A Runaway American Dream

Exodus (Epilogue Part 2)

2010-03-07T22:50:00.006-05:00

Our plan for the morning was ill-conceived from the start: “We’ve got PLENTY of time… another croissant, a second cup of coffee, sure, why not… let’s try and wade through the French newspapers – that’s always a speedy chore.”

Finally off to l’Aeroport Paris-Roissy Charles De Gaulle. Wow… this place is big. There’s like, three separate airports here. Which one do we go to? Well, since we spent last night logged in at the hotel confirming our flights, locating the proper terminal and planning out where one finds a gas station and how one returns a rental car, we’ve got it all figured out. Wait, we drank a bottle of wine and went to sleep? Wow, we’re in trouble.

After at least two laps around the entire CDG complex with nary a filling station in sight, we finally pulled the family truckster into a *tiny* parking area outside what appeared to be the departures desk. Now the challenge – getting everything into the hands of the airline employees. I quickly commandeered a luggage cart but while hurrying back to the van was stopped by a man in a blue warm-up jacket, who seemed to be telling me that the cart belonged to him but that he would gladly carry my bags for me for a mere 5 euro. I chuckled and thought, “this guy’s going to get a good tip if he gets this all in.” Upon seeing our beast of overburden, he called for backup. Once we were properly inserted in the “passengers needing special assistance line, “ Blue Coat turned to me and demanded 90 Euro. 5 euro per bag. Wow, woops. I’m going to have to hit you back after I find an ATM. Right now, I need to go return the car or I’m going to miss this flight.

I managed to find the correct garage and I could see the signs indicating the spots in which one is to park one’s rental car. I could see them. Right there… right, past, the, barricades. No matter which aisle I drove down, there were the empty spots, beckoning me on the other side of very solid looking barriers. After managing to dash the wrong way through an open gate before it swung closed, I parked the car, left a massive wad of wind-shredded blue tarp, duct tape, and twine in back of van and sprinted to the rental return counter back in the terminal whereupon I encountered a wholly disinterested desk attendant engaged with a wholly exercised British man who was quite upset about something.

Meanwhile, I’d left Amy in conversation with the ticket agent to negotiate the 10 pieces of luggage, 8 carry-ons, 2 car seats and a stroller, the cost of the overweight pieces and the extra pieces. Good thing the kids were perfectly well behaved. Yeah, right. They’re like dogs – they sense fear. In the end it was a big smile, an “I was told this” with proof in writing, a huge MERCI BEAUCOUP, a manager that took pity on them and who crossed off one exorbitantly high priced bag and said “I’m only going to charge you this (re-writing) put the rest to the kids college accounts.” Clearly, things were going better for her than for me.

The Brit having finally resolved himself to accept that the French counterman was genetically incapable of enlightenment regarding whatever it was that had him so exercised, I stepped forward, announced my intention to return the van, provided the general location within the garage in which I had left it, and was promptly handed a printed receipt and sent on my way. I stood dumbfounded for a nanosecond before dashing away to rescue my family.

I returned to see Amy with strollered cherubs, carry-on items, and an official-looking CDG employee (the aforementioned charitable manager) standing just outside the corridor to the departure gates… none of them looking particularly patient or calm. “We’re all set,” Amy told me, “let’s go!” Apparently, we were to be rushed to the gate, our luggage already theoretically en route to the belly of the plane. I stepped in line, thanked the manager for what I could only assume was some massive bending of standard operating procedure, slung two carry-ons over my shoulder and plowed ahead. As we were about to pass through an initial security check to access the gate areas, my old friend the Blue Coat came up to me, again demanding his 90 euros. I turned to Amy and promptly threw her to the wolves with a “you haven’t paid them!?” I turned back to Blue Coat pulled out all the money I had in my pocket, handed it to him and, looking him directly in the eye, said, “it’s all I have. I’m sorry. Thank you” and I put out my hand. Something clicked in him… be it the look in my eye, the circus of an entourage that I was leading, or the memory of some hopeless situation he may have found himself in with his own family because he shook my hand, and said, “okay. Bon voyage.” And with that last example of the French proving their miserable stereotype backwards, we were off, up the escalator and to the gate. It would all be smooth sailing from here, for sure.

