867-5309 Lisa!

VONAGE IS UP AND RUNNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

HUGE, HUGE thanks to Lisa for helping to bring this to fruition.  For the 1st time in print, I will divulge the story behind the delay in this service (as well as throw my husband under the bus - good times).

So we had only been here 36 hours before I asked (O.K., begged) Lance to hook up the Vonage phone.  Nathalie and Didier and their 2 kids were still here (although generously staying with friends to give us the house) and were in the last phases of "holy **** we are leaving the country" and doing last minute things around the house like mad.  I felt as though we really could not unpack our stuff into their house with them still here.  At one point they went out and we had some time in the house to ourselves.  Finally, our Vonage chance!  

Things you should know:

Voltage here is 240 volts compared to our 110 volts AND the prongs are different on the plug.  Some things need voltage convertors (baby monitors, iPods, etc.) and some don't (lap tops, cell phone chargers, etc.)  So at any given time you may need one or two items (a plug adapter and/or a voltage convertor).  So in his "sleep deprived, kid distracted, appease my wife" haste he plugged the Vonage plug into the wall with only a plug adaptor and...zzzzZZZZTT -- POOF!!!!!  Merde.

SMOKE eminating from the plug!  So several days and countless hours later Vonage sent us a new plug in care of Lisa who promptly forwarded it on to us using 2 Obama tee-shirts as packing material!  Thanks Lisa!

Moral of the story - you can now call us at: 

617-395-7675 

for free.  Just dial it as if we were sitting at home in Somerville.  Go Vonage!

The Price You Pay

We think we've got something to complain about when it comes to gas prices...we Americans all better simmer down!

I noticed that the car was only 1/4 full so I decided to head to the gas station - an adventure in itself.  French people are clearly very concerned about getting gas on their hands because when I was waiting in line I saw no less than 5 people pull out rubber gloves, a paper towel, a magazine, and a newspaper.  Needless to say I just pulled right up and grabbed that gas nozzle like a true American; gas, germs and all.  So I checked with several people around me in my best Franglish to be sure I was pumping Diesel into the car.  All set except that there was no credit card swipe, attendant or Mobile Speedpass.  I had seen everyone just pulling away.  It is possible that petro is free here (school for Ellie is)?  Ya no, just the opposite.  I promptly drove away and pulled up to the pay window (like a McDonalds drive up) and paid my bill.  It came to a whopping 65,50 Euros which translates to a lovely 97.00.  Now you might think we are driving around a Hummer with like a 50 gallon tank.  Oh no, 97.00 to full up the tank of a Mercedes station wagon and it wasn't even on fumes!  Good times.  The french people must be loving Lance's Honda Accord and US gas prices.

It Takes a Leap of Faith...

So we're rolling through Central France. 17 hours and 3000 miles of travel behind us. We're ready for a new adventure. An experience that will change the way we live the rest of our lives. A leap of faith into a foreign land. And as I sit there with my daughter on my lap, looking out at this exotic countryside slip past I think to myself, "Huh. Looks like Upstate New York."

No, seriously... it REALLY looks like Upstate New York. Rolling fields, cut only by the occasional county road slicing one vast, 0pen area from the next... tractors... cows.... True, there are some differences, like a seemingly primal instinct to settle communities on the top of any available hill, rather than the lowest point in the valley. And the cows? White. Really white. I mean like Karl Rove white. But I swear at one point I saw a John Deere tractor plowing a field. Were we really in France? I promptly ventured to the cafe car and purchased a baguette jambon and a small bottle of Bordeaux for about seven dollars total and breathed a sigh of relief.

The kids maximized the opportunity to stand, sit, crawl under, and run up and down the aisles of seats while we attempted, largely in vain, to minimize the annoyance factor to our fellow travelers. Mile by silent mile the train roared through the French countryside as the sun set and our marathon "day" of travel finally neared its conclusion.

Prior to the trip, I had sent an email to our host, Nathalie, to ensure that taxis were available at the station in Nimes, where we would arrive, some 20 minutes south of our final destination. They were of course available, she assured me, but not to worry, she would meet us with her "very large" Mercedes station wagon and that would surely be enough to transport our entire traveling party. Now, we'll get into this in more detail in a later post but suffice it to say that "very large" in France is roughly equivalent to mid-sized in the States. I chose not to push the issue at the time and as it happened, a friend of theirs was at the station at the same time and was willing to help us, "just in case it didn't all fit in the car." Ha. So, about 20 minutes later, with two cars bursting with luggage, and my bike strapped to the roof of the mystery friend's Volkswagon (my heart rate pushing 200 as I anxiously watched every curve), we were on our last leg. We pulled into a tiny gravel road off a not-quite-as-tiny paved road, weaved cautiously through walled pathways that couldn't have left more than a few inches clearance, and then, finally, after everything, we had arrived.

As we stepped through the gate, the door, up the stone stairs, though another door, and into the "kitchen," we took stock of our present surroundings and both thought, "Wow. These guys are in for a rude awakening when they get to our tiny place!"

Casey Jones

We were sitting outside the elevator door, one floor above the platform at the TGV station at Charles de Gaulle airport. Two carts overflowing with luggage. Two kids precariously perched in a stroller laden with carseats and backpacks. We must have looked... what's the word? Pitiful? Sad? Bizarre? Freaking ridiculous? THAT'S IT!!!

The fact that we'd even made it that far was a feat of human accomplishment that I'm still not certain I believe. You see, the French, in their sublime wisdom and infinite brilliance, have placed a TGV station smack in the middle of Terminal 2 at Charles deGaulle International Airport. From this center of modern transportation, travelers may make their iron-wheeled way to every corner of the French Republic and beyond. It's perfect; simple; convenient; and close.

...unless, of course, you land in Terminal 1.

