ2zkoNJY/s1600/IMG_8113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhALBog5Oxe-6vG-20p7GIDUSCPFq61ugyrxxXe0mg752GVssSRhVhIwqD0KhCGayFbVdrvbeT9EnHRaY5iNUbhCbPov7AMMrDpD5KZu0_beW_HNpCJw9si8jD2Y8RgxFU6z5SJ2zkoNJY/s640/IMG_8113.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After school smoking fix outside of our apartment building.</td></tr>
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Parisian sidewalks, including the one in front of our building, are regularly littered with cigarette butts. Both store-bought and self-rolled ones. Rolling one's own cigarette is a very popular thing here.<br />
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2) I can't dine outdoors at restaurants without swallowing fumes along with my meal.<br />
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About five years ago, France passed a law banning cigarette smoking inside public establishments. Unlike California's smoking ban, French smokers can smoke on the premises of a restaurant as long as they remain on the outdoor patio or sidewalk. Two weeks ago, my friend Renee and I were enjoying a mid-day shopping break refueling with a beverage outdoors at a bustling cafe on the Left Bank (our main intent really was to gain access to a bathroom).<br />
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We chose to sit outside since that is where all the best people-watching occurs. I encouraged Renee to sit facing the street where she would best be able to take in the passing fashion show. I sat facing her and the restaurant. The seating was tight and compact, typical for Parisian cafes. Inches away, to our right, was a group of women, all of whom lit up shortly after Renee and I took our seats. The slight breeze blew their smoke directly into our faces. Without many options to avoid their smoke, I scooted my stool over to the left and back a few inches. Soon after, a waiter came over to tell me that I must move my stool back to it's original position. Reading the perplexed look on my face he quickly added in his thickly accented English, "Eet ees za rrrule." Those damn French rules again! He failed to notice that after following his rule, I moved my stool back to it's rule-breaking location as soon as he left our table. Yet, despite the slightly increased distance between my seat and the smoking ladies', I think I vicariously smoked at least a pack that day.<br />
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I wish sitting outside to see and be seen wasn't such a hazard to my health here. I appreciate that California does not force me to choose between dining al fresco or protecting my lungs. The next time I find myself enjoying a meal outdoors back home at La Boulange, Chow, or Va de Vi, I will surely feel much more grateful. <br />
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3) I can't run on Paris's lovely Promenade Plantée without routinely inhaling a pedestrian's smoky exhale as I whiz past.<br />
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I see more smoking pedestrians on this trail than I do power walkers and runners. There is an overall lack of embracing fitness and exercise here, and smoking fits in well with this lifestyle choice. Heck, 30% of French doctors smoke (compared to 5% of American docs) and they're the ones who should really know better. <br />
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French parents smoke with little apparent concern for the effects of second-hand smoke on their children.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQvNPX3yRd0KAc3YSD5CjXFOCBVwJIOP8umNqRKMfycVXKx0M5-ZDJcXkF6KKkl7St16t3-aDESoFsjNMTOc2AvTFWupVetJINrvzxtBIoMqp-sxONzTAZUMyJuLc4bcFhSwKTXD0guA/s1600/IMG_8405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQvNPX3yRd0KAc3YSD5CjXFOCBVwJIOP8umNqRKMfycVXKx0M5-ZDJcXkF6KKkl7St16t3-aDESoFsjNMTOc2AvTFWupVetJINrvzxtBIoMqp-sxONzTAZUMyJuLc4bcFhSwKTXD0guA/s640/IMG_8405.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"There, there, <i>mon bébé</i> <a href="http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/bebe.wav"></a><a href="http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/bebe.wav"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></a><a href="http://french.about.com/library/media/wavs/bebe.wav"><span style="color: black; text-decoration: none;"></span></a>, <i>Maman's et Papa's </i>smoke isn't that bad is it?"</td></tr>
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As a non-smoking Californian, it is hard for me not to feel judgement creep in when I witness a French mother smoking a cigarette and holding hands with her toddler while waiting in front of the school for her older child to emerge at pick-up time. This is a sight that I never see in my community back home. I assume this is because California's anti-smoking campaign has had a great impact, particularly on the recognition of the detrimental effects of second-hand smoke. Of the one mommy friend that I have back home who smokes, she keeps her habit on the down-low and never lights up in the presence of her husband or kids. During our girls' nights out, well, as they say, what happens in Walnut Creek, stays in Walnut Creek (or at least more than 20 feet away from doors, windows, air ducts and ventilation systems of enclosed public spaces). <br />
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French teachers smoke too, not in the classroom, but certainly in front of the school and in front of their students. For me and my children this is a novel sight. Raelyn's math teacher told her class yesterday, "Don't bother me today! It's been thirty-six hours since my last cigarette, I'm trying to quit!" Not surprisingly, Raelyn reported, "Mom, he was way grumpier than usual today." Coincidentally, I captured one of his last smokes earlier this week in some photos in front of the school. To his credit, he at least told his students, "Don't ever smoke. Once you start, you can't stop." Hopefully, he'll be able to prove himself wrong and walk the talk. I wish him luck.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwC5sPfrmj6FGcUXR-_kpU6Qmgb_6ABcoBPSS6QBOTDteFSEZn86B2QVO9xnoKeRwpVeRQxMpzN2D0AHreAOPaPCRcgy1_-t20-ey4G13IA_ccKcsI8fPwwBVnl3iEJ6oe3w1jJoLQXk/s1600/IMG_8287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYwC5sPfrmj6FGcUXR-_kpU6Qmgb_6ABcoBPSS6QBOTDteFSEZn86B2QVO9xnoKeRwpVeRQxMpzN2D0AHreAOPaPCRcgy1_-t20-ey4G13IA_ccKcsI8fPwwBVnl3iEJ6oe3w1jJoLQXk/s640/IMG_8287.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raelyn inhaling her teacher's second-hand smoke.</td></tr>
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The other day, I took this photo on the way home from school: <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDTGoRaET50bfEfLbzwUHPxKGD9iNFN17WdsUFcVyyOAEDpri0qUCL3jtJfbP0f9Twkm0jx3ayWSdJTNyWGUyoMO17w4iOuF_nSUsQ3CdQ8vDR1hqkZMSyqrq6ESX6yA1-AgxcCfsHBM/s1600/IMG_8290.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEDTGoRaET50bfEfLbzwUHPxKGD9iNFN17WdsUFcVyyOAEDpri0qUCL3jtJfbP0f9Twkm0jx3ayWSdJTNyWGUyoMO17w4iOuF_nSUsQ3CdQ8vDR1hqkZMSyqrq6ESX6yA1-AgxcCfsHBM/s640/IMG_8290.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">At first, I thought that this advertisement was an anti-smoking one and I felt very satisfied to have captured the irony on my camera. The ad's message, "One could invite cancer, but he definitely would prefer to be left alone," is promoted by France's <i>Institut National du Cancer</i>. I found this out when I saw other similar ads in the Metro station containing their logo. Notice the absence of any tangible reference to smoking in the advertisement. Is the lone guy in this ad supposed to be pondering the thought of quitting smoking as he stares at the side of the <i>Centre Georges Pompidou</i>? Or, is he supposed to be fighting the urge for a smoke before he goes inside to view all of the <i>Pompidou's</i> modern art? Does the fact that I'm not French impede my ability to fully grasp the meaning and message of this ad campaign? Or, is the <i>Institut</i> purposefully using an indirect approach simply because a more blatant anti-smoking campaign wouldn't be well-received in a nation full of smokers? One thing seems perfectly clear; this guy on the sidewalk doesn't seem to be particularly impacted by the ad nor concerned about cancer.<br />
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Are the French concerned about cancer? I don't know the answer. According to a recent ranking of global cancer rates, France and the USA are about equal. Same goes for the two country's cancer survival rates. And yet, despite its larger percentage of tobacco intake, France beats America's overall life expectancy rate. What's going on here? Does France's love for croissants, cheese, butter, and wine counterbalance the detriments of smoking? Does America's love for (over) eating all things processed explain its lower life expectancy rate? Hmm...</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
French cigarette packages do take a more in-your-face approach regarding the dangers of smoking. And they hit below the belt, literally, with health warning messages that target one of the things the French value most. Sex. This package was discarded in one of our window flower boxes a few weeks ago. I was about to toss it in the garbage when the warning label caught my attention.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUKlNjeBrHVEU5GKFnTQ4UXiVIYLsgk5Eqh_7NsHFW8DgsejvT1LGsYqPmha5WfjXRHGzz1X99LPgjw_PJ_Tdyi6v9TAepLcxzzLDO63JTXiIqZddgmiKZ7_TK8ZJV4hh2GT1zn-z5Tc/s1600/IMG_8391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGUKlNjeBrHVEU5GKFnTQ4UXiVIYLsgk5Eqh_7NsHFW8DgsejvT1LGsYqPmha5WfjXRHGzz1X99LPgjw_PJ_Tdyi6v9TAepLcxzzLDO63JTXiIqZddgmiKZ7_TK8ZJV4hh2GT1zn-z5Tc/s640/IMG_8391.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Smoking can cause low blood pressure and impotence."</td></tr>
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</div><i><i> </i></i><i></i>What French romantic would ever want that to happen? I did learn that the French anti-smoking movement - yes, one actually does exist- went a bit too far last year according to popular opinion when they tried unsuccessfully to launch this advertising campaign targeted at teens:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEa3SXC1jOBbhuMUJXx22_19JDRI64Aa1t3j16TiZ_q15-XKWeA6sK7RuYFTruvfx9zlrPlPBnYPzH1S-2TqEoJjHScoGDgQxyEsi1oKWzV28Svd4QMxjuvsVXRzB6Xn9sJdmnSjxRyn8/s1600/French+Ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEa3SXC1jOBbhuMUJXx22_19JDRI64Aa1t3j16TiZ_q15-XKWeA6sK7RuYFTruvfx9zlrPlPBnYPzH1S-2TqEoJjHScoGDgQxyEsi1oKWzV28Svd4QMxjuvsVXRzB6Xn9sJdmnSjxRyn8/s640/French+Ad.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class=""> “Smoking makes you the slave of tobacco”. </span></td></tr>
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The ads are meant to show that smoking creates dependency and submission, but critics of this campaign believe the images trivialize sexual abuse. I can understand both sides of the argument.<br />
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What I can't understand is, this: Why do the French, who seemingly have a greater appreciation for a natural beauty aesthetic- particularly when it comes to females- engage in a habit that dramatically shaves years off of this natural beauty in the form of early onset wrinkles, yellowed teeth, and jaundiced-looking skin? Take, for example, our apartment building's <i>Gardienne</i>, a hip bohemian woman with orange dreadlocks, funky boots, tattoos, an eleven-year-old son, and a wicked smoking habit. Her age is a complete mystery to me. She gives off an aura of youth and I'm guessing that she's in her early 40's, but I can't be sure because her skin and teeth look like they belong to a much older woman. <br />
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The only upside of being surrounded by all this smoking is that my American-conditioned female self- who wants to stay young-looking for as long as is naturally possible- takes comfort in knowing that in about 10-15 years, I will wind up looking younger than my daughters' twenty-one-year-old (gorgeous) French babysitter. Although she smokes in the presence of my kids- outdoors only- Raelyn and Nola have reported that she strongly cautions them against ever trying a cigarette. This advice coming from a gal who also tans, as many of the French do, both naturally and artificially. Just another means by which I'll wind up looking years younger than her before not too long. <br />
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My final thoughts: IF the French quit smoking, would they become fat? AND, if they started exercising, would their current overall life expectancy rise even further? BUTT, it's pointless to ponder these musings because, as we know, the French possess that indefinable<i> je ne sais quoi </i>and who would want to mess with that?ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-90039709779723289972011-05-24T11:56:00.000-07:002011-05-24T11:56:21.372-07:00Love Is In The AirSurely you know the famous tagline: <i>Paris, The City of Love</i>. Well, it's actually true. I have witnessed more PDAs (Public Display of Affection) in less than a year than I have seen in all the PG-13 films combined over the course of my lifetime. <br />
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I have noticed a gradual mental shift in my very American internal reaction when I view couples lip-locked on the sidewalks, park benches, bistros, and Metro platforms. My initial thought is, "Get a room!" But then I realize that I actually appreciate the carefree abandon with which the French show their love and affection for each other. And by love and affection, I'm talking much more than the standard double-cheek euro kiss.<br />
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Parisian couples- young and old, gay and straight- take their city's moniker very seriously. Love is demonstrated by long, full-bodied embraces, hands cupping faces, or sliding down towards their lover's lower back to pull them in for a closer embrace, and sometimes, hands even disappear altogether underneath a lover's clothing. Fingers caress cheeks and run through their partner's hair, eyes lock upon each others' for long, loving gazes. Kisses are strong and sensual and they routinely involve tongue action. Duh, French kissing! They are exchanged in multiples as if neither partner wants this kiss to be the last. Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow! Seriously, walking down a Parisian sidewalk can sometimes be like flicking the switch on my childhood View-Master if it were loaded with a disc of images from <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>. <br />
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While the French desire to keep toileting separate and private, by my observations, they certainly don't feel the same about demonstrative passion. As a parent, I have learned to value the real-life learning opportunities this French behavior has presented to me. The Birds and The Bees has taken on new and deeper dimensions thanks to our daughters' eye-witness accounts of sensual, sexual, passionate, and shocking liaisons.<br />
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One Sunday morning, last Winter, Soren and Raelyn headed off to our favorite boulangerie, for croissants, which requires a walk across the river to Ile St. Louis. During their walk, they passed a park bench and this particular bench happened to be occupied by a pair of lovers. Even by our newly revised <i>don't get a room </i>standards Soren was shocked that the woman, who was sitting on the lap of her lover, had her legs hoisted up and over his shoulders while they passionately kissed. She was wearing a mini skirt and had bare legs; in the middle of Winter! I told Soren that perhaps she was a prostitute, but his take on it was that they were mutually authentic lovers in their 30's blinded and numbed by passion to the frigid temperatures outside. Hearing about this bare legged, mini skirted, passionate woman, I couldn't help but think back to the scene from <i>When Harry Met Sally</i>, when, after Meg Ryan's climactic scene stealer in a restaurant, another female diner says to the waitress, "I'll have what she's having!" <br />
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The girls learned about French kissing thanks to two teenagers riding on the Metro. The young gal was sitting on her beau's lap as they noshed away on each others' lips and tongues, oblivious to the fact that two impressionable grade-school kids were taking it all in. Upon exiting the train, my daughters' first comment was not, "Eww, yuck!" Their first question was not, "Why do they do that?" What my girls actually wanted to know as they looked me square in the eye was, "Do you and Dad do that?" <br />
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It's not that the girls have never seen Soren and I kiss, embrace, cuddle, and hold hands. It's just that we, like many of our fellow Americans, engage in the rated G version of demonstrative love when in public. Raelyn and Nola have seen our wedding video numerous times and their most memorable clip is when Soren embraces me, dips me backwards slightly and plants a great big lingering kiss on my lips upon the minister's pronouncement that we are husband and wife. Almost every time our girls have seen Soren and I kiss over the years, they begin a boisterous and demanding chant of, "Wedding kiss! Wedding kiss! Wedding kiss!" If we fail to deliver, they let us know that we have not met their expectation of a repeat performance.<br />
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It occurred to me that Raelyn's and Nola's desire for Soren and I to demonstrate tangible displays of love, passion, and sensuality between us, likely has something to do with the fact that these emotions are core to our essence as relational human beings. The French have taught me how it can be healthy for children to witness parents engaging in a fuller expression of their relationship- one that moves just a bit beyond quick pecks on the lips or simple hugs, but rather, displays a deeper sense of passion and sensuality. My guess is that very few French children have to ask their parents if they French kiss because this behavior is so ingrained into their country's culture of romance in a very public, and- dare I say- titillating way, that, it's as normal to them as is breathing. As newborn babies, they've probably seen their parents French kiss countless times before they all head home from the hospital.<br />
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I do wonder if marital status impacts this cultural display of passion and, if so, to what extent? The French romantic in me wants to believe that at least some of the folks that I've stalked with my camera are happily married and still wild and crazy about each other. My new goal- for the remainder of my time in Paris- is to prove to my kids that, like these French couples, I am still wild and crazy about their Dad. Oh yea, and to bring this custom back to the States. Who knows? Soren and I just might gain a reputation for being the prolific PDA couple of Walnut Creek. I think I already have a park bench picked out. Then, of course, there's Bart, the fitness club lobby, the Meher School parking lot ...<br />
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Due to the overwhelming and enthusiastic response that I received for my <i>2010 EuroMan Election</i> blog post, I bring you another voting opportunity. Ladies and gentlemen, <i>Mesdames et Messieurs</i>, I now present to you for your viewing and voting pleasure: <i>The 2011 French Lovers Competition</i>.<br />
