Three Months to Magic

Many 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?

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.

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, "Où est l'élastique pour le saut si vous plait?"  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.

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.

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.

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.

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 (bonjour, si vous plait, 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.

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 Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, the most famous flea market in Paris offering an enormous selection of furniture, prints, paintings, mirrors, antique luggage, vintage clothing, hardware, and kitchen goods. What a treat! 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 Marche Paul Bert. Last year, Aline opened her own stall across the alley where she sells her unique, fabulous lamps. 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, Mid-Century Modern, and Post-Modern furniture. I need to remember to bring a bib next time I visit. And large quantities of cash. 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.


Aline's parents, who I had never met until arriving at their home to pick up the girls (they live just west of Paris, requiring a Metro ride and a taxi) are a friendly, gracious couple. I stayed for tea and le goûter (the French term for the mid-late afternoon snack that tides one over until the dinner hour at 8:30). Upon entering their home, my ears were treated to the delightful sounds of five girls playing Tag and Hide-n-Seek, in French. And this is when Nola's surprise greeted me, most unexpectedly. 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 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, "Allez! Je suis sous la table!" ("Go! I am under the table!") And Raelyn used her ever-increasing skills to stand her ground with Lena by stating firmly, "Non, je l'ai été la dernière fois. C'est votre tour maintenant." ("No, I was 'it' last time. It's your turn now.") It was a surreal moment for me, one that I will never forget and can be summed up with one simple word: MAGIC!

aline's innovative designs include vintage tripods, meter sticks, and horse jumping poles for floor lamps

lena & girls

aline and lena

the family business

PB & J Saves The Day

Last 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.

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.

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.

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. 

 I bought too many Skippy jars. Now I have to live with this 'poison' in my house.

Raelyn's and Nola's Classmates

Madame Christine, teacher extraordinaire

Digging Deep

The 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:

Grand Buffet Christmas 2010 al 'Ecole de la Rue des Vertus

are celebrating the year 2010 in this all together around a large buffet which we all bring our contribution

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)

Come!
thank you to all parent volunteers.
This ticket serves as a reservation

for lunch just to make the choice

dirty dish

a sweet dish

cheese

we will be ................... accompanying persons:

Child :...........

if you can not bring your child, he is welcome until 20h, under the responsibility of another adult.

you can then pick it up at 20h later, or someone drive by the adult to whom you will entrust the responsiblity

person coming to collect the child :........

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?

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.

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.

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- them, not you Self. Just deal!"

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.

Paris 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.

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.

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.

The performers are very polite, as is the French custom. They greet the passengers verbally, "Bonjour Mesdames et Messieurs," 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.

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.

Here are some performance highlights. They are short, partial clips. Be sure to have your sound up and enjoy for free on me.

Video #1: Take note of the male passenger's mistake- he makes eye contact- Doh!

Video #2: 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.

 

 Video #3: The lonesome cowboy.

Video # 4: The holiday spirit got the best of me so these guys made some money off me.

Video #5: My all-time personal favorite is this enthusiastic rendition of Hava Nagila. 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.

Gym Culture

Staying 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 Let's Get Physical 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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

Thankfuls

In 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?

MY LIST OF THANKFULS

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 moelleux au chocolat. Soren is still working on perfecting his pronounciation of 'moelleux'.

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.
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.

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.

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?!

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!).

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.

6. Lists of reasons to be grateful. They work wonders for a sour mood.

English Is A Foreign Language Too

So 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 likes, no ways!, totallies!, awesomes, for reals?, dudes, and way cools. I do refrain from grodie, tubular, and gnarly. And I am not rude enough to respond to others with any as ifs. And as for OMGs well, I consider myself too old for that one.

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, "Lentement s'il vous plaît," (slowly, please). She obliged, and Soren was able to understand her.

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.

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.

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."

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. 

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'.