Homeward Bound

2010-03-04T18:41:00.004-05:00

As I sit at my desk and juggle documents, emails, and (worse) a schedule packed with hockey class, ballet lessons, and sundry other of life’s mundane everyday treasures, it occurs to me that, indeed, this weekend will mark the one year anniversary of our return from France. My immediate thought is “a perfect excuse to uncork one of the bottles of wine we brought back and pair it with a full-on gourmet French meal!” Quickly, though, a nagging, nervous, “haven’t done your homework” feeling swept into the pit of my stomach. As the adrenaline sat bitter on my tongue, I knew what had to be done.

THE BLOG MUST BE COMPLETED!

It’s with great shame that I acknowledge that we never finished the story of our return trip, not to mention having neglected this space since September. I’m sure that you, loyal readers, assumed that everything went so perfectly smooth that there really was nothing to tell. No comic asides or outrageous anecdotes to recount. No ridiculous situations in which we found ourselves through a combination of fate, foolishness, and naiveté. But I jest, bien sûr. You’ve been reading along with us long enough to know that there was no way we were going to pull this off without more absurd episodes, missteps, misfortunes, and of course beautiful misery.

So it is with this teaser that I commit to complete our story and present it here over the weekend, in marking one year since our return. Whether this will re-invigorate regular contributions to our poor, neglected blog, I can’t promise, though I do hope we can get back to making quasi-regular entries. And if you want to see that happen, feel free to nag us about it… peer pressure certainly helps!

Until the story continues…

Miles from Nowhere

2009-09-13T23:02:00.005-04:00

So we boldly took a 2 and almost 4 year old camping this past weekend for the long weekend. We went to one of our “pre-kid” favorite camping spots – Acadia National Park, Maine (if you have never been there, go! It is gorgeous). There was A LOT of pre-planning and fore-thought in order to make this long weekend a success. It sure did not hurt that we were going with 3 of our close friends and that they had 2 kids Ellie & Cole’s age. The kids had a blast running around, playing on the huge rocks, hiking and just being in nature. Also, it helped that the people on the site next to us had an only child who was very outgoing!

All in all, things went very well. No one got burned in the fire pit, no one got eaten by bears and there were only a few falls (mostly by kids other than ours). We bought a new family tent -- anyone who has been on "guy camping weekend" knows we needed one. The tent has 2 rooms (a zip up divider – kids on one side, us on the other.) They went to bed like angels because if you tire them out enough during the day and they will be begging to go to bed. The mornings were another story. They tended to wake up very early. Lance and I threw books, toys, stickers, anything in their general direction to try to keep them quiet. One of the mornings, after the fact, I remember hearing Ellie say "I'm going to cut your hair." Now, mind you, I was half asleep and I just assumed that they were pretend playing so I sort of dozed back off again...UNTIL I felt a tugging on my own hair. Immediately my eyes were wide open. Apparently the two of them had gotten into my travel toiletries kit and had found not only the eyeliner, the deodorant, the Chapstick, the band-aids, but also the travel nail clippers and mini scissors. When Ellie said “I’m going to cut your hair” she really meant it. I found a one inch piece of hair dangling from Cole’s forehead. Good thing it was not in that prominent a place. And apparently I was about to be her next victim, had I not woken my lazy butt up.

Dream the Impossible Dream

2009-08-29T22:21:00.002-04:00

So it is 10:21 p.m and I am just taking stock in this day. It is the last Saturday in August before I start school. I should have been on the beach today or relaxing at a spa but instead I never left the house. This day has sucked. It was in the low 60s all day. It rained all day (sometimes down poured) -- thanks Hurricane Danny and the Nor’easter it brought with it. I wore pants and a long sleeve shirt all day. But most importantly today I spent the entire day watching TV. I spent the day watching Senator Kennedy's memorial and funeral. I feel as though I have been in a fog all day. I never knew him, of course, but the services were so very poignant and moving. What an amazing man, what a powerful family. Clearly I know that not everyone in the US was as enthralled as I -- being in Boston this week, one has had little chance to escape it. But as a tribute – thank you Senator Kennedy for dedicating your life to serving the underprivileged and underrepresented. You were truly an amazing man and you gave up so much of yourself, and your family life, for public service.