Results void where prohibited by law.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03IzC5KZbXpEY5ir36RotX3GjgnZ0VZ8rxn11A70k8rJkKJR3CppIxq2ogd56HmyfYqcV40yMLwpHGZMJ8daKiWubnQ-Wh2e-iDQrL1bpSUMKh81P9qpZHb-G8URY8YZn08eWuY5zrTM/s1600/IMG_2868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj03IzC5KZbXpEY5ir36RotX3GjgnZ0VZ8rxn11A70k8rJkKJR3CppIxq2ogd56HmyfYqcV40yMLwpHGZMJ8daKiWubnQ-Wh2e-iDQrL1bpSUMKh81P9qpZHb-G8URY8YZn08eWuY5zrTM/s640/IMG_2868.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 1</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqu8wVcplWHCYP7lRx-sU4mIhU5CJEDMwM9N-4P4IXtMPojR7OdhUmTLGJtm3HeQwViGKveAeJzajW6DmINuthc1v7oo7ixcrVhK1oCiw3QwTlOmbsW4wZzfiJVBTL6JYkkzaoIvMtHLg/s1600/IMG_3145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqu8wVcplWHCYP7lRx-sU4mIhU5CJEDMwM9N-4P4IXtMPojR7OdhUmTLGJtm3HeQwViGKveAeJzajW6DmINuthc1v7oo7ixcrVhK1oCiw3QwTlOmbsW4wZzfiJVBTL6JYkkzaoIvMtHLg/s640/IMG_3145.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 2</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 3</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VDbJMmJzMac9Uu_JHeV-DLNuolWPs7fmEM2vFyQ_3PkxNHS7Zj9iny6cde0GLyqgDPGT8d83dYrUJTWBzeMAN8FzraQmc50fOLDCBOB1TCfRsLXJTV8OIHBxHGV9eegqu38kQlb_mfk/s1600/IMG_3310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4VDbJMmJzMac9Uu_JHeV-DLNuolWPs7fmEM2vFyQ_3PkxNHS7Zj9iny6cde0GLyqgDPGT8d83dYrUJTWBzeMAN8FzraQmc50fOLDCBOB1TCfRsLXJTV8OIHBxHGV9eegqu38kQlb_mfk/s640/IMG_3310.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 4</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMjQvHRcTJjrS6ujm4Wnk_Dz6hxO7maNSQn7WcoEUHsvW_kv6l7jM-qcsFR0VtXOb-mjZTxUyzG27u7hWRzmWU3KOdjGlbSFeNV5JI4tWgPzWQGp3APw8L4zpg8ex-eO4OhT5yvuPbG0/s1600/IMG_3317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtMjQvHRcTJjrS6ujm4Wnk_Dz6hxO7maNSQn7WcoEUHsvW_kv6l7jM-qcsFR0VtXOb-mjZTxUyzG27u7hWRzmWU3KOdjGlbSFeNV5JI4tWgPzWQGp3APw8L4zpg8ex-eO4OhT5yvuPbG0/s640/IMG_3317.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 5</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYT3sRNYBpks1MvcCQePZJqDlM7-Fqc8CN8XHYlSqpTYpi62XikztNkMo-HuT5Xcn-ijApIgHBYFri-9T6VrwqZPRsARdgpyjfR8TewLRY2ZayN_ULk-ojokJZENG5CjAecHhIs9dg-l0/s1600/IMG_4812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYT3sRNYBpks1MvcCQePZJqDlM7-Fqc8CN8XHYlSqpTYpi62XikztNkMo-HuT5Xcn-ijApIgHBYFri-9T6VrwqZPRsARdgpyjfR8TewLRY2ZayN_ULk-ojokJZENG5CjAecHhIs9dg-l0/s640/IMG_4812.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 6</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEEUTYZd4QqNxnOkaUxpFrGVi_DbTXXkX_DLzW70-dyo3qp-Q131jCxDn6aAqfZXOYPotrn4aBRuktRIIzKwLQ_Sm-8VfiC1unNSzef7yZrqT-_pkQ8CMz69Mft8PIhNuxnqn_d_u01U/s1600/IMG_5394.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCEEUTYZd4QqNxnOkaUxpFrGVi_DbTXXkX_DLzW70-dyo3qp-Q131jCxDn6aAqfZXOYPotrn4aBRuktRIIzKwLQ_Sm-8VfiC1unNSzef7yZrqT-_pkQ8CMz69Mft8PIhNuxnqn_d_u01U/s640/IMG_5394.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 7</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRau5plHegl2XSayZH1FNq_6rScWZjgHhdZW28oN56ObHSdkXVcGWAobQJhOovEjRN08F8XQVRmuLKO2sXCvzjzSwF0q3-ajRhyteAkcMarsKycTFo3n0cLSui-U9w3hZgXt8eVDD17XM/s1600/IMG_4816.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRau5plHegl2XSayZH1FNq_6rScWZjgHhdZW28oN56ObHSdkXVcGWAobQJhOovEjRN08F8XQVRmuLKO2sXCvzjzSwF0q3-ajRhyteAkcMarsKycTFo3n0cLSui-U9w3hZgXt8eVDD17XM/s640/IMG_4816.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 8</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUJoxhCcNQGZoZcAsQBM00TDZ2Q9hz0ckuraUkiwiAg4loGJzRs-83WbiUvSBUBLSFuWf5nodqTX-nTwKQSUdGlfORM_U6ckDWiHtA9jz0S8mYXjsMEZtoD0Ib1GKQLGKj3DwfQXcllg/s1600/IMG_6706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYUJoxhCcNQGZoZcAsQBM00TDZ2Q9hz0ckuraUkiwiAg4loGJzRs-83WbiUvSBUBLSFuWf5nodqTX-nTwKQSUdGlfORM_U6ckDWiHtA9jz0S8mYXjsMEZtoD0Ib1GKQLGKj3DwfQXcllg/s640/IMG_6706.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 9</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBBD_s1TAnRizfJ7llk8sQZh7Cj17E8tGXKE21xHMNOpHjS6tRTOYskMhyphenhyphengJuy8_legXzSFuGU91EyKk-Ajyy56JfsiknUDwq13x812I__-1R8l0dS7eZ5p94Bk1IJfszAtuybvqS-n8/s1600/IMG_6985.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBBD_s1TAnRizfJ7llk8sQZh7Cj17E8tGXKE21xHMNOpHjS6tRTOYskMhyphenhyphengJuy8_legXzSFuGU91EyKk-Ajyy56JfsiknUDwq13x812I__-1R8l0dS7eZ5p94Bk1IJfszAtuybvqS-n8/s640/IMG_6985.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 10</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uwfceRWElVzAUDkmk374G3laOeBe1KrtqCzaZi_JfIsrvFm3DpPB68warJ6OjrRVj-eH67ImFBejQEn_RSyCvKvnbEZW5_Zf4h8Zrif_SIlPaTo98cvndLGWEy_pa-njKaBeBjpjQcA/s1600/IMG_8101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7uwfceRWElVzAUDkmk374G3laOeBe1KrtqCzaZi_JfIsrvFm3DpPB68warJ6OjrRVj-eH67ImFBejQEn_RSyCvKvnbEZW5_Zf4h8Zrif_SIlPaTo98cvndLGWEy_pa-njKaBeBjpjQcA/s640/IMG_8101.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 11</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcxX8FqyTQpEeY91spP1reO6NHZjhyphenhyphenGCadfnkkzliDsyzN3Kc5ZedobXTqyug2YbaF8GbC7lvXCYzvGZJHwIa5y1j2bAFu7J7Su7UqDsvkc_9SDv31sGVlAc_bOHVQ9MZhSf6sF6so6M/s1600/IMG_8368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJcxX8FqyTQpEeY91spP1reO6NHZjhyphenhyphenGCadfnkkzliDsyzN3Kc5ZedobXTqyug2YbaF8GbC7lvXCYzvGZJHwIa5y1j2bAFu7J7Su7UqDsvkc_9SDv31sGVlAc_bOHVQ9MZhSf6sF6so6M/s640/IMG_8368.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 12</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple # 13</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-59365464285594400942011-05-17T05:37:00.000-07:002011-05-17T11:49:17.215-07:00Urinal This Together<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Having given birth to two children- fellow mamas, I know you can relate- the need to relieve myself, when it strikes, can often do so with a sense of urgency. Even if I haven't been consuming my 8 glasses of water per day, I still have to visit a public <i>toilette</i> on a regular basis. And, because I am the same gender as my children, that makes me their default bathroom escort. Therefore, I now have lots of experience using public restrooms in Paris and the other regions and countries that we have visited over the past nine months. I am still very much grappling with several issues that pertain to the necessary evil of relieving oneself on this continent.<br />
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This city, like many others in Europe, suffers from an underwhelming supply of available free toilets. In Walnut Creek, when I gotta go, I can pop into Nordstrom, sneak into Starbucks, or drive to a gas station and take care of business without having to fork over a cent. On this continent, I pay 1.50 euros (as of today that's about $2.00) to use the facilities in a department store, or, I pay for a cappuccino in a cafe to gain access to their bathroom, and, I can forget about using one in a Paris gas station since a single gas pump sitting on a sidewalk is how gas thirsty cars get their fuel. Ironic, isn't it, that my most usual method of gaining access to a toilet- buying a beverage in a cafe- is only going to exacerbate my core issue of needing one in the first place. And, at my current bladder retention rate, I'm talking less than an hour later.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">$5.00 granted us access at the Galeries Lafayette's public restroom. Who wouldn't want to pay for the use of all that pretty toilet paper? I have never before seen a restroom with a <i>maitre d</i>'. He's too busy taking toileting reservations by phone to admonish us for taking this photo<i>. </i></td></tr>
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Paris does have some free public toilets located on the sidewalks, but every time I attempt to use one, I encounter some kind of mishap. It's the kind of experience when, moments afterwards, I feel the urge to look around for the hidden camera that just caught my blunder on tape. I sort of expect Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind a garbage can or bus stop and say, "Holli, you've been PUNKED!"<br />
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During my first attempt to use one of these toilets, I was accompanied by Raelyn. We waited our turn in line on the sidewalk of a busy shopping district. The young woman ahead of us was British and when it was her turn to use the facilities, I made certain to watch carefully so that I would know what to do when it was our turn to enter. I noticed that she pushed a button to open the door, then she stepped inside, and just as the door slid to almost a complete close, it opened up again while she was unbuttoning and unzipping her jeans. The door attempted to close three more unsuccessful times before she gave up with a loud and exhasperated, " #@!!% this!" and off she went. Despite the intimidation I was now feeling, I was determined to figure it out and make it work for me and Raelyn. She and I quickly scooted into the restroom while the door was still open. Seconds later, it slid closed and we were inside the surprisingly clean looking pod-like contraption complete with toilet paper and soap. I was impressed!<br />
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Suddenly and unexpectedly, a recorded French female voice loudly instructed us of something. I had no idea what we were being told. Raelyn, thank goodness, understood that the voice was warning us of the self-cleaning cycle that was about to commence. Before I could push the button that opens the door, a loud alarm sound bleeped repeatedly and Raelyn, who had taken a brief moment to read the French instructions printed on the wall, realized that if we didn't get out- and fast- our feet were about to get soaked with water. This is because the bathroom floor gets a washdown between each usage. In addition, the toilet retracts back into the wall, dumping its contents into an unseen basin and receives its own rinsing before lowering itself back into the ready position for the next patron. I now understood why the British woman could not succeed in getting the door to remain closed- this bathroom knew it was dirty and in need of a cleaning- it's smarter than we are!<br />
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While waiting outside for the self-cleaning cycle to terminate, I noticed that these units come equipped with an exterior light system in which each colored light indicates the toilet's current cycle: Green = Available, Red = In Use, Yellow = Self-Cleaning, or Blue = Out of Service. I have learned that these colored lights can be misleading and that, most of the time, a seemingly available sidewalk toilet isn't. I wish there was a light indicator for: This Toilette Looks Available But Isn't And Won't Be For Who Knows How Long So Move On. <br />
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I have tried to outsmart these sidewalk bathrooms. Having lost faith in the light system, I employed my other senses, mainly, my hearing, in an attempt to decide if I should keep persisting in getting the door to slide open. I'd like to say that I gleaned useful information from this method, in fact, I'd like to have a reason to become known as <i>The Toilette Whisperer</i>, but listening did not prove to be any more useful than looking.<br />
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My intelligent friend, Renee, tried to outsmart the <i>toilette</i> by suggesting that we all go in together. At least this could ensure that all of us who need to go pee actually get face-time with the toilet. Make that butt-time. Her idea was not embraced by all as you can see here:<br />
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Raelyn's and Nola's need for privacy trumped Renee's 'Urinal This Together' idea simply because, as Americans, we are used to having a much more privatized public toileting experience. In Europe, I have noticed, gender separation of public toilets is a rarity. I have used restrooms that have a communal sink area, one semi-private urinal, and one toilet stall all confined within a very small space. Even though I want to look in the mirror to freshen up and dab on a bit of lip gloss, I don't due to my own discomfort with the lack of privacy. I am forced to share this space with men and boys and I really prefer to do my female primping in private or, if I must, only in the company of other females. Sometimes, I have cleverly pulled out my compact mirror that I keep inside my handbag and reapply my lip gloss while in the toilet stall. Sure, I take longer, but I'd rather risk others assuming I'm going #2 than go without luscious looking lips.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA8yZOMDYGn7cZiCO8FnFcmyfF0C02lgXNIkK5K4l6X4TEqUPa4EKsgkd294pjVUnogj8zHAX4IBLVg_G7nz8zRYrd7VnwQ0ZZQC7tctffScngOSOSZp8fHUmLVqs6Hn43bd7yLRfLs7E/s1600/IMG_8107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA8yZOMDYGn7cZiCO8FnFcmyfF0C02lgXNIkK5K4l6X4TEqUPa4EKsgkd294pjVUnogj8zHAX4IBLVg_G7nz8zRYrd7VnwQ0ZZQC7tctffScngOSOSZp8fHUmLVqs6Hn43bd7yLRfLs7E/s640/IMG_8107.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Why is she taking so long in there?" Little does this guy know, that, behind closed doors, I am searching around in the bottom of my purse for my lip gloss. He can always use one of these display toilets if he becomes really desperate.</td></tr>
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Soren has been forced to get over his desire for privacy, especially when he was using the urinal in a communal bathroom and a cleaning woman mopped around his feet while he stood there taking a leak. This was just one of those in-the-moment cultural lessons for us about the fact that the public bathroom boundaries around privacy and personal space are way different here. The fact that I was even able to take the photos shown below are proof of this relativity.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTggYisPl2_h8ddtLE4tPRl38mFiCzo5TxdQkAEPQ3fb9YtRZO6wZyGpy78Q2juHnmWLm3oKAtVji5_O1diZtLE-eJ4BQktPU1AhjbrHzzfeyl1ShchEsSTUA42alOv2gLL1vVRMxr0w/s1600/IMG_6699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbTggYisPl2_h8ddtLE4tPRl38mFiCzo5TxdQkAEPQ3fb9YtRZO6wZyGpy78Q2juHnmWLm3oKAtVji5_O1diZtLE-eJ4BQktPU1AhjbrHzzfeyl1ShchEsSTUA42alOv2gLL1vVRMxr0w/s640/IMG_6699.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soren not quite embracing the lack of privacy.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguK0zpN1UGf_5Yz1z56AUx6W8xx0s8j9Z6LzLagupor4JNE2GuZXbBU0PWzz2ssTBwZZDo9oOsTxSFaF6SBTp7CDvovSceUi2ohveap9STXerXF7Pbu37HrRonCJjDM99arGyUtvLwhU/s1600/IMG_5431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgguK0zpN1UGf_5Yz1z56AUx6W8xx0s8j9Z6LzLagupor4JNE2GuZXbBU0PWzz2ssTBwZZDo9oOsTxSFaF6SBTp7CDvovSceUi2ohveap9STXerXF7Pbu37HrRonCJjDM99arGyUtvLwhU/s640/IMG_5431.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soren's comfort level with the Urinal This Together concept is increasing as demonstrated by his ability to flash a lighthearted smile despite the fact that the ladies room is next door to his semi-private urinal.</td></tr>
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One fine example of Europe's relationship with toileting was evident in Den Haag, The Netherlands. We arrived on the eve of Holland's biggest holiday - Queen's Day- a celebration of their queen's birthday which is marked by street fairs, flea markets, and the Dutch consuming copious amounts of alcohol. Our hotel was conveniently located in the city center, the heart of the celebratory action. Naturally, a city needs to provide the means necessary for its celebrants to relieve themselves. Back home, this means setting up rows of individual porta potties. They're stinky, but at least they're private. As you can see from the photo below, the Dutch have devised their own version of the porta potty. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LAr5yOcrlDPvC0844aSWrQOetycjC1yjYUlBxYeFq4tyWu8CIENk27bfffk2xHjMeAM8I52uk6cg6oKB98w_WXqACnetl0iBpeE1sW3_Zj2GVVbCHHe43xahN8N4T7RzG8jyv251g7k/s1600/IMG_7893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LAr5yOcrlDPvC0844aSWrQOetycjC1yjYUlBxYeFq4tyWu8CIENk27bfffk2xHjMeAM8I52uk6cg6oKB98w_WXqACnetl0iBpeE1sW3_Zj2GVVbCHHe43xahN8N4T7RzG8jyv251g7k/s640/IMG_7893.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't help but wonder what they expect women to do as well as all the people that may have to go #2?</td></tr>
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The next morning, while the Dutch slept off their hangovers, we awoke early to find that the urine holes were filled to the brim with beer bottles. Urinating and littering conquered with one invention. I wonder if its creator realizes just how doubly ingenious this contraption is?<br />
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Less ingenious are the toilets that I use while out and about in Paris on a daily basis. The usual toilet bowl configuration leaves much to be desired. Granted, this isn't India and there is an actual porcelain fixture in the stall rather than two foot plates on either side of a hole in the ground. Nonetheless, the functionality of ladies' toilets here aren't much of an improvement. This is because the vast majority of public toilets lack a seat. I'm not naming names, but it's like living with a man who forgets (or refuses?) to put the seat down at home. Except that here, there is no seat to put down. So I resort to squatting over the toilet, giving my quadriceps the same workout that they received when I was traveling in India. There are no seat covers, but I wouldn't want use one. Sitting is just not an appealing option for me. I know someone who, when she travels in Europe, sits on her hands because she does not like to squat. She figures that at least she can wash her hands (obviously not her butt) afterwards in the sink.<br />
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Washing is another gripe of mine. There are no paper towels in most restrooms. The majority of public bathrooms here are equipped with very old and/or inoperable hand dryers so I usually resort to shaking mine dry. While I applaud environmental friendliness, for a germophobe like me, I really prefer having a paper towel in my hand when I turn off the faucet and open the bathroom door because of all the folks I see who opt out of hand washing after using the toilet. <br />
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And, let me tell you, size does matter. For ladies' bathroom stalls at least. Like everywhere else in Paris, space is at a premium and toilet stalls are no exception. Most of the time, my knees bump up against the door as I squat over the dirty, seat-less bowl. At least then I don't have to use my arm to hold closed the occasional door with an inoperable lock. The width of the stalls is not generous. When I cram myself, my purse, and the occasional coat and/or shopping bag(s) into my postage stamp of a stall, I become grateful that I do not suffer from claustrophobia. I just hope that my Louis Vuitton handbag (my Baby!) does not fall into the toilet every time I have to hold it behind my body and over the bowl so that I can create enough free space in order to open the stall door. <br />
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There are no female-friendly hooks or pull-down shelves for my Louis Vuitton which means that My Baby remains uncomfortably restrictive and burdensome on my shoulder. It inevitably slides down towards my elbow thus challenging my balance during my squat. My germophobia prevents me from putting my Baby on the floor. The reality is, for me to have ease of use in a European toilet stall, I need to grow a third arm. This extra appendage would become my much-needed handbag, coat, and shopping bag holder since, during certain times of the month, I need both arms free for taking care of business. TMI, I know, but I gotta call it like it is. And besides, I take comfort in knowing that at least half of you who read this can fully relate to and appreciate my toileting challenges.<br />
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The French appear to have a method of dealing with these toileting challenges by simply avoiding the use of toilets. Based on my observations, one of the ways in which they accomplish this feat is that the French drink very little to no water, at least during mealtimes. The French guests that we have hosted in our home never even touch their water glass and they never use our bathroom. For instance, our 11-year-old French relative spent a full day with us and despite her eating and drinking while in our company she never once used the toilet. Not long ago, our new French babysitter spent the afternoon with us. She drank a glass of wine with lunch (she did not touch her glass of water), and later, she consumed a cup of coffee. She never went to the bathroom! For me, that amount of liquid creates the need for at least two trips to the loo.<br />
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Last week, using our babysitter as my cultural relativity barometer, I asked her what this toilet avoidance is all about. She explained that many French people refrain from making trips to the bathroom as a guest in somebody's home because doing so is considered to be slightly crude, embarrassing, and impolite. Urinating and defecating are considered private bodily functions to ideally accomplish in the privacy of one's own home. She did stress the reality that, when you gotta go, you gotta go, and the French- when necessary- will and do make use of the facilities outside of their own home. I was relieved to hear this bit of news because my bladder was really beginning to develop an inferiority complex.<br />
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Most Parisian apartments have a <i>salle de bain</i>, or bathroom, which consists of a tub or shower and a sink and then a separate water closet; the tiny room containing only a toilet. Sometimes these two rooms are located next to each other, sometimes they're at opposite ends of the hall. The French, unlike many Americans, create a boundary and sense of privacy in their homes by <i>not </i>taking guests on a tour of their entire house. Therefore, the location of both their <i>toilette </i>and <i>salle de bain</i> remains a mystery to me unless I inquire as to their location.<br />
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For almost a year now, I have been totally naive and I have indeed made use of the facilities as a guest in the homes of many French relatives and friends. Had I known that the norm is to hold it in until I get home, I would have been more restrictive with my beverage intake because now I fear that I have been perceived as impolite by asking my host or hostess to point me in the direction of their <i>toilette</i>. Hopefully, they realize, like our babysitter said- when you gotta go, you gotta go. Because- let's face it- when you get right down to it, despite societal norms and cultural relativities, we're all human beings at the mercy of Mother Nature, and, when She calls, they, I, and urinal this together.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-48955496958497254822011-05-10T13:52:00.000-07:002011-05-10T14:04:32.421-07:00Weekend WarriorsTwo week school vacations are great for traveling, but given how easy and quick it is to get from Paris to another region of France or even another country in just under a few hours makes weekend travel pretty much of a breeze. <br />
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Train travel is a real delight. Gazing out the window we see novel and beautiful scenery whizzing by while our ears perk up at the variety of languages we overhear from our fellow passengers. Making the quintessential dash down the full length of the railway platform because we are late for our train has seared train travel deep into our memories. Soren and I have literally been drenched in sweat upon taking our seats, breathing a deep sigh of relief that we actually made it on board with less than a minute to spare. Mademoiselle Nola always requests to travel first class since she so enjoyed being served a delicious meal in a first class car last winter. We've told her she can pitch in her allowance money to continue to have that privilege. The weak dollar is not working in her favor at the moment.<br />
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Cultural experiences are plentiful during these short but nevertheless educational weekends. The girls toasting champagne with us to commence our tour of a regional cellar followed by sips from their child-sized flute is totally acceptable. Visiting a fois gras farm and seeing the ducks that are force-fed until their livers become fattened provoked a discussion comparing and contrasting animal cruelty practices among U.S. cattle ranches and French fois gras farms. Encouraging the girls to leave our hotel with the city map and venture around the block- without us- to find a snack, feels safe and nurturing of their otherwise stunted independence due to our overprotective tendencies back home. <br />
