Love Is In The Air

Surely you know the famous tagline: Paris, The City of Love. 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.

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.

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 Romeo and Juliet.

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.

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 don't get a room 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 When Harry Met Sally, 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!"  

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?"

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.

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.

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 ...

Due to the overwhelming and enthusiastic response that I received for my 2010 EuroMan Election blog post, I bring you another voting opportunity. Ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, I now present to you for your viewing and voting pleasure: The 2011 French Lovers Competition.
Results void where prohibited by law.

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Urinal This Together

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 toilette 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.

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.

$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 maitre d'.  He's too busy taking toileting reservations by phone to admonish us for taking this photo.

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!"

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!

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!

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.

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 The Toilette Whisperer, but listening did not prove to be any more useful than looking.

My intelligent friend, Renee, tried to outsmart the toilette 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:

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.

"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.

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.

Soren not quite embracing the lack of privacy.

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.

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.

I can't help but wonder what they expect women to do as well as all the people that may have to go #2?

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?

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Most Parisian apartments have a salle de bain, 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 not taking guests on a tour of their entire house. Therefore, the location of both their toilette and salle de bain remains a mystery to me unless I inquire as to their location.

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 toilette.  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.

Weekend Warriors

Two 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.

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.

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.

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 hors d'oeuvre and amuse-bouche. 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 amuse-bouche 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 risotto au homard (lobster) and Nola requested le pigeon, 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.

Here are some photographic highlights of our weekend jaunts:

London, August 2010

Versailles, October 2010

Town of Honfleur in Normandie, October 2010

Markt Square in Brugges, Belgium - January 2011

Brugges is often referred to as the 'Venice of the North'

Nola's memorable first-class meal. Brussels to Paris- January, 2011

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.

Welcoming Spring at Claude Monet's home and garden. Giverny, France - April 2011

This would make a nice Impressionist painting don't you think? Minus the tourists.

Disneyland.  Nah. It's really Troyes, France - April 2011

Cathedral in Troyes, France. We're neither Catholic nor religious, but I told them to repent anyway.

Fois Gras Farm in Gye sur Seine, France - April 2011

Nola and Raelyn toasting with their champagne in Gye sur Seine

Biking through the tulip fields in Lisse, Holland- May 2011

Travel Plans: Points to Consider

One 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.

Soren's business travel expenses means we have beaucoup 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.

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.

Boy, was I wrong.

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.

And this is where the luxury ends and reality sets in.

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.

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.

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. 

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 Toy Story on the Xbox?

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.

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...

Customer Servass

In 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.

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, "Le addition (the bill), si vous plait?" 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 Magret du Canard. 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 Magret du Canard 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.

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?

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 "Shopping: Je Ne Comprend Pas").  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.

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.

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.

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.

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, "Vous venez demain à 13:00h."  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?

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:

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.

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:

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.

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 "Bonjours," to her when I pass by.

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.

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, "Non." 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 Américaine and doesn't know what hit her. I do feel a little bit bad, but not really. The (Américaine) customer is always right, right?

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.

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, "Tres adorable!" 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 Américain pants and a belt!"). A shirt with absolutely nothing flattering to offer my frame or skin tone will be lauded as, "Magnifique!" 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.

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. "Madame, non! Désolé, non! Oh la la, non! I am not that way, I say this to you! Forgive me, my English is bad!"

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!

Touchpoints- 0 to 6 Months

The 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.

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, Touchpoints, by Dr. T. Berry Brazelton (who just happened to be Soren's pediatrician when he lived in Boston briefly as a child). Touchpoints- Birth to Three is a manual about expected childhood developmental milestones that I poured over as an expectant parent more than eleven years ago.

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.

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 bonjour, au revoir, and merci 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.

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.

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?)

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).

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'.

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 Promenade Plantée 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.

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.

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'".

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.

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).

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, "Allo, allo?" 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.

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.

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, "Cinquante (50)," rather, she said, "Cinq (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.
 
Amazon.com
Touchpoints for Expats- 0 to 6 months
Holli Rae Kaplan

All over the U.S. and in over twenty countries around the world, Touchpoints 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.
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 Touchpoints provides.
Read about these issues and more:

• language barriers 
• lonliness, isolation, and homesickness
• helplessness
• cultural relativity
• straddling two worlds
• new and unusual foods
• expat children

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...

Shabbat For Dummies

Last 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 something there to start the mind-body connection and muscle memory for that kind of motion.


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 Shabbat For Dummies. I'm just glad it was Soren's naive goof and not mine.

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.

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.

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, "Allez au prison!" 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, "Allo?" 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 "Allo?" part of answering the phone here. I wonder if there's a book for dummies about that?

*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. 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!

Boxed wine and charcuterie never tasted better.

They promised that when I visit them in the Springtime they'll teach me the card game "Belot".