Monday

2009-06-29T10:46:00.002-04:00

It’s Monday. The second Monday at my new job. Actually, it’s really the first “Monday” because the first day of work doesn’t really count, does it? And what has this muggy, wet Monday morning wrought? Allow me to share.

I should have taken note when shortly before midnight last night, the power went out. Things seemed generally lacking ill omen this morning, notwithstanding the myriad displays blinking “12:00” at me like so many groggy Monday eyes just passing the minutes until that first cup of coffee.

My mind focused intensely a bit later when I thought for a brief moment I may need to duck behind the dashboard in hopes that the engine would block any stray bullets from either the Cambridge or the Somerville Officer who, in a triumph of municipal cooperation, had surrounded a white sedan not 100 feet in front of me and were approaching with sidearms drawn.

Having survived the commute unriddled, I walked into our building – our beautiful, brand-new, “green” certified building and was greeted by hastily printed, hand-highlighted signs at the elevators and (it turns out) throughout the building declaring:

WET
FLOORS!
TRIP
HAZZARDS!
WATCH YOUR
STEP!

I would find walls drilled open and work crews running fans and dehumidifiers in an attempt to remediate the damage from what was apparently a burst water pipe. And yes, the same spelling error was made in all of the signs.

In the midst of the cleanup crews, I was greeted by an unyielding security pad that refused to unlock the doors despite repeated and enthusiastic waving of my “Temp” badge security card. I’m hopeful that, after a week here, someone might figure out how to get me my permanent card.

To cap off this glorious morning, I overcooked my instant oatmeal in the microwave and, while cleaning up that mess, realized that I’d left my lunch in the fridge at home.

This all before 9:30.

I Fought the Law

2009-06-18T20:21:00.013-04:00

In the spirit of the French version of the blog (i.e., "the random stuff that happens to us in our life") this blog is a taste of our city living, our Davis Square life. This blog is about trash and the escapades that one can have with trash. As mentioned in our France blog (a long time ago) we had problems with the trash in our village. Although there were only 5 families in our hamlet, someone in the hamlet could not understand the concept of putting the trash in the dumpster and closing the lid - hence critters had a field day (rather big critters from the looks of things... big, French critters). One day Team Davis did a clean up - I could not stand it any longer.

Fast Forward to the city life version. We have the same problem with critters in Somerville, except these ones are little and have rodent-like qualities... all of them, actually... they are rodents. The problem is generally at the other end of the city but, understandably, the City of Somerville impossed an ordinance that required everyone to put their trash bags in a barrel on the street so that critters could not rip open the bags and maintain the food chain. Normally, Lance does the trash but one day I decided I would pitch in (Lance was at a job interview and I thought it would be a nice gesture). I pulled out the recycling bin and put the lone garbage bag on the street. It was kind of amazing that we only had one bag and I thought "Why bother pulling the barrel out when I can just plunk down the bag?" Lance came home and this was the exchange:

LD" "Thanks, honey but you know we need to put it in the barrel, right?"

AD: "No we don't. It will be fine."

LD: "There's a city ordinance, we can get a ticket."

AD (with all the CONFIDENCE IN THE WORLD): "What? That's ridiculous. How are they going to give us a ticket? (scoff)!"

To be honesy with you, it was sheer laziness. I just did not want to drag out the barrel and I thought I was RIGHT. So you can guess what happens next - I ate crow pie. I thought I was home free when I came home and there was not ticket in the mailbox. "See? it's fine." I confidentally proclaimed. Then, a few days later, a ticket arrived in the mail. Damn them!

I boldly appealled the ticket. So, today was the hearing at 5:30. I dragged the two kids with toys, snacks and drinks in tow for the sympathy vote. We arrived to a room full of people and signed in. We were #18. Seriously - there are this many people appealing trash tickets??????? So I embarked on feeding and entertaining the kids. I took notice of the "Man/Not Man" person sitting near us. If you know Lance and I, you know we play "Man/Not Man?" whenever appropriate. So the kid factor comes into play and we ended up getting called about 4 people before we should have as the kids were getting antsy in the stroller and the guy hearing office took pity on us. I go in to the hearing room and explained the situation. They had a photo of our trash on that day (thanks iPhone) sitting there, sans barrel. After hearing my story; that we thought we were doing a favor for my unemployed husband, the hearing officer clearly insisted that that garbage bag must not have been ours. When I had that confused moment and look on my face, he insisted even more. So he declared we were all clear. Oh city living.