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Our touring and sightseeing are not always embraced with enthusiasm. "Another cathedral? But they all look the same," is now the standard grumble muttered by the girls. Another favorite objection of theirs is, "We have to walk? Can't we rent a bike instead?" thanks to their love of our Giverny and Holland cycling escapades. One evening, while visiting the French town of Reims, we treated ourselves to an outstanding meal at a Michelin-rated restaurant. The girls initially refused to try the complimentary bite-sized <i>hors d'oeuvre </i>and<i> amuse-bouche</i>. If I were their age and a shot glass layered with pureed zucchini, a slice of prosciutto, pureed rabbit, pureed carrot, and cream were put in front of me, I'd reject it too. With some prodding from us, they finally touched their tongues to the <i>amuse-bouche</i> and muttered, "It's okay, not great." As an adult, I appreciate how such a culinary concoction does make for a happy mouth. Someday, I hope, they will too. I'm just glad they didn't ask to order chicken nuggets and french fries. Instead, they surprised us and Raelyn ordered the <i>risotto au homard</i> (lobster) and Nola requested <i>le</i> <i>pigeon</i>, pleased with the fact that she was about to eat a rat with wings. And, true to form, Mademoiselle Nola loved her fine dining experience so much that she can't wait to eat at another fancy restaurant. She had better start saving that allowance.<br />
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Here are some photographic highlights of our weekend jaunts:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RxoDWPpsGyRVtcXSIpNfTFuJjGxOOgrLDaDURWEtjYc0vshGRQSvHLIsWfEPcjDWrQZPWbtmwEN2oW6_HK59M2zAHn62pg6usokC8spffKk8kDOby3P5Q4FDJj8xdziZuTiOswUf0vo/s1600/London+Phone+Booth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7RxoDWPpsGyRVtcXSIpNfTFuJjGxOOgrLDaDURWEtjYc0vshGRQSvHLIsWfEPcjDWrQZPWbtmwEN2oW6_HK59M2zAHn62pg6usokC8spffKk8kDOby3P5Q4FDJj8xdziZuTiOswUf0vo/s640/London+Phone+Booth.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">London, August 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Versailles, October 2010</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJg0huoEgshyBbFBRir1EIwb_4pAw280rbgAp0yp0z4yWRhqU9YdPe8JR9i9Y-3XzgQxp1r9vwPu-EG7x7iZvMVorAZ3gmWGK7kiIWJL5ftMAhxm7ODj1PMZCnCJS6vLLIbqQKqaGlMU/s1600/IMG_4971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGJg0huoEgshyBbFBRir1EIwb_4pAw280rbgAp0yp0z4yWRhqU9YdPe8JR9i9Y-3XzgQxp1r9vwPu-EG7x7iZvMVorAZ3gmWGK7kiIWJL5ftMAhxm7ODj1PMZCnCJS6vLLIbqQKqaGlMU/s640/IMG_4971.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Town of Honfleur in Normandie, October 2010</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqELsLqowlSl1kCCaE5-I_mi-p66n_Na7Fdnnk_70fA6JyPkwdlS4yNY79va0OUEk81PS3qynELZrm0ECIeCquXM5py95ES6SVoKa5rLowAtgu0H8iZm7UtMsmMGHdXbKFvhYhddhifs/s1600/IMG_6033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkqELsLqowlSl1kCCaE5-I_mi-p66n_Na7Fdnnk_70fA6JyPkwdlS4yNY79va0OUEk81PS3qynELZrm0ECIeCquXM5py95ES6SVoKa5rLowAtgu0H8iZm7UtMsmMGHdXbKFvhYhddhifs/s640/IMG_6033.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Markt Square in Brugges, Belgium - January 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkcS2e_b_mLvogkqPU32RuCV4WB8r22aJ0aF6McEpHvPU1xrdtglRgx20oIyJDbuqmtntF9csOiLBEndcUQPQuys49FuFphOU_smoyM4DvwismvSolabqYKoQi_TBAVi9dtU9Z1qedWg/s1600/IMG_6070.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPkcS2e_b_mLvogkqPU32RuCV4WB8r22aJ0aF6McEpHvPU1xrdtglRgx20oIyJDbuqmtntF9csOiLBEndcUQPQuys49FuFphOU_smoyM4DvwismvSolabqYKoQi_TBAVi9dtU9Z1qedWg/s640/IMG_6070.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brugges is often referred to as the 'Venice of the North' </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nola's memorable first-class meal. Brussels to Paris- January, 2011<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reims, France - March 2011, The Surrender Museum is where General Eisenhower and the Allies received the unconditional surrender of the Germans on May 7, 1945. This is the room and the table as it was on that day where the signing took place.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1kR9UuEQm-IZEgZSVkg6XY34wJyFMy-pRTmX3phza7QPYavHecqYkJ64q5ZeKUB-ZNVvY6moQx7HKCsreV6a5zpGAhEfReozfuihWKJ7vbdnBiqGD7BdEajdu5pF1Ymax5UP6Of0Akw/s1600/IMG_6688.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih1kR9UuEQm-IZEgZSVkg6XY34wJyFMy-pRTmX3phza7QPYavHecqYkJ64q5ZeKUB-ZNVvY6moQx7HKCsreV6a5zpGAhEfReozfuihWKJ7vbdnBiqGD7BdEajdu5pF1Ymax5UP6Of0Akw/s640/IMG_6688.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcoming Spring at Claude Monet's home and garden. Giverny, France - April 2011</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3-GQTZmsdR6BkOasTfeCFgn51EuNbK5j-LHXQcRjqodAWzchbyeVjl70syE1Xu8-jtmE8uZwN6gqGA0M-NR6Av5q_tIMrpntsr093BaSFQqJhHnsLN76N5aVwShnnXk0aF4ocXkBHG0/s1600/IMG_6673.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3-GQTZmsdR6BkOasTfeCFgn51EuNbK5j-LHXQcRjqodAWzchbyeVjl70syE1Xu8-jtmE8uZwN6gqGA0M-NR6Av5q_tIMrpntsr093BaSFQqJhHnsLN76N5aVwShnnXk0aF4ocXkBHG0/s640/IMG_6673.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This would make a nice Impressionist painting don't you think? Minus the tourists.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ma7GsugTAfXLiDP85HvUJQJP_UoKwI05M10AEempTOS9fnBuR8SjLGjpKc50yECfF8ZZ3zQJTMjL7KZTgu6QLX-USSOysPjXoNAE1uQl9NflPKKuTyTYA0QM-My1HNlu_HPKEDoOiko/s1600/Troyes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ma7GsugTAfXLiDP85HvUJQJP_UoKwI05M10AEempTOS9fnBuR8SjLGjpKc50yECfF8ZZ3zQJTMjL7KZTgu6QLX-USSOysPjXoNAE1uQl9NflPKKuTyTYA0QM-My1HNlu_HPKEDoOiko/s640/Troyes.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Disneyland. Nah. It's really Troyes, France - April 2011</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cathedral in Troyes, France. We're neither Catholic nor religious, but I told them to repent anyway.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZPdVsO9pauEaCqxE84_jD8prjaMKXydhlddn27673pdDtjTzky8lA_wHcNvriqLBmndbRvzH6DhRhEMBTCJ8cH6gPMOMhtMnadj2KipDJs_Ey0W9JMJYD_Mnx28jKB_9Et7v3TMM3wI/s1600/Fois+Gras+Farm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZPdVsO9pauEaCqxE84_jD8prjaMKXydhlddn27673pdDtjTzky8lA_wHcNvriqLBmndbRvzH6DhRhEMBTCJ8cH6gPMOMhtMnadj2KipDJs_Ey0W9JMJYD_Mnx28jKB_9Et7v3TMM3wI/s640/Fois+Gras+Farm.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fois Gras Farm in Gye sur Seine, France - April 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKdZrehvrqjrm1pa36OMsskcDVgw5ZQjol7L4YbHS2ozHtPCDERZF1Ciit9cW5xZmIfGQ2k6mJtRTQD_x3UcGGpCF4HG5w5-S3kipaQlCCsvE_LyYWlzABibif8WDKJ_qHRPnq26kCfQ/s1600/IMG_7745.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTKdZrehvrqjrm1pa36OMsskcDVgw5ZQjol7L4YbHS2ozHtPCDERZF1Ciit9cW5xZmIfGQ2k6mJtRTQD_x3UcGGpCF4HG5w5-S3kipaQlCCsvE_LyYWlzABibif8WDKJ_qHRPnq26kCfQ/s640/IMG_7745.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nola and Raelyn toasting with their champagne in Gye sur Seine</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Biking through the tulip fields in Lisse, Holland- May 2011</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-90961091575548691702011-05-09T13:19:00.000-07:002011-05-09T13:19:28.882-07:00Travel Plans: Points to ConsiderOne of my goals for this year in Paris has been to take advantage of the excellent public transportation infrastructure plus close proximity to other countries and explore France and Europe as much as possible. The girls' 2-week school vacations that occur every 6-8 weeks throughout the year provide ample opportunity to broaden our horizons beyond Paris. It has been difficult to create a list of priority destinations with so many wonderful and exciting locales to choose from. Germany, Spain, Italy, and the Czech Republic? Check. Greece, Egypt, and Morroco? No longer at the top of our list at the moment for obvious reasons. <br />
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Soren's business travel expenses means we have <i>beaucoup</i> points accrued with Starwood Hotels through our American Express card. I felt confident that we could spend the year lodging in style all over Europe with automatic upgrades due to his platinum status with Starwood's Preferred Guest program without paying a dime in hotels such as Le Meridiens and Westins. Our avoidance of forking over almost $1.50 for every Euro spent on lodging made this plan ultra appealing to me.<br />
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I have lost count of the number of times Soren has called home from a business trip to report that he was well ensconced in a suite at the W Hotel in Manhattan or some other similar hip or luxurious locale. "I checked in and they gave me this room with a view, a living room, and two flat screens," became an eventual superfluous description from Soren since these upgrades became the norm rather than the exception. The only problem was that I was not there to enjoy these suites with him. That was all going to change according to my master travel plan for our year abroad.<br />
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Boy, was I wrong.<br />
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Soren's platinum status expired at the end of December because he did not accrue the minimum number of stays required to maintain it in 2010. Buh-bye automatic upgrades. Luckily, we had one last hurrah in the form of a free night with upgrade that had to be redeemed by the end of the year. We made a date night out of it in October by staying at Paris's Hotel Prince de Galles in a sophisticated and expansive suite with a lovely sitting room and beautiful garden terrace overlooking picturesque Parisian rooftops.<br />
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And this is where the luxury ends and reality sets in.<br />
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The Starwood chain does not have hotels located in many of the places that have been on our itinerary. The Loire Valley, region of many of France's famous castles- no Starwoods. Normandy, infamous D-Day locale- no Starwoods. Brugges, Belgium and Den Haag, Holland- again, no Starwoods. Soren's thousands of Starwood points are useless to us in these places.<br />
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Furthermore, in some of the larger European cities, if they have a Starwood hotel with rooms available using points, it's usually a Sheraton- at the airport- which means we'd be lodging several miles outside the city's center and listening to planes flying overhead all night long. Not appealing, even if we are paying with points instead of cash.<br />
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The final culprit of my master travel plan has been space. As in, not enough of it. Granted, space is a relative term, and, as an American, I am used to more of it, including in my hotel rooms. My visions of master suites dancing in my head faded away for good when we learned that the majority of standard European hotel rooms can only accommodate up to a maximum of 3 persons. That includes a roll-away bed which, naturally, adds an extra 50 euros per night. Therefore, a family of four is required to reserve two rooms. Two rooms = double points = defeat of master travel plan simply because the rate at which we would have used our points would leave us with a bankrupt Starwood account before our year abroad is barely at the half-way mark. <br />
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So, what does an American budget-conscious family do? This family opts for Novotel, Europe's answer to affordable, modern, clean, and family-friendly hotel accommodations. Luxurious suites? No. But, large rooms, free all-you-can-eat breakfast buffets, game rooms, and central locations are a plus. Given the weak U.S. dollar, a free family meal once a day while traveling is a relief. Raelyn and Nola like the Novotel breakfasts so much that they beg us to return to our Novotels for dinner. Not happening. They would also loose all track of time in the game room if we allowed that to happen. Let's see, what shall we do today? Castles, museums, and historical points of interest? Or play <i>Toy Story</i> on the Xbox?<br />
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It just occurred to me to keep that option in mind as a stand-in babysitter for our next get-away. Raelyn and Nola will never even know Soren and I have left the hotel. If our girls' delight with the Novotel is any indication of their interest in the finer things in life, then frankly, I am glad to not have the opportunity to waste our Starwood points on them.<br />
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So even though my master plan went awry, we have still managed to see and do amazing things all over Europe while lodging comfortably and economically. Soren and I will simply need to find a way to continue this sense of adventure back home by tapping into our remaining Starwood points next year. Hmm, I think I'm liking this plan better anyway...ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-5803214121514114492011-03-27T14:49:00.000-07:002011-03-27T14:53:44.466-07:00Customer ServassIn Paris, customer service is almost as elusive as Big Foot. I am not the first person to write about this fact, but now I can write about it from the perspective of my own numerous experiences. The ubiquitous principle in the States, "The customer is always right", is the exact opposite in France. As a Parisian consumer, one becomes accustomed to being made to feel small, insignificant, bothersome, and/or just plain wrong.<br />
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Take for example, restaurants (the ones without those little Michelin stars). Waiters do not work for tips, therefore, their attitude of annoyance at even our tiniest and most basic request, such as, "<i>Le addition</i> (the bill),<i> si vous plait</i>?" will not affect their take-home pay. Soren and I ate lunch with friends recently at a popular establishment frequented by Parisians. This place, we were told, serves a fabulous <i>Magret du Canard</i>. They must have had to go out to the country after our order to slash the ducks' throats and pluck their feathers before bringing them back to the restaurant for cooking because an hour after ordering, still no <i>Magret du Canard </i>at our table. Our friend, who speaks better French than Soren, got the attention of our busy waiter and inquired about our lengthy wait. In response, our waiter shrugged his shoulders, looked miffed, and basically retorted something hautily French along the lines of, "What can I say, it's taking long because it's taking long." Fifteen minutes later, our meals arrived without any acknowledgment or apology. And no free drinks or dessert as compensation either! Alas, this is the French way.<br />
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It is also the French way to charge customers money when we call the customer service department of say, the electric company, who charges us twenty cents a minute on top of the initial 1.20 euros we're charged to make the call in the first place. Is this backwards or what? The obvious question is what incentive do these companies have to provide efficient service in the first place when they make more money if they are anything but?<br />
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Last month, while browsing in a shoe store, I noticed a style in the window display that I wanted to try. I knew better than to touch it (see previous post <i>"Shopping: Je Ne Comprend Pas"</i>). Upon hearing my request, the clerk tells me that shoe is unavailable in my size. However, I see that the one on display is, in fact, my size. I indicate this knowledge to her and she flatly refused to allow me to try it. I am so perplexed by this logic; obviously, the store will make money from the sale of those shoes, right? Aren't businesses in the business of making money? I am beginning to think French businesses are in the business of pissing off customers by not giving them what they want.<br />
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Case in point: the grocery store. I have witnessed shoppers present coupons only to be lectured by the cashier and eventually, the manager, about how and why the coupon cannot and will not be honored. I am fairly certain it's not a simple matter of an expired coupon date because the conversations that I have witnessed between employees and customers have lasted too long and are way too contentious. Of course, I always unwittingly wind up in line behind these coupon-bearing customers. My best guess is that the customers have presented their coupons midway through the check-out process and the store's antiquated computer system is incapable of processing a coupon for an item that has already been scanned. I imagine that updating their computer system would obsolete the long-standing rules and procedures that managers and employees believe to be the cornerstone of their (unfriendly and inefficient) business model.<br />
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Speaking of antiquated, we take our dry cleaning to a 'presse' that does not have a modern computer system logging their customer's transactions by their name, address, and/or phone number. We had not given any thought to their outmoded system until one day, Soren arrived at the presse to pick up his dress shirts. He came back to the apartment empty-handed, explaining that he did not have his claim ticket with him upon pick-up. "Can't they look you up in their computer," I asked? Uh, no. See, it works like this- no ticket, no shirts.<br />
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The lady at the presse told Soren that he needs to go home and find his ticket. Soren unsuccessfully searched through every pocket, shopping bag, and trash can hoping to find this darned ticket. The only hope he had now was that the written description (in French) of his shirts that he left with the presse lady along with his mobile number would result in a phone call from her explaining that she had found his shirts.<br />
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The next day we passed by the presse while out running errands and Soren decided to give it another try because he noticed that a different lady was behind the counter. This lady clearly did not want to be bothered because she coldly and dismissively told Soren, "<i>Vous venez demain à 13:00h</i>." Does she know for a fact that his shirts are going to decide to appear exactly at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow or is there actually going to be an employee present at that time who will actually help to find them? <br />
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The next day's agenda was completely structured around this 1:00 p.m. call-time at the presse. Cold Lady was there again, and she was no warmer today than yesterday- in fact, she pulled a diva maneuver on me when I attempted to film Soren speaking French to the other nicer presse lady. Cold Lady put her hand in front of my little Flip video camera and told me not to film. I explained, in French, that I was filming only my husband. The other nice presse lady was smiling at me, but Cold Lady would have none of it. So I stopped filming. It is Cold Lady's voice you hear at the end of this short clip, telling me not to film:<br />
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Nice Lady explained that we needed to walk next door and enter the door code that would allow us passage into the back of the presse. But why? Amidst the strong dry cleaning odor and the hundreds of bagged clothes hanging from the mechanical rack, I wondered, "How many other customers get to come back here because of a lost ticket?" At this point, Soren was asked what day and time he had originally dropped off his shirts. As the wife (a.k.a. The House Manager), I obediently replied since I retain all kinds of useful information that pertains to the daily managing of our life while Soren retains other kinds of information that does not leave room in his brain for dates and times of dry cleaning drop offs.<br />
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Nice Lady proceeded to use this data to search through the computer, presumably to pinpoint where, on this mechanical rack, we would have the best chance of finding Soren's shirts. If this is the format under which they store their data, why didn't one of the presse ladies ask Soren this question two days ago? Granted, a lost claim ticket does present the presse with a nuisance given their outdated system of record-keeping, but certainly it's their obligation to do their best to find their customer's items, right? Apparently not. Instead, it is the customer's responsibility to do so which was made evident when Nice Lady demonstrated to Soren how to operate the mechanical rack by pushing the green button to start it moving and the red button to stop it. She had more important things to do like attend to the other customers waiting at the counter so she left us to fend for ourselves. We couldn't believe this was happening. I was excited to film this novel experience, but I was hesitant because of the presence of Cold Lady. "Screw it," I thought, "I'm filming!" That didn't go over very well with Soren or Cold Lady as seen in these next two clips:<br />
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Soren started and stopped the machine several times as we searched in vain through other customers' shirts to find his. Every few minutes, Nice Lady had to interrupt our search so that she could operate the rack to find the clothes of the customers at the counter. Eventually, I spotted the shoulder of one of Soren's shirts peeking through the clear plastic garment bag just as Nice Lady found the computer record of the date and time of Soren's drop-off. Turns out that I was off by a day. It's not like I have a computer for a brain, but I'll bet that my brain operates more effectively and efficiently than most French businesses. This was proven beyond a reasonable doubt when Nice Lady filled out a handwritten claim form, requested Soren's signature, then proceeded to staple this form into a large three-ring binder full of similar claim forms belonging to the elite group of others who, like us, have been granted access to the back of the presse to find their clothing items.<br />
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Another recent example of the glaringly different mindsets regarding customer service occurred at the fitness club. The three or four mornings a week that I exercise there I see the same cleaning team, a man and a woman, who diligently mop the floors, wipe down the machines, buff the mirrors, clean the toilets and tidy the locker room. The lady seems nice enough. I have seen other gym members conversing with her and I have said my pleasant and polite "<i>Bonjours</i>," to her when I pass by. <br />