Should you find yourself so cursed by the fates of the ground traffic controllers that choose your arrival gate, fret not -- you have but to alight upon a swift inter-terminal rail system to whisk you to the awaiting train. Unless, of course, you actually have luggage. Or, in the case of some, a lot of luggage.

You see, those clear-thinking French have taken careful steps to ensure that you won't have the misfortune of accidentally taking a luggage cart home with you or, for that matter, on the inter-terminal shuttle. Rather, they have quite wisely placed barricades around the doors leading to the shuttle platforms so that you may avoid making such an embarrassing gaffe.

So what is a young American couple with 15 inanimate objects in tow, together with two additional items requiring periodic sippy cups and diaper changes to do? Two words: conveyor belt. Just past the barricades was a moving sidewalk that moved uphill... sort of a flat escalator. With a pile of luggage at one end and a waiting parent with two kids at the other, we commandeered said moving sidewalk for our own personal conveyor belt. Utilizing a similar proceedure on various elevators, we finally found ourselves at the train station, ready to convince someone that it was perfectly reasonable that we should load our cache aboard the pride of the French Rail system in the middle of a Saturday during the busy holiday season. Say it with me now: Good Times.

Through several half-jibberish, half Frenglish conversations with various quasi-helpful information booth attendants and SNCF porters, we determined that, with a little creative classification, we could characterize our burden as within the "two plus one" per person luggage theory. Sure we had 15 things but really, the stroller doesn't count (see previous post... just go with it) and the car seats are going to be on the seats with the kids on them, so you can't count that, right? That leaves 12 items. As proud holders of four first-class seats, we boldly strode to our appointed car, stepped aboard and saw...

A wee tiny luggage area, already chock full of bags.

The monologue that ran through my mind and quite possibly past my lips is not suitable for printing in this family-friendly forum. What followed was a frantic few minutes that included: hailing the Conductor from the platform and trying to explain our predicament while hoping that the children were adopting their most forlorn-yet-adorable visages; displays of exasperation that I personally had yet to witness; the words, "s'not posseebeel!"; sprinting up and down the platform lugging 49.95 pound bags; complete strangers sprinting up and down the platform lugging our 49.95 pound bags; and finally, as the train rolled away, a stern admonishment that bordered on an arse-chewing as to what is and is not appropriate luggage for passenger rail service. In case you were curious, ours was not.

Somehow, amazingly, preposterously, we were aboard. Our luggage was stowed (sort of... the conductor told me, I think, that at some point I might see my bike on the platform. Um... okay...), the kids were in their seats, and we paid but a single 45 Euro supplement for the experience. Pas mal, as they say in these parts. South of France, here we come.

Caravan

It's 11:00 PM (sorry... make that 23:00) and I've been here a week. Wow. To say that these seven days have been a blur doesn't begin to do justice to the level of chaos that has defined our lives since we left the cozy confines of 356 Highland last Friday evening.

Undeterred by the deluge that accompanied our two-SUV procession from Somerville to Logan International, we somehow got our 14 pieces of luggage (we'll revisit that issue later) from the curb to the counter and commenced checking in. From check-in through take-off was largely uneventful and even the flight was relatively pain-free, with Amy and I taking turns pacifying one screaming child or another (little tidbit of advice for traveling parents: when your toddler is peacefully sleeping in-flight, do NOT try to recline her seat "to make her more comfortable." Bad things happen. Bad things. Just take my word for it). In between, we each actually got an hour or two of sleep. What luxury! And a glass of cognac before bed! Hey, this international travel thing is a breeze. Even the connection in Frankfurt was seamless. They have a separate "family" security area for traveling circuses like ours. In-flight cognac, family security screening... these Germans know what they're doing.

As much as the first two legs of our adventure were without significant drama, I knew... I just KNEW we had that train ride... and those 14 pieces of luggage... I knew there was no way it was going to end well.

Now, to revisit our luggage situation, we each had two large bags, as was our allotment. Now when I say "large," I mean large, as in, within about 11 grams of the 50 pound maximum limit. Having spent several hours immediately prior to leaving playing "move this sock from this bag to that one. Now get back on the scale!" I had ensured that we gave up not an ounce of our share of the cargo hold. And that's not to mention that one piece was my bike, packaged in a not-exactly-compact cardboard box. In addition, we had two rolling carry-ons, two small(ish) backpacks, two car seats, and the stroller. That's actually 15 items if you're keeping score at home but we chose not to count the stroller. On what basis? Amy decreed that it shouldn't count. I know better than to argue with that logic.

It was a collection of stuff that would have made George Carlin cringe... and we couldn't live without it. Now the question was: how to get it to the train station and did we stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting it all on the train?

Wait a Minute Mr. Postman...

Because many have asked, our mailing address over here is:

DAVIS
c/ RIESEN
Mas de Campagnac
30190 Sainte Anastasie
France

US Postal Service seems to be the best way to get anything over here. Packages take about a week to arrive. FedEx gave up earlier this week and called to ask me to drive to the nearest village to meet them. Sadly, on my third day in the country, I knew the immediate area better than the FedEx guy. When I met him, he was wearing a Yankees t-shirt, so that probably explains it.

Where it All Begins...

Where to start? For the past six days we've repeatedly been asking ourselves "what the h#ll have we gotten ourselves into?" From 22 hours of travel, to phone and computer problems, to two kids sharing the same room for the first time and (of course) waking each other up all night, it's been a long six days. Thankfully, the local wine is cheap and delicious and works wonders on shredded nerves and shattered patience. Much more detail will follow including an account of the voyage, as well as the first few days. We are also working on web albums with the first sets of pictures.

The picture in the header above is taken from right behind the house. As you can see at left, Ellie has already taken to playing in the grapes.