So I guess these trash problems digressed a bit but came back together in the end. Both were problems that had critters at the root and both were the result of lazy people. At least in this case, there was a lesson learned.

Can't Find My Way Home (Epilogue Part 1)

2009-06-04T22:18:00.000-04:00

[What follows is the first installment of a long-overdue account of our exhausting, emotional, stress-filled, ridiculous journey home from France. More to follow...]

It was Spring in Provence, or at least the change of seasons was threatening. Harbingers sprung with every turn -- almond trees, once lost ugly skeletons randomly interrupting the brown winter viewscape, donned delicate white flowers and announced themselves as more than a crooked eyesore. Geckos skittered about the rocks in the courtyard, soaking every degree of sun into their cold scaly skin. And flowers. Flowers bloomed -- white crocus and beautiful purple iris, paying no mind to the calendar that still said "Février." Rows of what would soon be asparagus were covered in fresh plastic to capture the warmth and Vignerons raced against time to finish their winter pruning before the new season's vines burst from the noble old trunks. All of it seemed to say, "wait... don't leave yet, it's just getting good!"

Yet global financial crises, recession, depression, oppresion, the economic realities of our time, paid no mind to the seasonal benchmarks of a past age. It was time to come home.

Our adventure began on a Thursday morning, many days and even weeks of box and bag packing, weighing, shifting, and sealing having been spent. We drove to the airport south of Nimes, where we would collect our rented minivan. Having asked our friend Amy to speak with the rental company to ensure that we could pick up the car earlier than our 11:00 reservation provided (oh yes, we're open at 9:00, we were assured), we arrived at the terminal to find... nothing. No one. A giant, empty, polished tile ghost town with a sign at the car rental desk that said, "back at 11:15." Ah, the French.

Once we had van in hand we faced the dauting task of cramming all of our belongings into it. Now mind you, we came over with a full load and we also shipped three boxes to France. That's not to mention everything we'd bought there. We knew we were facing extra fees for our checked "bags" at the airline counter but first we somehow had to get it all to Paris. To this day, I'm still not certain how it really all fit but it did, and we have pictures to prove it.

Amy came over to help watch the kids (and bring coffee, tea, and snacks for the road, one last time earning her wings as our personal angel). She was particularly concerned with the highly uncertain manner in which we'd affixed the bike box to the roof (there being no roof rack) and ran home to get more rope and tie-down straps. Even after adding those, we were all a bit leary so she made us promise to stop at Mr. Bricolage for bungy cords, which we did, and thankfully so -- they did the trick. I could not see any mirror other than the driver's side and if I took a sharp right turn I had a suitcase in my lap but other than that it was perfectly safe.

So we said tearful goodbyes to Amy and Evelyne, took a few last pictures and, like a modern-day European Clampett family, we were off... on one of the most miserable drives of my life. Paris is a LONG way from the South of France, even if you aren't in an overloaded minivan with a giant wind-block tenuously strapped to the roof and two displeased toddlers in the back (with a wife wedged in bewteen them). It was white-knuckly driving the entire seven-plus hour journey, while rain threatened at any moment to turn the over-stuffed cardboard bike box into pulp and leave us with little hope of getting all of its varied contents home. But we drove. And drove and drove. Sometime around 11 PM (or 23H for those keeping European Time), we finally checked wearily into the Suitehotel CDG Paris Nord Deux.

We were pleasantly surprised by the room, though the promised and pre-reserved crib was nowhere to be found. After stealing it, with the assistance of the night clerk, from another room, we settled the kids into their beds, pulled the Asian-style divider that qualified the room for "Suite" status, then cracked open the bottle of wine we'd brought for the occasion (after another trip to the nightclerk for a corkscrew and a quick stop at the lobby computer to post an entry to this blog) and raised one last glass to our French adventure, though it was far from over, as the morning would soon prove....