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Sometimes, since I quickly get bored with the machines and nautilus equipment, I set myself up in the aerobics studio with a little circuit training that includes a floor mat, a step, free weights, and my gliders (round neoprene discs) that I bring from home. Two weeks ago, I was working out with this setup and Cleaning Lady entered the studio with her large dry mop. At the time, I was in the middle of a set of tricep dips that I do using the storage locker for the sound system since it is about the height of a workout bench. Near me was the step and my other equipment. In the back of the studio were two older men completing reps of their Jane Fonda floor exercises. From across the room I could tell that Cleaning Lady was speaking to me. I removed my headphones to better hear her, and, not surprisingly, I couldn't understand what she was saying, but, since context is key when trying to understand a French person speaking French, I pretty much assumed she was asking me to move my stuff. With my few words of French and my pantomiming, my hunch was confirmed and I heeded her request to move the equipment to the front corner of the room so that she could clean that section of the floor. I didn't mind at first, I was nearing the end of my workout routine for the day and it hadn't occurred to me to be anything but accommodating. Yet, afterward, as I rode home on the Metro, I couldn't help but think about how the cleaning crew at Renaissance Clubsport in Walnut Creek would never inconvenience a member in the middle of their workout. <br />
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Fast forward to last Friday. Same scenario, only this time Cleaning Lady was armed with a vacuum and I was in the middle of a cardio portion of my interval training. In the mirrors in front of me, I eyed her circling the room with that vacuum, moving ever so diligently closer to me and my equipment. As I was in the middle of some jump squats, I decided then and there that if she asks me to move, I will not accomodate her request for two main reasons: I am growing weary of being inconvenienced as a French customer and, at this particular moment, I was in the middle of my workout and happened to be in a really good grove with a really good tune playing on my iPod. Sure enough, she asked me to move. Without missing a beat or a jumpsquat, I looked her squarely in the eye and said, "<i>Non</i>." Cleaning Lady's eyes widened with surprise momentarily, then narrowed with a flash of anger. I can imagine the frustration she was feeling at knowing that she could not communicate with me since she already knew I am a non-French speaker for I too was feeling the same frustration. I wish I had been able to clarify my defiance and explain to Cleaning Lady that that I pay membership fees to workout at this gym and that a portion of my fees contribute to her salary and therefore, as the customer, I expect to workout without being interrupted. To drive my point home further, I would add that her interrupting my aerobic studio workout is no different than if she had asked me to get off the treadmill in the middle of my run so that she could wipe down the machine and since I have never seen that happen, certainly, the same courtesy can be extended to me in the studio. Obviously, much remained unspoken between us and she left the studio shortly thereafter, but not before AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" came on and a feisty feeling flooded my body and I began my next set which coincidentally happened to be a two-punch roundhouse kick combo. Cleaning Lady's been thunderstruck by the <i>Américain</i>e and doesn't know what hit her. I do feel a little bit bad, but not really. The <i>(Américaine) </i>customer is <i>always</i> right, right?<br />
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Boutique clothing stores in our neighborhood are one place that I have experienced customer service; the kind which makes me usually want to shoo the clerk away like a pesky fly. Back home, I am familiar with the stores that use 'hard sell' commision-based tactics and I avoid them almost at all costs. But these Parisian boutiques have so many unique fashionable items, plus, these smaller stores are not heated to sauna temperatures- unlike the grand Parisian department stores- so I grin and bear the hovering of these boutique clerks. <br />
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In these small establishments I have no way to blend in with other shoppers (I am oftentimes the clerk's sole customer) or ensconce myself with a rounder of clothes in the far back. I become the clerk's mission; they want to succeed in selling me something- anything- even if it looks like crap when I try it on. I have learned that they will tell me that pants that have an extra inch around the waist look, "<i>Tres adorable</i>!" while they bring me a belt and proceed to cinch it around my waist, hoping, I'm sure, to sell more items ("I sold the <i>Américain</i> pants and a belt!"). A shirt with absolutely nothing flattering to offer my frame or skin tone will be lauded as, "<i>Magnifique</i>!" and anytime I am in a dressing room for more than 3 minutes, the clerk asks me, "Madame, everything is okay?" as if I may have vanished into thin air behind the curtain. I hate Paris boutique dressing rooms. They are the size of a phone booth and there are no mirrors. The mirror is always inconveniently located on the wall outside of the dressing rooms so that customers are forced to emerge and subject themselves to the eagerly awaiting sales clerk so he or she can start laying on the frequently false compliments. <br />
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Once, there was a male sales clerk that was so intent on sharing his opinion with me that he tried every possible way he could think of (in less-than-perfect English) to express himself, albeit unsuccesfully. I had tried on a dress that I had decided I liked very much. He concurred, however, he was not fully satisfied with his assessment and he asked me to show him my "form" so that he could determine which type of something- either there was not an English equivalent word or he could not recall the correct word or words- I'm not sure, but apparently, this dress called for that very something and he was determined to go fetch it for me. But first, I had to show him my "form". Thank goodness he was gay (at least I was 99% sure) because my natural assumption that he was asking to check out my ass did not bother me much at all. Yet, showing him my backside did not satisfy his need to know what 'form' I currently have. I then figured he was inquiring as to the type of underwear I had on. Again, thank goodness I'm thinking he's gay at this point because I nonchalantly replied, "Thong," while pantomiming a narrow strip with my thumb and forefinger. Still, this left him unsatisfied. He struggled a bit longer, trying to explain himself. Finally, I asked him, with obvious dismay, "You want to see my underwear?!" Shocked, his eyes bugged out and his hand flew up to his pursed mouth while his cheeks flushed a bright shade of crimson. "<i>Madame, non</i>! <i>Désolé</i>, <i>non</i>! <i>Oh la la</i>, <i>non</i>! I am not that way, I say this to you! Forgive me, my English is bad!"<br />
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Now I feel terrible! I have completely embarrassed this guy- we were having a complete misunderstanding- he was simply trying to be (overly) helpful and sell me both the dress and the something else that apparently, was not underwear. Pink Cheeks then dashed away, presumably ashamed by his English skills and his assumed offense. I reentered my dressing room actually quite amused- this was the most enjoyable pesky clerk experience yet. It's not often that I get to experience a stranger trying to check out my over 40-year-old ass- imagined or real, gay or straight, and my ego certainly is not going to be picky. Better yet, I got a great dress and a great memory! I am still dying to know what the heck Pink Cheeks was trying to ask me. I do give the guy an 'A' for effort- he puts the 'A' in customer servass, that's for sure!ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-71841780172485745012011-03-01T15:48:00.000-08:002011-03-01T15:48:58.372-08:00Touchpoints- 0 to 6 MonthsThe decision to travel back to the states for a home visit during the girls' two-week February break was originally one that I had to think about for a few days before embracing the idea. When Soren suggested it, back in December, I had some initial resistance because I had done a lot of work to mentally prepare myself last year that I would (and could) endure the entire upcoming year living outside of my comfort zone. Heading home felt to me, at first, like a cop-out. I was hung up on needing to prove to myself that I could last a whole year in Paris as an expat without caving into my periodic feelings of homesickness. I was also worried that visiting home would create resistance (within both me and my children) to returning to Paris for the next six months. Thankfully, I got over these feelings, told Soren to book our flights, and together, we decided to keep our trip a secret from the girls. I love a good surprise, and I had an intense sense of gratification pulling this one off when the girls and I arrived at Paris's Charles de Gaulle airport. <br />
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It was a fast and frenzied two weeks at home, but now that I am on the other side of my visit, I can frame up our experience in the context of the book, <i>Touchpoints,</i> by Dr. T. Berry Brazelton (who just happened to be Soren's pediatrician when he lived in Boston briefly as a child). <i>Touchpoints- Birth to Three</i> is a manual about expected childhood developmental milestones that I poured over as an expectant parent more than eleven years ago.<br />
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It occurred to me that expatriats experience a relatively standard set of developmental milestones too. The developmental expatriat milestones that my family (individually and collectively) has moved through in our first six months as expats in Paris started to reveal themselves on our journey back home. The girls and I had just arrived at our crowded gate area in the Washington Dulles airport and found seats while waiting to board our San Francisco-bound flight. Within a few minutes Nola turned to me and exclaimed, "Mom, people are so loud here!" Yep, she's right about that one, Americans are much noisier than the French in public spaces. The next day, while out and about in Walnut Creek, Raelyn complained, "Mom, we're too dressed up!" In actuality, the girls were not wearing anything fancy, they were simply wearing their Parisian clothes which does not include the California wardrobe staples of baggy jeans or sweatpants, t-shirts with logos and/or screen prints, white sneakers, crocs, or flip-flops, basketball shorts, and baggy sweatshirts. I love that they are able to notice these cultural relativities with such apparent ease. <br />
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One of our Walnut Creek outings was a trip to Nordstrom to purchase a pair of shoes for Nola. While I appreciated being in a department store without feeling like I was going to die of heat stroke, what I appreciated even more, was Nola's lack of shyness and her refined behavior. Upon concluding the purchase, Nola, unprompted by me, turned to the saleswoman and politely said, "Thank you, goodbye," as if doing so was as second-nature as breathing. It dawned on me in that moment that the past six months of forcing Nola to live outside of her comfort zone has produced an unexpected gain in her confidence and politeness. Training the girls to take initiative and say <i>bonjour</i>, <i>au revoir</i>, and<i> merci </i>when in a Parisian place of business as is the 'French way', has paid off in that they unconsciously applied these skills at home too. I love that they have two sets of cultural norms to now draw upon moving forward in life. Social studies are really so much richer when experienced rather than taught. Too bad high school social studies programs can't afford international field trips.<br />
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Another thing that I found especially endearing was Raelyn's continued use of French with her immediate family even after the plane touched down in San Francisco; her simple comments and questions about what she saw, ate, or needed- in French. I got the sense that she wanted to remain tied to her life in Paris; speaking French was her way of accomplishing this. Raelyn and Nola are straddling two worlds now, it's fun to see them navigate this fact. <br />
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One of the ways this straddling of two worlds shows itself is by the polarities of appreciation and disgust we feel for attributes of both cultures. For example, the first thought that popped into my head while walking to baggage claim at SFO was, "There are so many overweight people here." This reality is a no-brainer, however, having been removed from this milieu for a period of time brought the contrast into sharp focus for me along with feelings of disgust for America's gluttonous ways. (Cheesecake Factory anyone?)<br />
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To contrast this issue further, I must mention the dichotomy between a group of American women ordering dessert versus a group of French women doing the same. As is almost always the case when I dine with American friends, when the time comes to order dessert, we banter back and forth about whether or not anyone wants dessert in the first place. Then, when we finally (and predictably) decide to share one, none of us wants to be the one to choose it. Meanwhile, our patient waiter is surely trying his or her best not to eyeroll us while probably thinking, "Great, another calorie-counting group of 40-somethings. Just pick something dammit!" When our one dessert finally arrives, we take turns having bites, sometimes leaving a last little bit in the dish, other times urging the others to take the last bite as if doing so ourselves would put us over the top. Honestly, one fourth of one dessert is not going to make any of us look like those overly large people I noticed at SFO (Cheesecake Factory desserts excluded). <br />
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In Paris retaurants, dessert is the rule, not the exception. One dessert per person is the norm in fact. Even at lunchtime. I have nothing against my American friends who shy away from desserts, but it has been really refreshing to be with my French friends and experience them not dithering over the matter. They order, they eat, and, more importantly, they enjoy without guilt or worry. It's liberating to live in a culture where the mindset seems to be 'indulge in all things pleasurable with moderation'. <br />
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Smoking apparently, is not on the moderation list. During our visit to Walnut Creek, I was able to enjoy running outdoors without inhaling any second-hand smoke. When I run to and on the <i>Promenade </i><em>Plantée</em> in Paris, I pass by many a cigarette smoker, all of whom just happen to be exhaling at that moment. Yuck. I think the health benefits of my running may actually be counteracted by the quantity of second-hand smoke that I have inhaled in the past six months. And that's not even counting the amount I inhale if we choose to dine al fresco at a cafe. Parisian smokers have been banned from the interior of restaurants, but this means we non-smoking diners have a tough choice to make when the weather is beautiful. I really appreciate California's stricter smoking regulations and the increased freedom of choice I have there because of them. <br />
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The next appreciation is simple: Mexican food. I greatly appreciate tasty, authentic Mexican food. I miss it terribly. I gorged on it as much as I could while at home. Parisians don't know what they are missing.<br />
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Driving- like riding a bike, you never forget. Six months of not sitting behind a wheel and I picked it right back up again. I could tell my car missed me. I can't say I feel the same about my car though. Paris's Metro can't beat driving (or Bart, obviously) in my opinion. I'd much rather people-watch while commuting somewhere than have to pay attention to stop signs and traffic lights. As I was telling many friends back home, I now have the intent to park my car at Whole Foods or Target, rolling cart in hand, and circle Walnut Creek in pursuit of my errands. Walking the length of downtown Walnut Creek does not seem unreasonable at all. City living has completely changed my perspective on distances. I vow to become recognizable to Walnut Creek strangers as, "That 'walking woman'".<br />
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Our very satitsfying and full life in Walnut Creek was so nice to delve back into. Friends and family galore, including our two new nephews who were born during our stay, were soaked up as much as possible. I miss this life. However, it was evident that the trappings of such a full life can often include an overall lack of balance, or at least the challenge of creating balance, and we felt that tug-of-war almost immediately upon our return. So many friends, family, and things to do and not enough time compared with life in Paris where we feel like time is on our side. Granted, our Paris social and family life is less full, but if it weren't, Sundays, at a minimum, would be set aside for family and friends as is the cultural norm here. Not soccer games, errands, and paying bills. Imagine if American retail stores closed their doors on Sundays. I told you I love a good fantasy.<br />
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I have grown accustomed (kind of) to frequent feelings of helplessness and inadequacy in my Paris life. So, it was with great relief that for two weeks I had no difficulty communicating with anyone (husband and children excluded) or getting my daily needs met in and around Walnut Creek. Life is so much easier when people speak my language (again, husband and children excluded).<br />
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In contrast, just yesterday, I had three experiences of helplessness in fairly rapid succession. That morning, I had to call the girls' school to inform them of their absence due to illness. Their previous absences had been called in by Soren so, because of my novice status, I wrote out my French script, practiced it out loud with Raelyn, and made the call. I read my script beautifully. But then the secretary spoke. What she said, I have no idea- she spoke so darned fast! So I repeated my script, unable to mask the nervousness in my voice this time. By now, Raelyn had come over to listen in and help translate. This helped a bit, but finally, the secretary said something neither of us understood. While Raelyn and I were staring at each other wide-eyed and paralyzed, the secretary could be heard over the speaker, "<i>Allo, allo</i>?" Finally, as I started to stammer a response, she hung up on me. Can't say that I blame her. The saving grace is that Raelyn did hear the secretaty say that she would inform their teacher. That's all that really mattered anyway.<br />
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Next up, I needed to find out from our Parisian doctor if I had to schedule an office visit for what I suspected was a case of conjunctivitis. That meant I needed to track down Soren at his hotel in Atlanta so that he could phone the doctor's office in case the French-speaking receptionist answered. After the secretary fiasco, I was not up for another attempt at phone communication. "No visit needed," reported Soren, after he called, "Go to the pharmacy and buy these medications instead," he directed me.<br />
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Off to the pharmacy I went disguising my three-day old outfit of sweats with tall boots and a long coat. Due to the girls' illnesses, I had not left the apartment since my immediate grocery run upon returning from the airport last Friday. Why hadn't I thought of this shortcut to getting dressed for errands in Paris before? Heck, I could even venture out in pajamas, at least in the winter time, and nobody would be the wiser. I entered the pharmacy with my trusty piece of paper in hand listing the required medications. Soren assured me that the Asian pharmacist that works at our local pharmacy speaks English. The only problem was that he was helping another customer so I got the help of the French pharmacist. I spoke about the problem and my needs in French, including my standard apology for my terrible French and that I really only speak English. She proceeded to tell me how to administer these medications and I pantomimed the request that she write it down. I understood her to ask me how I was going to understand her writing. Hasn't she ever heard of Google Translate? When it came time to pay, I handed her my credit card. No go. Cash only. But why? She repeated the amount and I heard her say fifty- something euros. My wallet contained a fifty euro bill and a twenty euro bill. I handed both bills to her. She looked shocked and handed the bills back to me. She repeated the amount, more slowly this time, and I realized that the causes of my mistake were twofold: I have the obvious language barrier working against me, and, I also have the cultural relativity of health care warping my ability to understand too. She did not say, "<i>Cinquante</i> (50)," rather, she said, "<i>Cinq</i> (5)," and some odd euros. This explained her not accepting my credit card; the transaction amount was not great enough. This also explained why I thought I heard 'fifty' since back home, medications are quite expensive and I was conditioned to fork over a large amount of dough for them. As the pharmacist gave back my fifty euro bill she said, in English no less, "You are much too generous!". Okay lady, here's the thing- you know that I am struggling my ass off trying to communicate and understand here and, all along, you could have chosen to speak at least some English and make it easier and less stressful for me. If you know those particular English words, not to mention your ability to infuse sarcasm with that statement, then clearly, your English is way better than my French. Come on, throw me a bone! This is not the first, and certainly won't be the last time I interface with a French person who clearly delights in the pleasure of seeing us foreigners struggle with their beautiful language only, at the last moment, to drop us a hint of their English skills. To top it off, upon my turning around to exit the pharmacy, I crashed into the lip balm display proving, without a doubt, that speaking French is not the only way to demonstrate how lame I can be sometimes. I don't believe clumsiness is a developmental milestone for expats, but if it were, I'd probably make a great case study. <br />
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Amazon.com<br />
<i>Touchpoints for Expats- 0 to 6 months </i><br />
Holli Rae Kaplan<br />
<br />
<i></i>All over the U.S. and in over twenty countries around the world, <i>Touchpoints</i> has become required reading for anxious expatriates. Holli Kaplan's great empathy for the universal concerns of expats, and honesty about the complex feelings the experience engenders, as well as her uncanny insight into the predictable leaps and regressions of the expat experience, have comforted and supported expats since its original publication. <br />
Kaplan introduces information on physical, emotional, and behavioral implications of the expat experience. She also addresses the new stresses on families and fears of children, with a fresh focus on the role of language barriers, cultural misunderstandings, and homesickness. Kaplan brings an expat's insights into the many perennial issues covered in this comprehensive book. No expat should be without the reassurance and wisdom <i>Touchpoints</i> provides.<br />
Read about these issues and more: <br />
<ul><li>language barriers </li>
<li>lonliness, isolation, and homesickness </li>
<li>helplessness</li>
<li>cultural relativity </li>
<li>straddling two worlds </li>
<li>new and unusual foods</li>
<li>expat children </li>
</ul>So, you see, I got rolling with one of my fantasies here. It was so easy to paste Brazelton's book synopsis and change some wording. Thank you to those of you readers and supporters out there who have planted this little seed for me. It will be fun to explore the possibilities of my writing and see where it all leads...ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-86987335310758605442011-02-03T12:14:00.000-08:002011-02-03T12:14:41.916-08:00Shabbat For DummiesLast Saturday we were invited by another family of relatives to their home in Paris's 16th arrondissment for a Shabbat lunch. Sylvia, Gerard, their son Nicolas, and his (American) girlfriend, Daniella were wonderful company. This is the second time we have taken a Shabbat lunch at their home. The first took place in November 2009 when we first brought Raelyn and Nola to Paris to interview at the private bilingual school we thought they would attend. That was during Nola's super short haircut phase when most people naturally assumed she was a boy. Therefore, as the yarmulkes were being passed around the table as we approached to take our seats, Nola was handed one to put on her head. She did, momentarily, then bashfully and stealthily removed it and put it in her lap. Getting this girl to remember to put her napkin in her lap at the table is not so easy, so I wasn't about to complain that she was putting at least <i>something</i> there to start the mind-body connection and muscle memory for that kind of motion. <br />
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I guess we didn't pay close enough attention to the rituals of a Shabbat meal that first time because this time, after Gerard recited the pre-meal blessing, cut the challah, and passed the slices around our table, Soren said to me, "Oh, we can't forget to tell Sylvia about meeting Edith Kaplan!" He then turned to Sylvia, "Do you know an *Edith Kaplan?" Sylvia smiled politely and softly nodded 'yes', while making the 'zip your lip' motion with her fingers across her mouth. Apparently, one cannot speak after the blessing and before the consuming of the challah or else Gerard needs to repeat the blessing all over again. Oops. They were kind enough to let this little goof slip. Next time I go to the English bookstore I am going to be sure to pick up my copy of <i>Shabbat For Dummies</i>. I'm just glad it was Soren's naive goof and not mine.<br />
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Last week, Sylvia sent Soren a very conscientious e-mail inquiring about the foods that we do not eat. She wanted to be sure to ask because she thought she remembered that we do not eat meat of any kind, nor fish, nor dairy, nor eggs. The poor woman must have been wondering what in the heck she could serve for protein besides tofu or beans for us silly vegans from California. I was grateful that she remembered the fact that we do have some limitations about what we eat (red meat) and cared enough to ask so that we could reassure her that we are not vegans. Sylvia served us a delicious meal consisting of caprese salad, asparagus spears with vinaigrette, white fish with dill sauce, scalloped potatoes, a medley of green beans, carrots, and mushrooms, and, before dessert, the French tradition of a green salad. Dessert was a tray full of mouth-watering vegan pastries. I can assure you that mouth-watering and vegan can and do belong in the same sentence. (If you have never been to the vegan restaurant, Millenium, in San Francisco, I highly recommend it. It's one of my top five restaurants). Sylvia explained to us (dummies) that had she served meat for the main course, the vegan desserts would be necessary due to Kosher requirements. <br />
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After the wonderful meal, the girls eagerly opened the gift of Monopoly that Sylvia gave to them. Nola, especially, was overjoyed to receive this gift as Monopoly had grown to become her favorite game in the year leading up to our move to Paris. Regrettably, we left it at home and she has had to devote her game-playing time to Scrabble and Apples to Apples. It was interesting to examine the French Monopoly board and discover the names given to each property, most of which, I could not pronounce. Nola was extremely satisfied by winning the game, in French no less and, due to her pleading, we have played three times since Sylvia's and it's only Wednesday! Thank goodness for the newly added speed die that makes the game progress more quickly. Nola wins at Monopoly every time, that girl always has a strategy up her sleeve. Since she seems to be such a tycoon, perhaps Soren and I should enlist her help in acquiring some of our own properties right here in the hip and oh-so-now neighborhood of the Marais? After all, a decent flat starts at just one-and-a-half million euros for 100 square meters (1070 square feet) which is only $2, 070,000. If you happen to be visiting Paris and you see a nice-looking couple (if I do say so myself) stopping to gaze at the ads posted in the windows of every Paris real estate office, that's likely us. Daydreaming all over Paris. If only Monopoly money was real...I do love a good fantasy.<br />
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The reality, however, is that playing French board games is a great way to further cement the girls' language skills. It was amazing to witness Nola reading her 'Community Chest' card and amusing to hear Raelyn chant, "<i>Allez au prison!</i>" Towards the end of our afternoon, Sylvia's phone rang and since Raelyn was nearby, she was asked to answer it. Raelyn had a brief moment of panic, but we assured her that she could manage and she simply had to say, "<i>Allo</i>?" and take it from there. Her words were brief, and I don't think her sense of panic calmed down any, but I was still a proud mama. I can't even get past the "<i>Allo?</i>" part of answering the phone here. I wonder if there's a book for dummies about that?<br />
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<i>*Edith Kaplan is a middle-aged woman that our relative, Aline (See previous post, Three Months To Magic), introduced me to a few weeks ago when I was hanging out at the flea market (drinking wine mid-day and having an outdoor lunch with Aline and her fellow vendors). Edith owns two of her own stalls at Paul Bert and she sells vintage haute couture and designer labels. I brought Soren back later in the week to introduce him to Edith because she is married to a man whose father was the brother of Soren's great-grandfather, Georges Kaplan. Turns out, Edith and Aline (whose sister, Violaine, was married to Soren's grandfather, Jacques Kaplan, Georges' son, for twenty-five years) have known each other for many years due to working at the same market and only learned about this familial connection through some happenstance conversation about four years ago.</i> <i>Edith was very enthusiastic to meet a Kaplan relative and the next thing Soren knew, he was put on Edith's cell phone to speak to her husband to discuss the family tree- in French. Soren is fairly certain that Edith's husband said this new discovery would motivate him to organize a family reunion before we return to the U.S. Et, viola! The power of this millenium's three degrees of separation!</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boxed wine and charcuterie never tasted better.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They promised that when I visit them in the Springtime they'll teach me the card game "<i>Belot</i>".</td></tr>
</tbody></table>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-58033129831903976542011-01-30T03:34:00.000-08:002011-01-30T03:42:27.765-08:00Street SmartsWalking as much as I do in Paris has required that I develop a new set of guiding principles to assist me in navigating various obstacles during my hours spent as a pedestrian in this (perplexing) 'city of lights' (and poop, tripping hazards, and overzealous street cleaners).<br />
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By now, six months into this blog, I must sound like a broken record for going on and on about the dog poop found on the sidewalks, gutters, streets, and even in the Metro stations. I am still uncertain if the Metro poops are of canine origin. But I do know one thing- I am missing out on lots of sightseeing and people-watching since most of the time my eyes are looking downward while scanning approximately ten feet ahead (at least my mountain bike training is proving to be useful) for any upcoming nuggets, piles, smears, logs, or skids in varying shades of brown.<i> Guiding principle #1: Scan my environment.</i><br />
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At least once a day, if not I, then another Kaplan family member, alerts the rest of us, "Watch out, right there!" while pointing to the offensive outputs of a dog's last meal. It is comforting to know that if I let my guard down for even one second on Guiding Principle #1, that my peeps have got my back. Or rather, my shoes. <i>Guiding principle #2: Warn my loved ones.</i><br />
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My shoes, most of which I adore just a bit too much- especially my Paris-acquired ones- have yet to come in contact with any poop. I have set a goal for myself; to make it through the entire year without stepping in any, and so far, so good. Ironically, the day that I gave Raelyn my old Ugg boots (her foot, at the moment, is also a size 6) she christened them Parisian by promptly stepping in the stuff. Her peeps apparently failed to heed Guiding Principle #2. Thank goodness our building's courtyard has a hose. Raelyn learned how to use it that day. <i>Guiding principle #3: Do not over-parent and do for my children what they can do for themselves (or what I find too disgusting to handle).</i><br />
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The photos below are part of a series of a dozen poop images that I captured with my camera within a two-block stretch of sidewalk between the grocery store and our apartment building. These Parisian streets are filled with so many of these landmines I wish I owned a hovercraft. Even if I manage to miss the main pile, someone else who didn't has subsequently smeared it in various other places on the sidewalk creating even more obstacles<i>. Guiding Principle #4: Footprints are my friend and a warning device for what's ahead. </i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I would not want to own the bike that belongs to this chain.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where there's poop, there's often pee. These double obstacles are the norm. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Footprint warning and additional smear ahead.</td></tr>
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In addition to the landmines in the form of dog poop, Paris is a city that surprises me with its numerous puddles of puke. Sure, Paris is a metropolis full of late-night revelers and homeless alcoholics, but so are San Francisco and L.A. and I can't recall the last time I had to quickly veer left while holding my breath because of vomit on the sidewalk in these two cities. My latest theory is this- the seemingly higher incidence of street vomiting is due to Parisians contracting a food-borne illness from undercooked meat. This notion occurredto me last week as I dined at a restaurant while observing my fellow patrons enjoying their steak tartare. The odds of a Parisian ingesting salmonella or E. coli seem to me to be statistically higher than in L.A. or San Francisco because of the sheer volume of raw meat that is consumed here. Despite the U.S. slaughterhouse methods (<i>Food, Inc.</i> anyone?) which probably means that U.S. raw beef statistically has a higher chance of containing these pathogens, at least most chefs in the U.S. cook the meat long enough to kill them off. It's probably a flimsy theory, but I'm sticking by it. You can thank me for not posting any vomit photos. I actually don't have the stomach to take any. <i>Guiding principle # 5: Continue to refrain from eating raw meat.</i><br />
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With all these messes on the streets of Paris, the city's street cleaners have a very important job. Like all civil servants in Paris, these guys (I have yet to see a female street cleaner) are decked out in their spiffy uniforms; in this case bright kelly green and flourecent citron. They even have matching kelly green vehicles. I am grateful for the bureaucrat whose job it was to decide on the color palette for these uniforms because they are really hard to miss. And it is crucial, if you care to stay dry, to stay out of the street cleaner's way, so I especially appreciate their noticeable attire. <i>Guiding principle #6: Cross to the opposite side of the street when I see a street cleaner person or vehicle approaching. </i>In the video you can see the woman, stage left, who is scurrying to get out of the way...<br />
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In addition to spraying the streets clean with blasts of water, the street cleaners are also responsible for directing the flow of water into the sewer system that snakes its way underneath the city's streets. They do this with rolled up swaths of what appear to be carpet remnants. These damp and dirty rolls can be found on just about every block in the gutter in front of the sewer grate. Sometimes the roll is turned parallel to the street, sometimes it is turned perpendicular depending on which way the street cleaner wants to direct the flow of water. If you have managed to successfully dodge the street cleaner's hose, you still have to manage to jump over the mini rivers that are flowing in the gutters and sometimes out into the streets. <br />
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<i>Guiding principle #7: Employ my puddle-jumping skills when necessary. </i><br />
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Now, if all of this wasn't enough to keep me on my toes while out and about, there are plenty of things that could literally knock me off my feet on these Parisian streets.<i> </i>Living in a society that is not as litigious as my U.S. counterpart means that less attention is payed by the city of Paris towards<i> </i>minimizing potential tripping hazards for its citizens.<i> </i>Soren and I frequently run along Paris's<i> </i><i>Promenade Plantée</i>, several miles of a former elevated train track that has been turned into a beautifully landscaped recreational trail. Fortunately, we have not been tripped up by the metal plates protruding from the pavement along the way, nor the piles of landscape clippings strewn across the path resulting from the hardworking maintenance crew. The City of Walnut Creek would never willingly allow such hazards to exist on their trails and streets.<br />
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I recall reading a Contra Costa Times article about five years ago in which it was explained that the new cobblestone crosswalks that had been installed on the newly-opened section of Locust Street were being replaced because citizens were finding it too difficult to walk upon and a few had even fallen. I would hate to see how these citizens would manage as pedestrians on the streets of cobble-stoned Europe. <i>Guiding principle # 8: Wear sensible (but, of course, fashionable) shoes and continue to scan my environment.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUBdhz4T8xDtZB_J_zN66s3D6rUbNuF6r4M2NJaHKT7vOy2YuhPZq1Xszkr-Xw4B-wXZ9sOkadJpZLniHuwiCiPAsWsqwSyrkwtrTD1xJRNdEu9ftMLbO1RJrdJTNjk-R5KGfa7XkE6o/s1600/IMG_5433.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWUBdhz4T8xDtZB_J_zN66s3D6rUbNuF6r4M2NJaHKT7vOy2YuhPZq1Xszkr-Xw4B-wXZ9sOkadJpZLniHuwiCiPAsWsqwSyrkwtrTD1xJRNdEu9ftMLbO1RJrdJTNjk-R5KGfa7XkE6o/s640/IMG_5433.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of Paris's many sidewalk hazards</td></tr>
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It rains in Paris more often than in Walnut Creek so I almost always have a compact umbrella stashed in my purse. However, I usually only dare to use it when it's really coming down because it is an incredible hassle to jostle myself and my umbrella along the narrow sidewalks of Paris with my fellow umbrella users. I often give up my sidewalk rights to make room for passing pedestrians on clear days. Add umbrellas to the equation and I am looking at a potential poke in the eye and another trip to Dr. Bomhof. <i>Guiding principle # 9: Use my umbrella with extreme care and hope that others do the same.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Umbrellas cannot fit under the scaffolding on the sidewalk. Notice how the umbrella woman is close to receiving a poke in the eye from another umbrella? </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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Imagine my condition had I not been abiding by these nine protective measures: Wet, poop and puke covered shoes, bouts of vomiting, scrapes on my hands and knees from tripping and falling on the sidewalk, and a missing eye. Not a pretty picture. I trust that my guiding principles will keep me safe and sound for the next six months. They have been working well for me so far. <br />
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add to those that already me through my everyday existence.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-22681975331310175632011-01-29T16:09:00.000-08:002011-01-30T02:13:39.400-08:00What's Up Doc?One of my biggest fears about moving to Paris was health care; finding a doctor, which emergency numbers to dial if necessary, knowing the location of the nearest hospital, and how to communicate our needs and problems effectively in a foreign language. Luckily, none of us have any chronic health conditions that need ongoing attention. I really hoped that we would manage to make it through the year without needing to seek medical attention. Wishful thinking. Six months into our life here and we have sought medical assistance twice now. It's been amusingly interesting to compare and contrast the French health care system to that of the U.S.<br />
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We averted our first opportunity to access the French health care system in late August when Raelyn's cast, which was due to come off at a doctor's office at the American Hospital outside of Paris, just happened to unravel itself. Actually, it had a little help in the form of Raelyn taking a bath and then peeling it off of her arm, but it saved us from making the trip all the way out to Neuilly sur Seine when what we really hoped for was to find an English-speaking doctor in our neighborhood. <br />
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Soon after, we learned that if you ask your local pharmacist, they will give you a referral to a doctor in the neighborhood. No need to call a Member Services department to verify that your desired physician is in-network. All that we wanted and got, easily enough, was a good word from the pharmacist about an Eglish-speaking physician that was in-neighborhood. Soren returned from the pharmacy with a little slip of scratch paper upon which the pharmacist had scrawled the doctor's name, address, and phone number. This little slip of paper provided me with much relief. <br />
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By mid-October, we decided that we should take preventative measures, like we do back home every year, and get flu shots. Soren had already received his shot at Kaiser's flu vaccine clinic during one of his business trips back home. Paris, to my knowledge, does not offer any flu vaccine clinics at hospitals or drug stores. Instead, it works like this: First, purchase our flu vaccines at the pharmacy. Each vaccine comes in a small rectangular box stamped with an expiration date. Total cost for three vaccines = 30 euros (Kaiser's flu vaccination clinics = $0). Second, refrigerate the vaccines at home until our appointment time. Third, call and schedule the vaccination appointment with the doctor. Soren did a great job of managing to arrange our appointment in French because the receptionist that answered the phone did not speak English. Finally, arrive at our appointment with our baggie of vaccines. Can you imagine this system in the U.S.? Patients responsible for purchasing, storing, and transporting their own vaccines? We even heard that some French people skip the doctor's visit altogether and simply inject themselves at home. No thank you.<br />