Home Sweet Home

2009-05-18T00:36:00.001-04:00

Little shout out from Amy here! Sadly I have to admit that this is the first time that I've had to revisit the blog. I love the blog and love the way it helped us connect with people and helped them connect to our crazy France life. Now we are living our crazy Davis Square life. We have been home since March 6th (2 1/2 months). It was a whirlwind from the moment we found out we were leaving to the days before we left; packing our lives (9 pieces of luggage and 8 carry-ons), packing the car (Amy laughing at all of our luggage and being a SUPER HUGE HELP with the kids and lending us the locking tie down staps!), saying goodbye to our France life, saying hello to our U.S. life, seeing all our family and friends, moving back into our house, reacclimating to our U.S. life, going back to work fulltime, and oh ya, throwing in a bathroom renovation and a job search for Lance, for the fun of it.

Needless to say, I have been a bit busy. BUT I am back. So my blog tonight is a microcosm of our return home. There are so many stories to tell (and they will be told) but this is what I've got for tonight. It's a story about Cole. In the cab ride home (Les had all our luggage in his car and Team Davis was in a cab together) I was eagerly anticipating Ellie's reaction (as she was the only one who had not been back to the U.S. during the whole time we were in France, and she was older) however, she fell alseep in the cab, they both fell asleep -- it was 2:00 AM for the kids --and I wasn't sure how they were going to be upon waking up at the house. Ellie rallied but it was Cole who provided the biggest surprise. Cole's reaction was priceless. He entered the house and while I was eagerly watching Ellie, out of the corner of my eye I saw Cole lie face down on the floor, rolling around, back and forth, giggling uncontrollably, on our living room rug! Our France house was beautiful but carpet was not a part of any of it, anywhere. It was made of stone floors and stone walls and "soft" or "comfortable" are not a words anyone would use to describe any of it. Apparently, even at 2 years old, there's nothing like a nice wool carpet.

With that, the Blog is back.

"...like an open book for the whole world to read."

All In My Grill

2009-05-04T23:02:00.000-04:00

There are many things I love about our cozy little house in Davis Square. High on the list is the back yard community. We have a tidy little "garden" out back, big enough for even the longest moon shot home run off of a plastic T, as long as the batter is a two year-old.

Bordering our slice of the American Dream is an old chain link fence. A beautiful relic in burnt sienna that, in the summer, dons an English Ivy boa weaved with wildflowers reflecting the finest in ex-urban backyard haute couture. Strategically low for half its span, it allows us an open connection with our neighbors who have an idyllic, over-sized backyard with flowerbeds that would make Martha Stewart stop and take note. Conveniently, the beds also make a stunning backdrop for the fully-lighted sound stage for live bands that they have been known to build for special occasions like milestone birthdays. It's an experience. We love them and always welcome, though occasionally marvel at, the energy with which they make full and celebratory use of their little paradise. God love the Irish... more stories there to follow.

Beyond their lot lay the backyard gardens of all of the houses on the next street over. We don't know these folks as well, being separated beyond any practical "hi, neighbor" over-the-fence chats. Rather, we know the characters by reference, like a post-modern Rear Window with fewer bricks and more patios. It is thus that we noted with sadness the absence of one of the regular characters, Mary, an elderly woman who we only saw on her regular trips to her little patch of concrete, wearing a light blue, flowered dressing gown, to hang or pull down from the line a seemingly endless supply of light blue, flowered dressing gowns.

Her absence was obvious because in her place was a glowing new picnic table with a table cloth and candles, tiki torches, and a shiny, black, old-school, -- fabulous -- charcoal Weber grill. Manning the coals was a man who was maybe 40. I noticed him not by sight but by the unmistakable smell of charcoals heating... getting ready for the main act. The beautiful part: he's been out there, firing up that grill for the past eight nights in a row. Eight nights in a row, cleaning out the ashes, loading new charcoal, building the fire and waiting until the coals are just right. Always just him... with a beer... a man and his grill. Solid.

So, here's to you, Brand-New Grill Guy.

It's great to be home.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes

2009-04-19T23:26:00.000-04:00

It's been over a month since our return to the U.S. and, quite clearly, we've not found much time to keep this space current. The small matters of re-integrating into our lives, (one of us) going back to work, and that minor issue of (the other one of us) finding a job, not to mention the daunting and foolish task of remodeling our upstairs bathroom in our "spare" time, haven't exactly allowed the blocks of free time to keep this effort fresh.