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Upon arriving at the doctor's building, we press the door buzzer to notify him that we have arrived. The building's door buzzes and we enter. We ascend one flight of stairs and reach his office door. The doctor's waiting room, on the other side of this door, is small; a few chairs, an end table with magazines, and a coat rack. What is missing is a receptionist behind a counter, the front office of the doctor's office (a.k.a., the Gatekeeper). With no one to check-in with and officially announce our arrival, we take a seat and wait. Just a few minutes later (as opposed to Kaiser's standard 20 minutes) another door opens and Dr. Bomhof introduces himself to us and ushers us into his office. There is a desk, an exam table, and a credenza filled with books. The doctor takes a seat behind his desk, invites us to take a seat, and we proceed to get acquainted. <br />
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Dr. Bomhof is Dutch, he studied medicine in Paris, and has been here ever since. He is pleasant and personable, his English is excellent. He asked us lots of questions, not about our health history, but about where we are from and what brings us to Paris. The short answer is always, "Because of my husband's work." We never get away with the short answer. It always turns into answering, "What line of work is that?" and then the French are even more curious when they learn Soren is self-employed (entrepreneurs are a rare breed in France) and not an employee of a big company that has stationed us as expats in Paris. Follow-up questions usually include, "Why Paris?", "How long?", and my personal favorite directed at me, "And, what do you do?" Um, it's called trying to raise two decent human beings.<br />
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I had read in one of my books that the French are not into asking about what one <i>does </i>for a living, but rather, what one <i>is</i>. From their perspective however, it is typical for French mothers to have a career, most here do. What they don't understand, however, is that I am not offered government-subsidized child care in my country and that the costs of childcare would likely outweigh my earning potential, not to mention that with a husband who travels a ton, paying somebody else to raise our kids so that I can have a career isn't a choice that works for me. I guess it's just another way of saying that I want to be sure it is my presence that sends my kids to therapy someday rather than my absence.<br />
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After concluding our lengthy introduction (a far cry from Kaiser's 10-minute total visit rule), Dr. Bomhof wants to know why we are interested in receiving the flu vaccine. Short answer: Because we get it every year. "But why?" he inquires, "You are young and healthy, no?" Long answer: Because the U.S. medical profession tell us to, Soren spends a lot of time on planes, and we don't want to get sick and visit you more than we have to. The doctor chuckles. He explains that very few French (under the age of 60) receive an annual flu shot and, in fact, last year, with the H1N1 scare, France organized a flu vaccine campaign that wound up being poorly-received and many vaccinations went to waste. He humored us since we had gone to the trouble of purchasing, refrigerating, and presenting our vaccines to him and injected us despite that fact that he thought we were being a bit silly and overcautious. Total cost for three injections = 50 euros (per-visit copay at Kaiser per our plan = $100. We elected a Kaiser plan with a lower monthly premium but higher copays in order to ensure greater inpatient and long-term care coverage. We see the doctor so infrequently, but every time we do, I think, 'ouch'!). Dr. Bomhof said that we can choose to pay him cash on the spot or send him a check. We payed cash and he wrote a receipt. No front office necessary apparently. I began to wonder where he is hiding the French receptionist that Soren had spoken to originally.<br />
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Fast-forward to mid-January. It is the night before the girls and I are to depart on a train headed to Brugges, Belgium. Soren, who has been in the Netherlands, is meeting us there during his weekend break from teaching at the university in Breda. I was in the kitchen cooking dinner when I hear a shrill scream and loud crying coming from the dining room. It turns out that Nola has been attacked by two dining chairs. One hit her on the back of her head, the other one simultaneously crashed into her nose. I find her crumpled on the floor lying amidst the felled chairs while cradling her head and nose in her hands. She has a huge bump on the back of her head and a gash across the bridge of her nose that is bleeding while it begins to swell (for the unusual story about how this injury occurred, check out Nola's blog:<br />
www.nolasadventureinparis.blogsppot.com). After assessing that her cut did not require stitches, she sat icing her injuries while I googled information about broken noses. Based on what I read, I made an initial judgement call that her nose was not broken. My motto became, 'Have Ibuprofen and BandAids, Will Travel', and off we went to our weekend in Brugges. Nola was a trooper, BandAid and all.<br />
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By the time we returned on Sunday evening, I was beginning to doubt my initial assessment and began to worry that her nose might indeed be broken. On Monday morning, Soren called Dr. Bomhof's office from the Netherlands, expecting to reach the French receptionist, but no one answered the phone, it just rang and rang. At least with Kaiser, the phone is answered, even if you are just listening to Muzak while waiting your turn in the queue, knowing that eventually, someone will pick up. Even if it is to put you back on hold again. Not that I would equate this with true customer service, but at least it's a step in the right direction. The French don't even try to grasp the concept of customer service (except for 5-star hotels and Michelin-rated restaurants) and not receiving a live person or automated greeting at the doctor's office was just another example of this. Soren called again on Tuesday, the phone was answered by the receptionist and he succeeded in making an appointment for Nola.<br />
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When we arrived, we again waited only a few minutes in his waiting room and Dr. Bomhof and I carried on a nice conversation about Brugges and the Netherlands while he examined Nola. He directed me to take her for an x-ray. My insides immediately tightened up because I felt fearful leaving the comfort and confines of nice English-speaking Dr. Bomhof's office and venturing out into the wider circle of French health care. The doctor made it sound simple enough. He simply placed a call to his radiologist colleague and informed him of our impending arrival, gave me his address (which was only a block away) and a medical form, and off we went. I was instructed to return to Dr. Bomhof's office directly from the radiologist's.<br />
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When we arrived at the radiologist's office, I was initially confused as to where to go and to whom I present Nola's form. We were inside an 18th century building that was clearly a former home. The living room was now a waiting room (complete with original wood floors, fireplace, and crown mouldings) and the former dining room was the front office. There was nothing 'front' about this front office at all because it was separated from the waiting room by a grand staircase and had I not had the girls help translate the signs on the wall for me, we would have remained seated in the waiting room for who knows how long. After all, I was already accustomed to Dr. Bomhof's system of no front office receptionist. <br />
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We approached the receptionist and I apologized to her, <i>"Désolé, mon français est terrible. Nous sommes ici pour ma fille, Nola.</i>" I handed her the form and she asked me, "<i>Vous avez la carte vitale et la sécurité sociale pour Nola?</i>" I swallow the gulp forming in my throat and simply reply, <i>"Non.</i>" I begin to worry that she is judging me as an unfit mother, showing up to an appointment without the necessary documents. I found myself wondering if I will be able to understand her when she tells us that we will have to come back another day with the appropriate documentation. I quickly speak up in the hopes of preventing such a scenario and state, "<i>Je paie avec cash, si vous plait." </i>Money talks, right?<i> </i>And a <i>si vous plait</i> never hurts.<i> </i>Cost of xray = 32.40 euros (as opposed to another $100 Kaiser copay). Next thing I knew, she handed me a form and directed us to wait our turn in the waiting room.<i> </i>Thirty minutes and one xray later, we returned with xray in hand to Dr. Bomhof's waiting room. A young man was already seated and five minutes later when the doctor opened his office door, he explained to this patient, in French, to please be patient, he is going to see the child first.<i> </i>I was already fond of Dr. Bomhof, but this preferential treatment sealed the deal.<br />
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One look at Nola's x-ray confirmed that my initial assessment was correct. Not broken. Phew! I now gave myself permission to stop feeling guilty about taking our broken-nosed child on a weekend trip to Brugges.<i> </i>Dr. Bomhof wrote a note excusing Nola from her physical activities for the upcoming week and gave us the x-ray to take home. In France, the patient is responsible for keeping and maintaining all medical records.<i> </i>So Nola is now the proud owner of a really cool head shot. Total cost of Dr. Bomhof's exam = 40 euros (again, better than our customary $100 copay).<i><br />
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We received an explanation today, from one of Soren's relatives, about the <i>carte vitale</i> and <i>sécurité sociale</i> that the radiologist's office asked for. The French citizen's carte vitale is their basic health insurance card that covers them for basic medical care. The card is embedded with a microchip and contains one's social security insurance details. The card is presented to the doctor who places it into a card reader enabling direct reimbursement from the insurance fund. Reimbursements are placed directly into one's bank account, normally within a week.<br />
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This relative explained that, as French citizens, the incurred costs of the girls' care would be reimbursed to us at 50-70% had we been able to present this identification. Soren too, is eligible as a French citizen. But, we have chosen to fly under the radar, so-to-speak, since his income is not derived from France and therefore he does not pay into France's social security system. This means we are uninsured here in France.<br />
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Let's just say, for the sake of comparison, that Nola and Raelyn did possess a French-issued insurance card linked to a French social security number. That means that our total out-of-pocket medical expenses (after reimbursement at 50% for the past six months) would total 74 euros. This total even includes my non-reimbursable flu innoculation cost since I am non-citizen. That's a far cry from the $300 in copays we would have incurred with Kaiser for the same treatment. Not to mention, that a U.S. primary care physician would not do an initial intake with new patients as a family like Dr. Bomhof did with the four of us. Each of us would have had to be seen individually and incur individual copays for these initial visits. How much would it cost for an uninsured U.S. citizen to receive an exam from a primary care physician and obtain an x-ray from a radiologist? My guess is substantially more than $100 (calculated exchange rate). Based on this alone, it is easy to see how and why France has been described by the World Health Organization for providing the best overall health care in the world. I sure wish U.S. policy-makers would try a dose of this medicine.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-62202445261260802362011-01-11T14:56:00.000-08:002011-01-11T15:37:07.166-08:00Grocery-Go-GettingI have been neglecting my blog! The title of this post may lead you to believe that I have been so busy shopping that I have not had time to blog. Well, that's only partly true. I have also been busy traveling for two weeks (freezing my buns off is more like it, just doing it in cities other than Paris), nit picking and de-lousing the girls, sharing my computer with the two other bloggers in the household, travel planning (Italy in April), exploring more of Paris, and single-parenting (Soren is gone for three weeks). All of this does not leave much time for blogging, nor shopping for that matter. But, being that I am the house manager and responsible for getting food on the table, I cannot neglect the grocery shopping, unfortunately.<br />
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My shopping know-how has evolved since my earlier post (<i>"Shopping in Paris: Je Ne Comprend Pas"</i>). For example, my keen eyes and ears have picked up on the fact that one is not expected to greet the security guards that are posted at the entrances and exits of every non-boutique store. In the first couple of months here I was so intent on not being perceived as rude that I greeted anybody and everybody with a polite, "Bonjour," upon entering a place of business. I soon realized that nobody else acknowledges the security staff. I have no idea why, it must be another one of France's unwritten rules. They never responded to my hello's anyway so I guess they're not allowed to talk to customers.<br />
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I have learned to say, "<i>J' ai un sac</i>," to prevent the clerks from placing my items in one of their plastic bags. I don't want to add to the Texas-size trash heap in the Pacific. When heading to my local Franprix, Monoprix, or Picard to pick up groceries, I am toting one of my Lululemon bags on my shoulder while trailing my rolling cart behind me. I usually try to make sure that the side of the Lululemon bag with the punchy statements is facing out because I like to get a kick out of watching the French read these funny quips such as, "Do one thing a day that scares you." Or, "Dance, Sing, Floss, and Travel". I can always tell when they are reading my sac because many of the quotes are printed sideways and I see the reader's head tilting.<br />
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Traveling with a rolling cart is quite an exercise in maneuvering. First, one has to manage to roll this contraption up and down stairs, both at the apartment building, the store, and the Metro. Much easier when going, not so when coming home with a cart full of items. Second, one has to navigate the sidewalks, some so narrow that there is room for only one person of average girth plus their cart. Add to this a baguette sticking out of the cart sideways and an approaching pedestrian and you have yourself three options: Forge ahead and pretend you do not see the pedestrian, stop and turn yourself sideways while pulling your cart to the side as well to create a slim margin for passing, or, move yourself and your cart into the street and give up your rights to the sidewalk. Meanwhile, you hope that your baguette makes it though this maneuvering unscathed. I have tried all three approaches. I do not have a preferred method, it's an in-the-moment quick thinking type of thing. Second, the dog poop. It's one thing to make your brain make your feet step over these messes, it's another to simultaneously swerve a heavy cart around them. I care more about my shoes than I do the wheels of the cart. I try not to think about what those wheels are tracking into the apartment.<br />
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The grocery store errand is a stressful one in my life here for many reasons. It's hot inside the stores. I always regret wearing my coat once inside the store because I am eager to remove it, but I don't have enough hands to carry it, pull my cart, and collect my items. So I sweat it out. The Monoprix, where I usually shop, is two stories. Up top are the household goods and drugstore items, down below are the groceries. The entrance is at the top level so I collect those items first, put them in my Lululemon bag and then take the elevator downstairs. At this point I start hoping that all the items on my list are in-stock and in a logical location because I don't always have the skills to ask for them if I cannot find them. Last week, I spent a good ten minutes searching high and low for baking soda. No luck. Yesterday I found it by accident. Next to the pickles and ketchup. The baking section is not even in the same aisle. What are they thinking? Granted, I was on auto-pilot keeping my eyes peeled for the yellow box I am accustomed to back home. The brand this store carries is blue. Reprogramming myself is clearly necessary.<br />
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The grocery clerks here are sedentary. They do not stand, they sit perched on stools, chatting away with their fellow cashiers while slowly, mindlessly, and carelessly tossing my items down the counter to the other end where they make a soft 'thwack' against the barrier. Of course, I say, "<i>Bonjour</i>," but it hardly seems worth the effort because the response I get is always a robotic and listless 'bonjour' back at me. The quality of my bonjour (yes, I have played around with it) has not produced any marked effect on the clerk's treatment of me or my groceries. I know the French are supposed to be all about who they are, not what they do, but a little pride in a job well done would be really appreciated by me in this regard.<br />
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As with collecting my groceries, at the checkout counter, again, it's all about strategy. I have to unload the light items first, obviously, because they are on top of the cart. However, I can't let the clerk process them first because if I do, she will send them down to the end of the counter followed by the heavy stuff and a sad crushing will occur. The difficulty with this is that the counter space for unloading groceries is very small so there is a lack of room to store my produce and bread until I am ready to send them towards the cashier after the heavy items. So I resort to creating a produce tower topped by a loaf of bread at the edge of the counter, farthest away from the cashier, hoping it does not topple to the floor while I am processing the heaviest items.I have become pretty skilled at playing blocks with produce.<br />
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After managing my topple-less tower, my anxiety increases further still because there are no baggers. At this point in the checkout process I have to dash down to the end of the counter and start the heavy-light process all over again, although at warp speed. This is because the clerk does not wait for my items to be removed from the counter before sending down those of the next customer. Usually, I am 3/4 of the way done with placing my items back in the cart when it is time to break to pay the bill. This too, I have mastered with speech, "<i>Je paie avec carte de crédit</i>." It is necessary to verbally declare my method of payment because Parisians rarely use credit cards (at least for grocery purchases). Instead they use cash, debit cards, or old-school checks (when is the last time you have waited in line behind a check writer?). Upon learning that I am paying with my credit card she pushes a special button on her machine that allows for this atypical transaction. By the time I am signing the receipt, the next customer's items are flying down towards mine and it's time to get back to bagging. By the time I am done with this necessary evil of an errand, I am ready for a cocktail. Make it a Kir Royale. Is 11:00 a.m. too early for a drink?<br />
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One time, I stopped in a Franprix spontaneously remembering a needed item and I was without my sac. The customer behind me in line finished her transaction and had left the store while I was still struggling to wrestle open one of their plastic grocery bags. My germophobia prevents me from engaging in the sure-fire way to open the bag; finger-licking. So I sat there for an eternity using the 'making-fire' technique instead. Nobody offered any assistance. Probably because they had me pegged for the fool that I am in not finger-licking and they wanted to watch me suffer.<br />
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The only time I have felt good upon leaving my local Monoprix was two weeks ago. Here's why: My clerk was so busy talking to the clerk behind her that she did not realize that some of my tomatoes had escaped from their bag due to her careless handling of them.She tossed the bag down towards me and when I realized some tomatoes were missing I looked up and saw that one was still on the scale to her right, too far away for me to reach. Meanwhile, she had swiveled on her stool so that her upper body twisted around towards her clerk-friend (it always helps to make eye-contact when in a deep and meaningful conversation with a co-worker). Because I couldn't think quick enough on my feet to muster the words for, "My tomato is lost and forgotten over there and would like to be reunited with its family," I simply extended my arm and pointed at it, right at the same time my clerk swiveled back around to attend to the less important task of processing my groceries. Her swivel motion + my arm extension = Collision. Her face crashed into my arm and her eyeglasses were knocked askew. It looked like it hurt. I immediately offered a polite, "<i>Je suis désolé Madame,</i>" while feeling like she should really be the one apologizing to me for not doing her job. She gave me a very perturbed look, took her glasses off, put them on, took them off, readjusted them, put them back on and then swiveled back towards her clerk-friend. My five months here have provided me with enough understanding so as to know that what she said next was something along the lines of, "This bitch just broke my glasses!" All the usual stress at the checkout stand left my body in that very moment. Now all I felt was anger. How dare she blame her carelessness, her lackadaisical behavior, and what clearly was an accident on me! If only I knew more French, I would have had some choice words for her. As it was, all I could muster was my most exaggerated eye glare possible along with a tightly clenched jaw while saying this through clenched teeth with a low voice, "<i>C'est un accident</i>, <i>dé-so-lé." </i>I drew out the sorry part so that she would hopefully catch all my cues about the fact that I knew she was talking @#$!&% about me. By the look on her face, I knew she got my drift.<i> </i>I also took the fact that she said, "<i>Au revoir</i>," before I did as a sign that I had won<i> </i>our<i> </i>little checkout battle.<i> </i><br />
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<i>Note to self: Learn some French swear words.</i><br />
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</i>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-34346730250471971452010-12-18T15:14:00.000-08:002010-12-18T15:14:20.054-08:00Three Months to MagicMany times in the months and days preceding our big move to Paris people told us that after about three months of Raelyn's and Nola's attendance at school, they would be conversant in French. This was very exciting to think about, but hard for me to wrap my brain around fully. I had taken one semester of French at the age of 40 and could still barely manage to conjugate basic verbs let alone pronounce them properly. Why can't the adult human brain function in the same absorbent way like it does when we are children?<br />
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I was especially uncertain about equipping Raelyn and Nola with the means to speak to each other in my presence without me knowing what they are saying. 2 Kids + 1 "Secret Code" Language = 1 Annoyed Mama. But I was willing to overlook this and forge ahead with our plan for them to learn French.<br />
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Within the first month of school, the girls were picking up some vocabulary words and basic sentences. By the end of October, Raelyn had the confidence and courage to use what she knew in public: Ordering at restaurants, asking for directions, you know- basic tourist French. Waiters, shop owners, her teacher- they all complimented her lack of any accent. This reinforcement created a feedback loop such that Raelyn began to branch out even further and correct my botched pronunciation and verb tenses (with a bit of airs and attitude that tends to be quintessentially French). In addition, she became bold enough, for example, to march up to a store clerk in BHV (one of Paris' huge multi-floored department stores) to ask him, "<i>Où est l'élastique pour le saut</i> <i>si vous plait?"</i> Next thing we knew, he directed us to the display of Chinese jump ropes. Et voila! It was an amazing moment for me to behold, this daughter of mine taking charge to get her needs met. <br />
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By now, I realized, Nola was experiencing a bit of a disservice thanks to the arrangement Soren and I had fought so hard for back at the beginning of the school year. Placing Raelyn and Nola together at the same school and in the same language adaptation class offered them a great deal of comfort and offered me an ease with our daily schedule, but, very quickly, Nola's shy self became reliant on Big Sister for help in class. For example, if Nola had a question, she would whisper it to Raelyn, in English, rather than asking the teacher, in French, as the other students had to do. By the time we realized that this dynamic was at play, Raelyn and Nola were fairly entrenched with it and we had to coach them through a re-working of how to operate at school so that Nola would have to step out of her comfort zone a bit more.<br />
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The other hindrance with their absorption of French, particularly for Nola, is the fact that many of their French schoolmates speak enough English so as to converse this way in the cafeteria and on the playground. For a while, we were concerned that during their eight-hour school day they were perhaps speaking more English than French.<br />
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By November Raelyn had demonstrated to her French teacher enough knowledge of the language to be assimilated with her fellow French classmates into the Math class for her grade. This accomplished two things: First, Raelyn would be exposed to additional French terminology and introduced to a wider array of (and hopefully non-English speaking) students. Second, Raelyn's time spent away from the language adaptation class to attend Math class meant an extra hour every day that Nola had to rely upon herself.<br />
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Meanwhile, Nola had begun to be assimilated in with her fellow French classmates for Sports, Art, and Music. However, Nola's language proficiency needed to improve more before she could attend Math class. "Nola is very timid," her teacher would say to me. "She understands more than she speaks." This fact was demonstrated clearly to us when, during a Skype call with Soren's family, Soren's father was speaking French to the girls. Nola carried on her end of the conversation in English, responding to what was being said to her in French. Clearly, her brain was functioning like the sponge it is at her age and she was soaking up the language like her sister, but Nola's shyness had too firm a grasp on her confidence to speak anything other than English and the occasional polite French necessities (<i>bonjour, si vous plait,</i> etc.). Bribing her, shaming her, or criticizing her are clearly not going to be helpful so we simply adopted an "it is what it is" mentality while letting her know that we know she's getting it in her own way and time and that we look forward to the furture surprise she has in store for us.<br />
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Last Sunday Raelyn and Nola were invited to the home of Violaine's (she is Soren's French step-grandmother) parents' home for an afternoon of make-overs, holiday baking, and decorating with their granddaughter, Lena, and her two cousins. We had met Lena and her mother, Aline (Violaine's younger sister) last year when we came to Paris. The girls were excited to see their French cousin again and Raelyn was eager to speak some French with her this time. While the girls were playing at the house, I got to spend the day at <i>Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, </i>the most famous flea market in Paris<i></i> offering an enormous selection of furniture, prints, paintings, mirrors, antique luggage, vintage clothing, hardware, and kitchen goods. What a treat!<i> </i>Aline's parents have been in the antiquing business for years and now she and her brother, Francoise, run the family's stall located in the high-end <i>Marche Paul Bert</i>. Last year, Aline opened her own stall across the alley where she sells her unique, fabulous lamps.<i> </i>This was my second visit to this market and both times my inner interior designer was in heaven, especially because there are a handful of dealers that specialize in what makes me drool: Bauhaus,<i> </i>Mid-Century Modern, and Post-Modern furniture.<i> </i>I need to remember to bring a bib next time I visit.<i> </i>And large quantities of cash.<i> </i>After my lovely day of gawking at the dealers' goods, visiting and lunching with Aline, and spending a day in the life of a dealer at Les Puces, it was time to fetch my daughters.<i> </i><br />
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Aline's parents, who I had never met until arriving at their home to pick up the girls<i> </i>(they live just west of Paris, requiring a Metro ride and a taxi) are a friendly, gracious couple. I stayed for tea and<i> le goûter </i>(the French term for the mid-late afternoon snack that tides one over until the dinner hour at 8:30).<i> </i>Upon entering their home, my ears were treated to the delightful sounds of five girls playing Tag and Hide-n-Seek, in French.<i> </i>And this is when Nola's surprise greeted me, most unexpectedly.<i> </i>I don't think Nola was even fully conscious that she was speaking to her fellow playmates in French. She spoke simple phrases, but they flowed out of her effortlessly<i> </i>as she chased and hid. My two daughters, lost in the glee of play, were conversing in their, now official, second language. Nola, for example, when hiding, declared to her sister, <i>"Allez! Je suis sous la table!" ("Go! I am under the table!")</i> And Raelyn used her ever-increasing skills to stand her ground with Lena by stating firmly, <i>"Non, je l'ai été la dernière fois. C'est votre tour maintenant." </i>("No, I was 'it' last time. It's your turn now.")<i> </i>It was a surreal moment for me, one that I will never forget and can be summed up with one simple word: MAGIC!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aline's innovative designs include vintage tripods, meter sticks, and horse jumping poles for floor lamps</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">lena & girls</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">aline and lena</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the family business</td></tr>
</tbody></table>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-41471600449862064922010-12-17T09:03:00.000-08:002010-12-17T09:03:50.250-08:00PB & J Saves The DayLast evening's soiree at Raelyn's and Nola's school was a complete success. I dug deep and resolved to be brave and with mini peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in hand, we attended what turned out to be a very fun and festive occasion. I was pleasantly surprised in that I did indeed manage to socialize. As luck would have it, the day prior to this party, a new American family moved to Paris and their nine-year-old daughter is now in the girls' class. Her mother and I were each other's comfort which worked out very well for us both.<br />
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The girls brainstormed American food ideas (the parameters were that it could not be a hot dish and it must be easy to transport via the Metro). We settled upon the sandwiches, breaking away from our normal standards of wheat bread with organic peanut butter and organic jam. We're representing America- we must not disappoint. That means white bread, Skippy's peanut butter, and, here in France, confiture Bonne Maman. <br />
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Earlier that day, while at school, Raelyn mentioned to a French classmate what we were bringing. The classmate replied, "Nobody ever brings sandwiches." Just one more reason for me to feel nervous. This girl's reply even made Raelyn feel unsure about our choice of buffet contribution. The girls and I created a sandwich-making assembly line on the kitchen table. Raelyn: peanut butter. Me: jam. Nola: cutting (that girl loves to use knives any chance she gets). We made 80 mini sandwiches in all. <br />
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The children had access to the buffet in the cafeteria while the parents socialized in the adjacent multi-purpose room with soup and vin chaud (hot wine). At separate times, Raelyn and Nola came to find me to report the status of our sandwich tray. "Mom," they said, "There's only like five left!", and, "Alessia says she loves them!" This, from the girl who earlier stated that nobody brings sandwiches. Guess we showed her eh? The mini PB&Js were all gobbled up. I even saw a Chinese mother with a few on her plate. I wonder how often a Chinese person in Paris eats PB&J? I'm so glad we were able to provide people with an American cultural experience of the highest standards. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCHm0OPXvcA_m9z4f4BLRVp2x5W0cJVtwb4_2F2UbTgBk-o2q10a3Ce8fiY_8i7HuyYCcGdPaV5kU6xrsHeA7dhtra48riAnPu_MSinufhyntNmwyzrZt7DbPI6Ui4q1IzfG7yMJ_uPk/s1600/PB+%2526+J+Before.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrCHm0OPXvcA_m9z4f4BLRVp2x5W0cJVtwb4_2F2UbTgBk-o2q10a3Ce8fiY_8i7HuyYCcGdPaV5kU6xrsHeA7dhtra48riAnPu_MSinufhyntNmwyzrZt7DbPI6Ui4q1IzfG7yMJ_uPk/s640/PB+%2526+J+Before.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I bought too many Skippy jars. Now I have to live with this 'poison' in my house.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZJVKdoNv60CaArXGLQS5n58ecY1EntJQ20CA5PL_vMD26dQK5MZs24Zjv21O0dDJSaP_AqMC79m-Lv6Q2i_HsY4LjNMxTuaCyMbUoeUr4xasmklclJF-2XgAvNu_rXx0hQ37z-80C1o/s1600/IMG_5762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDZJVKdoNv60CaArXGLQS5n58ecY1EntJQ20CA5PL_vMD26dQK5MZs24Zjv21O0dDJSaP_AqMC79m-Lv6Q2i_HsY4LjNMxTuaCyMbUoeUr4xasmklclJF-2XgAvNu_rXx0hQ37z-80C1o/s640/IMG_5762.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Raelyn's and Nola's Classmates</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkZCfewROCxlMv2ijQx2Ltc9ZpB4-9D-21fRdQM9H-DkhDfoMEGvj2JluzVZulcgEBeqjW5e3fWbZmGPcQcKZAmw9Cr_pzRJAmeVVFskfydKi2m3Gu0Uq1UUt8wz4eZOOUUZLPXB0Nzk/s1600/IMG_5754.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkZCfewROCxlMv2ijQx2Ltc9ZpB4-9D-21fRdQM9H-DkhDfoMEGvj2JluzVZulcgEBeqjW5e3fWbZmGPcQcKZAmw9Cr_pzRJAmeVVFskfydKi2m3Gu0Uq1UUt8wz4eZOOUUZLPXB0Nzk/s640/IMG_5754.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Madame Christine, teacher extraordinaire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-35704868057605434622010-12-13T13:36:00.000-08:002011-02-03T02:29:42.387-08:00Digging DeepThe girls brought home a notice from school today announcing the school's annual holiday buffet. The form required a sign-up and signature. With Soren out of town, I had to rely on my friend, Google Translate, to understand what, exactly, I am signing up for. I have cut and pasted the English translation here just as it was presented to me:<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Grand Buffet Christmas 2010 al 'Ecole de la Rue des Vertus</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">are celebrating the year 2010 in this all together around a large buffet which we all bring our contribution</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">A buffet will be reserved for children in the school canteen and open to all under the Pleasance (dishes from all regions and all countries are welcome)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Come!</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">thank you to all parent volunteers.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">This ticket serves as a reservation</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">for lunch just to make the choice</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">dirty dish</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">a sweet dish</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">cheese</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">we will be ................... accompanying persons:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">Child :...........</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">if you can not bring your child, he is welcome until 20h, under the responsibility of another adult.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">you can then pick it up at 20h later, or someone drive by the adult to whom you will entrust the responsiblity</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;">person coming to collect the child :........</span><br />
<br />
Um, yea. Google Translate can't be relied upon fully as you can see. I am unclear- is the food for the children only? Or do the children eat in the cafeteria and the parents eat somewhere else on school grounds? Is this a lunch meal or a dinner meal? A dinner meal at 6:30 p.m. is early for the French, but that time of day is also way too late for lunch. So what's with Google Translate calling this lunch?<br />
<br />
Do I really get to bring a dirty dish if I want to? That's even easier than signing up for napkins or paper plates (my standard easy-way-out back home). At least I don't need to go to the store to purchase anything, I'll just wash one less dish that day and my contribution will be ready to go. Or, maybe I'll just bring cheese. Will a can of Cheese Whiz suffice? That's considered, by some at least, to be very Americana. I know right where to buy it too- our neighborhood has an American food store called 'Thanksgiving' and they sell that stuff along with Lucky Charms, Kraft Mac-n-Cheese, Pop Tarts, and Spam. Hey- maybe I'll bring a huge variety of all that stuff and really wow them with the gourmet offerings of America.<br />
<br />
But first, I need to dig deep and gather up all the courage I can muster to attend this event. My wing man is absent, working long hours traversing the U.S.A this past week so he cannot be my safety net for this occasion. The one English speaking parent that I have met (who is American, but has lived in Europe for 20+ years and is fluent in French, on the PTA, and knows everyone) is very nice, but I don't even know if she will be at this event. At the end of every school day, like back home, I stand in front of the school, waiting for the bell to ring and for Raelyn and Nola to emerge so that I can take them home. However, unlike back home, I stand alone, silent, and wondering what the other parents are conversing about as they wait for their children to emerge. It is a lonely part of my day, the part that makes me long for the friends, familiarities, conversations, and comforts of home. <br />
<br />
So it is with trepidation that I consider this annual school buffet. I am doing my best to convince myself that role modeling courage is the least I owe my girls since we have asked them to move out of their comfort zone in so many ways these past several months now. I keep telling myself, "Self, what's the worst that can happen? You'll stand alone mostly, feeling uncomfortable for a couple hours, eating free food, while your daughters have a good time with their friends. That's what this is about- <i>them</i>, not you Self. Just <i>deal</i>!" <br />
<br />
Maybe, as the notice states, I can find another adult to be responsible for the girls and I can bow out. Perhaps the homeless man on our street would like to go? It's a win-win for him- he'll receive a babysitting fee from me and have access to all sorts of food at the buffet. I can tell that I am really nervous about this event because this idea is sounding too good right now.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-48358594436615933012010-12-08T01:31:00.000-08:002010-12-08T01:31:28.428-08:00Paris and Entertainment Go Hand in Hand(out)Living in Paris means that you have a wide array of entertainment options at your fingertips. For example, live concerts, the opera and ballet, live theater, jazz clubs, the cinemas, and, of course, the famous Moulin Rouge. This list would be incomplete if I did not also mention the abundance of daily entertainment one encounters by simply being a patron of the city's public transportation systems, primarily, the Metro. <br />
<br />
Enter any Metro station and there you will find what appears to be all of the city's aspiring musicians and singers. Some of them are quite talented actually. Others make up for what they lack in talent by exuding a charm that is endearing. The rest are simply dreadful. These performers don't confine themselves to only the tunnels and hallways within the Metro system. They also perform for their captive audiences on the Metro trains. And that is the difference between Paris' Metro and San Francisco's BART: I have never seen anyone perform on an actual BART train with the intent of receiving a charitable contribution.<br />
<br />
Another noticeable difference: my observations indicate that Parisians are much more charitable towards struggling musicians and singers than their U.S. counterparts. I have seen some performances that would make the worst of the worst American Idol auditions look like Grammy winners. The performances run the gamut: country, opera, rap, soul, Russian folk music, jazz- you name it, you'll eventually hear it- good, bad, and downright ghastly. And yet, for their effort, even these awful performers receive donations every time as they make their collection rounds on the train following their set. The sound of coins clinking at the bottom of a cup is almost as commonplace as the sound of the train doors opening and closing. Apparently, performing in the bowels of the public transportation system in a socialist country is not a bad way to earn a euro or two. People here take care of people in ways we just don't see back home. <br />
<br />
The performers are very polite, as is the French custom. They greet the passengers verbally, "<i>Bonjour </i><span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="fr"><span title=""><i>Mesdames et Messieurs</i>," before launching into their set which can range from one to a few songs. Sometimes, they work in tandem- one person performs, the other collects. Many are accompanied by a portable microphone, amplifier, and speaker unit on wheels. Sometimes, just a boom box. Upon conclusion of their set they take their cup, hat, or even tambourine and thrust it towards the passengers hoping (expecting?) a monetary contribution. I have found myself fantasizing about what would happen if I contributed something other than money? My used tissue, a chewing gum wrapper, maybe even the chewed gum? Tomorrow, I can make use of my transit time by cleaning out my purse and throwing away my discards when they approach me. Just kidding. My usual tactic is to avoid eye contact at all times with any performer. I actually have given a few handouts. Not because they were good performances or extra charming, but because they spied me videotaping them (I try to go incognito by pretending my Flip video camera is a cell phone). I don't feel obliged to give them money when I am held captive and forced to listen, but in these instances of filming, I have, at that point, crossed into official audience status and a handout feels necessary.</span></span><br />