Hopefully, that is now going to change. After much discussion and a very flattering amount of encouragement from our readers, we've decided to revive this forum. Without the daily tribulations and inherent comedic trials of our existence in the backwoods of a foreign nation, the material may be more challenging to unearth.

However, I find that life with two small children and about 10 less hours in a day than we need just to accomplish the bare minimum to keep our heads above water tends to provide a regular stream of vignettes that, were we not to find the humor inherent therein, would regularly reduce us to a puddle of tears. So, you know... let's laugh about it.

After all, this is what it's all about, right? A Runaway American Dream?

So, in the coming weeks, you will see changes to this space. A new look, more frequent and (hopefully!) shorter posts, and, well, less stories about French people. If you think we've got it completely wrong, let us know. After all, if you the reader are not entertained, what's the point of putting this all down in kilobytes? We'd be just as well to sit on the couch and chat with each other over a nice glass of (really expensive) wine. Seriously though... the wine. How did we ever afford to drink this stuff? Where's that lady with the gas pump when I need her?

Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien

2009-03-09T18:15:00.003-04:00

There was always bound to be things that we missed. Leaving a few months ahead of schedule certainly had the potential to amplify that fact but as we look back, only a few days removed, we see just that... things that we miss -- but nothing that we regret...

1. Family lunch. They send the kids home from school from Noon until 1:30 each day for lunch. They take lunch very seriously here. Nearly every day, Lance "came home from work" to sit down at the table to join us for lunch. It was really nice.

2. Drinking wine that was cultivated, harvested, and bottled by people we know personally and consider our friends.

3. The sweetest oysters you've ever tasted at less than 50 cents apiece, there for you every Wed and Sat at the Market.

4. Hearing Ellie say "Castle!" when she sees the church in Aubarne, as well as her joy at seeing "Kelsey," "her pony" every time I drive her back and forth to school. Although I have not had the heart to break it to her that her pony "Kelsey" is more like Kelsey Grammer than she realizes.

5. Stopping a telemarketer dead in their tracks by saying, "You're calling me in France right now, I am not interested." They are so confused because they are sure they dialed a US number.

6. Dark Dog Energy Drink. Sure it's just a knockoff of RedBull but "Dark Dog" is way cooler to say.

7. The baguettes. Actually, there were a lot of really mediocre baguettes in Southern France but, the good ones... oh the good ones. We will forever be in search for another baguette to match the "Sanilhacoise."

8. The croissants. Do I really need to say anything more? Okay -- just to drive the point home, in France we always needed to buy five croissants: one for each of us and an extra for Ellie. When she'd polished off her two, she'd start lobbying to finish Cole's. So our first morning back here, Lance went to Dunkin Donuts for bagels, coffee, and croissants. As usual, he bought two for Ellie. She sat up in her chair, took one bite, spit it out and said, "yucky, I don't like this croissant!" *sigh* refined tastes are hard to satisfy.

9. The markets. Two days a week, we'd head into Uzes (or whatever other town we'd find ourselves in on Saturday morning) and do some shopping at the market. Now, for most of the winter it was clear that the produce was being shipped in from somewhere -- Spain or North Africa in most cases -- but there was still a certain charm to heading into the Place Aux Herbes and stocking up on your greens and maybe a piece of fish, oysters, or lamb for that night's meal. We will anxiously await the opening of the Wednesday Farmer's Market in Davis Square.

10. Being able to order a demi-pichet of house wine at any little lunch spot and getting a solid, beautiful local wine for mere pennies.

11. The music. Okay, this entry may have a bit of sarcasm to it. While there are a few gems, like Christophe Maé or Asa, there are several hours of pure schlock played on the French radio. But, as though to make up for the suffering they've just put you through, they'll then go and spin some Barry White or Sir Tom Jones... and completely redeem themselves!"

11. The food. This is actually a point of contention amongst Team Davis. While we certainly had many excellent meals in France, Lance insists that nothing we ate there compares with his best meals in Boston. That may or may not be the case but the beauty of the food was the consistency. We could walk into any little place for lunch (which we frequently did) and at the very least have our choice of salads that would feed three people, pizzas that put 95% of American pies to shame, or a "menu" -- the prix fixe option -- that was, at the least, uniformly very good. These people take their food seriously.

12. More than anything else though, we will miss our friends. It's hard to imagine that you could make such close friends over the course of just seven months but when things click, they just click. I know it's easy to say now, just a few short days removed, but I have little doubt that, in this age of Email, Skype, and Facebook, we will remain close, even though we may be an ocean apart. We wouldn't have made it without them.

Two of us

2009-03-05T20:07:00.000-05:00

Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay
You and me Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home

Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing so low
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead

Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home

We're going home
Better believe it

Dirty Water

2009-03-04T14:57:00.001-05:00

This list was started months ago with a few things that I was all fired up about and really missed at the time. Things that we couldn’t wait to get back to Boston to enjoy. Now, I have to say that I am having a hard time thinking of things to include. As our departure day draws near my mind is clouded with all of the things we will miss here in France and that is making it hard to leave.

* Seeing our friends and family (this has been extremely hard).
* A dryer – soft clothes and towels (crunchy clothes and deformed, stretched-out shirts are not cool).
* Warmth – old stone farmhouses in Southern France are DRAFTY. A room that is well insulated and easily maintained at a comfortable 68 degrees. Heck, I'd settle for 65. We've been living life at 60 degrees. It's chilly. You could store meat in here.
* Not having to work hard to understand the gossip of people waiting to pick up their kid at school.
* Putting the kids to sleep in their bedroom with out having to walk the Somerville equivalent of the distance to our neighbors’ house to get back to the living room.
* Sushi, Greek, Mexican, Indian, BBQ, heck diversity of any kind in terms of food. While we’re on topic of food - a GOOD Steak! Cows over here are grass fed and are just… they’re not good.
* A practically-designed kitchen and OUR cooking equipment and related gear. The beautiful, stylish kitchen with only three burners and minimal workspace that looks like a Food Network studio kitchen is not necessarily the optimal cooking experience for us.
* And speaking of food, plastic wrap with an actual metal cutting edge – they have an inverted bread knife here to cut paper towels but when you buy a box of saran wrap there is but a flimsy cardboard corrugated ridge that is supposed to cut the wrap. It does not, of course, and you end up with a wrinkled ball of plastic in your hand and a mangled pile of cardboard on the floor. It’s not pretty.
* Being able to drive out of my driveway without having to roll down my window. Seriously, we’ve been here almost 7 months and I am the primary driver of this rather large car for European standards – you’d think I’d know it by now. The driveway in our hamlet has a weird turn and it VERY tight in one spot. I have to roll down my driver window and make sure I am not going to hit the side of the house. Now our city driveway is skinny, but not this bad!
* Rolling around on the floor with the kids and not coming away with bruises and a low-grade concussion from the stone floors. A rug… just a nice, soft rug.
* Stepping outside and seeing… life. People, cars, bikes, buses, just some indicia that the rest of humanity did not vaporize overnight.
* TV. I’m sorry but random celebrity talk/variety shows and dubbed-over reruns of CSI and Law and Order SVU does not constitute legitimate television.

I’m sure there has been a list of other things that we’ve barked at each other over the past seven months but somehow we can’t think of any more at the moment. For now, we’re buried in bags and boxes and counting kilograms and sitting on suitcases to get them zippered and it is nice to think about sitting in our warm, cozy living room and flipping on a Sox grapefruit league game. I just hope it isn’t snowing outside.

Day Tripper

2009-03-03T17:40:00.000-05:00

I suppose all of our trips have been “day trips,” technically, other than the overnight in Switzerland, but we thought it would be fun to call out a few highlights and anecdotes that we’ve particularly enjoyed.

Over the holidays we took the kids ice skating at the "patinoire" that was set up in the "esplanade" in Uzès. They actually truck in a portable rink, together with a small selection of midway rides and games and set it up outside from the circular boulevard that runs in the footprint of the old city walls. Impressive, although the rink isn't exactly Olympic size. In fact, it's probably a lot smaller than dozens of backyard rinks set up every year in the Metro Boston area. Nonetheless, it was close by and the best option we had. The high point was Cole taking to skates like a fish to water and then bringing the house down by flat out grooving to Day Tripper – on skates – as it blared over the sound-system.