<br />
I think I know how I'm going to earn some extra euros. I will put Nola and Raelyn to work on the Metro and create a new niche of child labor in Paris. I will equip them with a boom box blasting Katy Perry songs that they can sing along with. Mama has found her meal ticket. <br />
<br />
Here are some performance highlights. They are short, partial clips. Be sure to have your sound up and enjoy for free on me.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Video #1:</span> Take note of the male passenger's mistake- he makes eye contact- Doh!<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Video #2</span>: This gal gets around. I've seen her perform a few times- always the same song. She's the one-hit wonder of the Metro.<br />
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</div> <span style="color: red;">Video #3:</span> The lonesome cowboy.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Video # 4</span>: The holiday spirit got the best of me so these guys made some money off me.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">Video #5</span>: My all-time personal favorite is this enthusiastic rendition of <i>Hava Nagila</i>. Notice the female passenger in the foreground enjoying herself for a very brief moment. I felt compelled to tear a seat from its floor bolts and hoist the guy up for the Jewish chair dance, but I don't posses the strength.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzGuY1J_ho1U27RDKRtWTJY1XDhq8pHjaOb8fQ4biqQVesX3c9CLMVFAu5lwKtlsydQsujJzPHaNdGRNqKGOg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-18707469574169513012010-11-29T14:57:00.000-08:002010-11-30T08:56:16.609-08:00Gym CultureStaying fit in Paris is a different beast than it is back home. First, as mentioned previously, I have had to overcome my self-consciousness about my morning commute outfit of workout wear with my hair in a ponytail and zero make-up on my face. I am literally the only person on the Metro that is not "dressed" for the day of work that lies ahead. Well, actually I am, but the other Metro passengers have no idea that I often come home from the gym and do my work- in the form of household chores- in my sweaty gym clothes.<br />
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And, speaking of gym clothes, I can honestly say that I believe Paris's reputation for being the fashion capitol of the world does not pertain to the fitness club. Fashion statements remain on the streets as I have yet to find any within the gym. Well, statements are made, that's for sure, but I cannot call them fashion.<br />
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Last week, I was working out on the elliptical and the young woman next to me was swooshing away on hers while wearing a black sweater, denim cutoff shorts, purple tights, and turquoise Keds tennis shoes. Every day, I see another woman who wears relatively normal workout pants and tops, but she accessorizes her look with sunglasses and costume jewelery around her neck. Oh, and a fanny pack too. And then yesterday, to my surprise, I saw her teaching a fitness class. With her shades on, of course. Go figure.<br />
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Most other women are wearing some form of baggy sweat pants and loose t-shirts. This comes as a relief for me actually since working out at Clubsport back home can often feel like a runway competition between the women who sport the latest and greatest Lulu Lemon ensembles along with their bodies that they have worked hard for (naturally or otherwise) to display in these fashion forward outfits. And speaking of naturally or otherwise, I have yet to see any cosmetically enhanced female inside or outside of the gym. This is quite refreshing. This is the real fashion statement in my opinion, honest to goodness real beauty. You just have to look past the gym clothes to see it.<br />
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As for the men exercising in our club, their fashion statements are no less interesting. First, there is Mr. Red Headband. Or, I could call him Mr. Knee High Socks. Or, Mr. Short-Shorts. He has so much going on with his outfit that is so Richard Simmons that I don't know where to begin. I don't mean to be critical and I hope to simply be making observations rather than judgments, but I think I am walking a fine line here. Here's an observation: His headband does do a nice job of taming his frizzy shoulder length hair. See? I can be objective about this. I saw a middle aged woman last week a la Olivia Newton-John's<i> Let's Get Physical</i> who was sporting shiny lycra tights and a similarly shiny high-cut leotard (ladies, remember those?), thankfully not the thong style (ladies, remember those? I'm sure you men do!). If she and Mr. 1980 were working out next to each other and I happened to walk into the facility I might think I've been transported back to that era. But experience has taught me that I'm simply in a Parisian gym.<br />
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Parisian gym etiquette for men appears to be this: Do as many "girlie" exercises as you can. What I mean by this is that the gentlemen in the club, even the few "buff" men- and that's an overstatement of monumental proportion by American standards- are completing many reps of butt and inner/outer thigh floor exercises. I have never seen a guy do any of these exercises- ever- at any of the gyms I have frequented back home. Remember (again, ladies?) the Jane Fonda workout videos where she's on her back, feet on the floor with her knees bent and she's repeatedly lifting her pelvis off the floor while squeezing her butt cheeks? Yep, that's a popular one with the dudes at our gym. It's really quite a sight too since most of them are wearing short-shorts. <br />
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Parisian gym etiquette also means that men greet each other with double cheek kisses. This is not gym-specific as it is the standard French greeting for someone you know whether in a home or out on the street, but again, I have never ever seen, nor will I ever see two men at the gym in the States put their faces anywhere near each other. I almost forget what the standard American 'dude' greeting of hands clasping, shoulder bumping, half hug slap-on-the-back, fist bump looks like by now. The kissing seems so much more simple (only two moves as opposed to four) and surely involves less testosterone too.<br />
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I don't see the Parisians at our gym working too hard cardiovascularly. Maybe this is because upon entering the club, if you have pre-paid for the year anyway, you receive a towel. One. For your workout and shower. So, if you sweat up a storm and use your towel during your workout, you're out of luck for a clean shower towel. Unless you bring your own from home. But I don't see any women in the locker room with anything other than the gym-issued white towel which they've kept clean during their workouts by conserving their energy. It's nice though, I have to say, because working out next to someone else on the treadmill or elliptical makes me feel like I am sprinting at an Olympic speed. I am the only person I have ever seen using the spin bikes. Here I am, in the land of Tour de France, and I am the only gym member pulling a Lance Armstrong while the other 'bikers' are lounging away on their recumbent bikes letting their previous day's wine and cheese digest. Relaxing takes various forms in the Nautilus equipment room at the gym. Newspapers are read on these machines, long conversations are had while on these machines, sitting- lots of sitting- happens on these machines. Very few real exercises and reps seem to occur on these machines in the Parisian gym. I suppose the Jane Fonda exercises make up for this apparent lackadaisical attitude in the Nautilus room. Again, I don't mind as it makes me feel like Wonder Woman in there. <br />
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Maybe these folks don't feel the need to break a sweat on the equipment because the gym temperature is kept so darn hot they, like me, begin to sweat the moment they step foot inside the place. Seriously, it's like a sauna in there. That alone must account for at least some of the wine and cheese calories right? Let's see, The Parisians eat what they want, in moderation, and sweat out the rest in a really hot fitness club while relaxing on an exercise machine. I think they're on to something here. Now, if they would just do a little something about their gym clothes...ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-48146117698645616282010-11-25T13:48:00.000-08:002010-11-25T14:11:50.146-08:00ThankfulsIn honor of Thanksgiving, I thought it would be helpful for me to acknowledge to myself all that I am thankful for. This exercise, I hope, will help nudge me out of a funk that I have been experiencing as of late, one that has me feeling overwhelmed, pissy, mopey, and hungry. How come when I'm in a bad mood food always sounds so good? <br />
<br />
MY LIST OF THANKFULS<br />
<br />
1. Delicious Parisian food. This past week, Soren and I discovered three new restaurants in our neighborhood. One serves delicious vegetarian salads, the second serves the tastiest galettes and crepes we've had as of yet, and the third serves yummy traditional fare with the most mouth watering <i>moelleux au chocolat</i>. Soren is still working on perfecting his pronounciation of <i>'moelleux'.</i><br />
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2. Family. It is terribly hard being away from my Soren's sister Teresa's family. We miss seeing our niece Alina during this time of rapid growth and development. And we miss Teresa's rapid growth and development too since she is pregnant with twin boys. I am grateful to know that we have two new nephews to come home to next summer. Oh what a meeting that will be! To the entire Kaplan clan back home, you are missed.<br />
I must give a shout out to my parents who provide Soren with a place to sleep and yummy meals on his business trips back home and personalized shopping for Trader Joes and Whole Foods products we can't find here in Paris. Thanks mom and dad! To all of our relatives back home, you are in our hearts. And as for family here in Paris? I am happy to say that the Kaplans and Puiforcats on this side of the pond are pretty extraordinary. How fun it has been to gain a whole new set of relatives in a few months time. And as for the family I chose and created, well, we could be living in a tin roofed shack or a cardboard box and my heart would be where ever that home happened to be, Paris or otherwise. <br />
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3. Friends. I don't get to connect with them back home as often as I would like to given the time zone difference and Soren hogging our phone in the evening due to work (I suppose I should let him off the hook- no pun intended- since he needs to pay for our year abroad). Without Skype and Facebook, I'd feel incredibly more isolated than I do. To my friends who read my blog, post comments, send me messages, call me, and even allow me to just pop into their minds every now and again, thank you. I miss you. And I think about you all the time wondering what you're up to at any given time of the day- dropping off your kids? cooking dinner, watching TV, doing a hobby? And to my new Paris friends, all two of you- I am happy to be getting to know you and I am tickled that our paths have crossed in this way. <br />
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3. My health. I'm 41 going on 28 (at least in my own mind). Physically, I don't look a day over 39 right? Somebody card me, please?!<br />
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4. My luck. I live a charmed life. At least it feels that way. Hard work, determination, mistakes, lapses in judgment, stupidity, rolling with the punches, planning, aiming, flailing, intentions- all of these attributes are part of the fabric of my existence but, nonetheless, I always have the sense that something outside of myself is guiding me- protective, watchful, helpful, letting me fall, but never too hard, and assisting my life to unfold in the most delightful ways possible with the most amazing people possible (friends, family, and even acquaintances- that's you!).<br />
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5. My husband. I am thankful to you not just because you brought me to Paris- although that's a pretty big reason to love you. Of course your dazzling charm and good looks help too. Mostly, I am grateful that you see the whole of me and still have the guts to come back for more day after day. Especially when I am in a funk- pissy, mopey, tired, and hungry and then even more pissy and mopey for being pissy and mopey when I am living in Paris for goodness sake! I can be my own worst enemy. Thank you Soren for helping me to put up my white flag of surrender. <br />
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6. Lists of reasons to be grateful. They work wonders for a sour mood.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-10204909358723688842010-11-14T13:34:00.000-08:002010-11-14T13:46:07.527-08:00English Is A Foreign Language TooSo I had myself an epiphany today. I don't really speak English. True, honest to goodness English that is. The English that I speak is watered down California Valley Girl English sprinkled with all the trimmings of <i>likes, no ways!, totallies!, awesomes, for reals?, dudes, </i>and<i> way cools.</i> I do refrain from <i>grodie, tubular,</i> and <i>gnarly</i>. And I am not rude enough to respond to others with any <i>as ifs</i>. And as for <i>OMGs</i> well, I consider myself too old for that one.<br />
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This realization that English is almost as foreign to me as French struck today when we had Soren's relatives, Olivier and Valentine, over for lunch. They speak English, very well actually. But regardless of this fact, it is still a mental exercise for their brains to work in English for a few hours straight. Occasionally, they reverted back to French, I think because Soren tries very hard to speak French when we are with them. My impression is that they believe we can understand more French than we actually do. Soren politely asked Valentine, "<i>Lentement s'il vous plaît</i>," (slowly, please). She obliged, and Soren was able to understand her.<br />
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This made me realize that I take their English skills for granted and that I should work harder to speak more slowly for their benefit too. Not a problem, it is fairly easy to speak more slowly. But then it hit me. The speed of my speech probably isn't so much an issue for them as my use of words. I need to speak true English. Not Valley Girl English.<br />
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My brain was not ready for this exercise in discipline. Imagine becoming one-hundred-percent conscious of every word that is being automatically generated in your brain and instantly formed in concert by your voicebox, tongue, and lips, ready to emerge as effortlessly and quickly as usual. I realized, not for the first time but, especially today, how silly these words actually sound.<br />
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These circa-1980's words are superfluous words, ones that have meaning to Olivier and Valentine, but in a completely different context than what the Valley Girl definitions imply. For example, if I were to tell them that (true story) the other night, Soren and I were walking home late and we were approached from behind by a young woman walking alone. This woman inquired if we wouldn't mind accompanying her to her building so she did not have to walk alone in the dark on the city streets. Now, if I told this story to a friend back home, I might describe it this way, "The woman was walking alone in this sketchy neighborhood and she was like, totally freaked out, she couldn't hang walking alone for a couple blocks. So we hung with her and she turned out to be way cool."<br />
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If I had told Olivier and Valentine the story in this manner, I imagine they would have understood that we were walking in an either artistic or incomplete neighborhood with a woman that was markedly unusual or irregular who wished to remain outside and that she could not suspend her walking for a pair of small wooden cubes and that we also suspended with her and that she was really cold. And who could blame them? Could you imagine if, when Valentine presented me with beautiful flowers today I had thanked her by saying, "Wow, these are totally killer flowers!" She would have probably felt obligated to explain that I was incorrect in thinking that these beautiful flowers are Oleanders when they are indeed non-poisonous Jonquils. <br />
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So, it was with great effort today that I spoke true English with our guests. Because of my effort I noticed that my speech automatically slowed as I searched through my mental Rolodex to find suitable replacement words. I also noticed that I did not sound like me. I sounded older, like, for sure, and also a bit more educated. Since I already have a Master's, I'm going to say that I totally sounded like a PhD. It was pretty bitchin'.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5620527584566067054.post-66202039448927240082010-11-09T03:09:00.000-08:002010-11-09T03:09:38.864-08:00Our Morning CommuteTag along with us during our morning commute to school. View these short clips and you will see how well the girls have mastered this routine.<br />
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I am still working on getting over my insecurities about being the only metro passenger wearing the official California-mom-dropping-her-kids-off-at-school uniform. Sweats or workout clothes, hair in a ponytail, no make-up. It seems like I am the only one heading to the gym after drop-off. How very Bay Area of me.<br />
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First, we begin our commute right outside our building's entry door by heading into the Sully-Morland Metro station:<br />
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Two stops and five minutes later, we transfer at the Chatalet metro station which is a small city unto itself. It is always crowded here. And hot. And smelly. One of us usually gets stepped on or bumped into, but never on purpose. There are always a handful of performers and beggars here hoping to receive a handout (more on that in a future post). The girls are always eager to open the door by pushing the button that triggers the door to open. Oftentimes, they do this and then hop off while the train is still moving. Sounds dangerous, but it really is not:<br />
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The line we tranfer to at Chatalet is line 11. Chatalet is the starting point for this line so there is always a train waiting for us to board. Above the platform is a clock counting down the minutes until the train's departure. Ideally, we try to walk to the very front of the train as that puts us closest to the exit at our destination station. We don't always succeed, however, as you'll see in this next clip. You'll hear me say, "Get on," because I see that the clock is showing "00:00" which means that at any second, the doors will be closing. So we settle for mid-train today.<br />
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Three stops later, we arrive at the Arts et Metiers metro station. It is unlike any other station in that it reminds us of a submarine. I like the metallic burnt sienna colored walls. They hide the visible dirt and scum easily seen on the walls and ceilings at other stations. <br />
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Upon exiting this station, you will see Nola tossing her metro ticket into the trash can. She rides with a ticket as opposed to the pre-paid NaviGo card. This is because the NaviGo does not offer a child discount (9 and under) so it is cheaper for her to have the discounted tickets instead of the NaviGo. She is finally over her disappointment at not having a NaviGo like the rest of us. The reason that Nola throws her ticket away at our destination station is because we never know if, mid-route, we will run into Metro officials checking to make sure passengers have paid tickets or NaviGo cards. If caught without one, they fine you twenty euros. This happened to Soren two years ago after he had naively tossed his ticket after entering the station. Soren acted like the "dumb American" he was at the time and they let him off easy.<br />
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The girls, fearing embarrassment, made me promise that I would stop filming and put the camera away prior to reaching their school. In this next clip, you can see Nola's impatient look since we are one block away from school and I am still filming. But I just had to capture the crossing guards in action. Today, we happened upon them during a mellow moment. Usually, they are risking their lives for us and other pedestrians by stepping out into speeding oncoming traffic. The drivers do not slow down or stop until the last minute. And motorcycles, if they can squeeze by, will do so even if a pedestrian is in the crosswalk. So, even with their protection, we still proceed with great caution. And, it is with gratitude that each and every day I say a heartfelt, "Merci!" to these guys for braving the onslaught of crazy French drivers.<br />
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Thanks for coming along to school with us today. Now, off to the gym I go. I may be the only one in sweats, but at least after my workout my B.O. will fit in nicely on the Metro.ma vie est arrivéehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01597572787067243279noreply@blogger.com2