A few weeks back we finally got around to visiting the Cathédrale Saint-Théodorit d'Uzès (when it wasn’t packed wall to wall with Christmas Eve worshippers). It’s a good thing it was empty this day because we spent about 20 minutes lying face down on the dank cold stone floor looking for Cole's lost shoe.

We’ve tried to make sure we drove around to some of the less well-known areas near our village… the ones that never make it into the Michelin Guides. On one such adventure, we found ourselves driving from little village to little village trying to find a restaurant open for lunch (we finally had to drive all the way to Bagnols-Sur- Cèze, where we ate Indian pizza… yum). On one back road in between two very not-open villages, we came upon what can only be described as the world’s greatest retirement home for tractors. Yup, you read that right.

Last weekend we headed into the Vaucluse to discover the source of La Rive Sourges. The Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, swollen from the recent rains, was a pretty impressive sight as it mysteriously swells from an unknown source deep inside a closed valley. The whitewater roaring away from the source made for an excellent kayak course and some sort of local club or team was practicing running gates while we watched. It was quite a sight.

That same day, we wound our way south to the village of Barben for a visit to Château Le Barben, the self-proclaimed “most beautiful castle in Provence.” What was amazing about this 10th century castle, other than its dramatic setting, was that, after being in the same family for over 500 years, it was sold in the sixties to a wealthy businessman who opened it up to the public. The amazing part, however is that *his family still lives there!* His daughter and her husband are both in the art/design/history professions and they have kept the Château maintained and open to the public. They live there with their family and on the day we visited, while waiting for our tour to begin, there was a gaggle of grandkids playing soccer in the castle gardens. Some life.

Our tour of the Château went fairly well, having wisely remembered to pack lollypops for the kids. Hard to scream when you have a “sucette” in your mouth. I do think the guide was a bit nervous when Cole decided to heave his pop across the room. Life moved in slow motion as it spiraled towards a 16th century Belgian tapestry. Oops. Sadly, we’d packed but one set of child silencers and as the tour entered the subterranean passages that housed the military defenders of the castle, things went poorly. We told Ellie that the costumed Knight leading this part of the tour was there to save the Princess. “Where’s the Princess??” Um… I think she’s at school. Cole entertained himself by rolling around in the 10th century dirt and throwing rocks at the ancient armaments and shields. “Ooh… sorry… no, I think that dent was already there.”

These are but a few of the great places we’ve taken in. There are plenty more and should you find yourself in the South of France, you would do well to visit any of them: the Roman Theatre in Orange, a visit to a winery in Châteauneuf du Pape, the legendary Friday market in Carpentras, and a drive up Le Mont Ventoux as far as the snow-covered roads would allow so Ellie could see the mountain that Daddy rode his bike up. It was sunny an warm enough to enjoy a hot chocolate on the patio at Chalet Reynard… a little Apres-ski, sans ski.

Our last Day Trip was on Sunday and it may be the most amazing thing we’ve seen in France. We drove west to the Grotte des Demoiselles, the Cave of the Fairies. This massive cavern, which you actually have to go UP to get into, was stunning. I spent the bulk of the hour-long tour literally speechless. To say that it looked like a movie set from an Indiana Jones or Lord of the Rings movie doesn’t even do it justice. I had to continually remind myself that it was real.

Mon Legionnaire

2009-03-02T04:50:00.001-05:00

If you find our hamlet on Google Maps you will notice, if you are anything like me, that when you browse the surrounding area there is a fairly significant facility of some sort at the very top of the hill that separates us from the city of Nimes. Upon closer inspection (and thanks to the quality of the satellite images and the French Military’s apparent disregard for any level of secrecy), you can see in some detail that it is a military base.

After dispensing with the requisite jokes at the expense of the French Military, I came to realize that there is actually quite a significant military presence in this area. In addition to the large outpost on top of the hill, there is a French Foreign Legion barracks in town and there is also an Air Force base just north of us. On any given weekday one has no trouble remembering the presence of these installations as the rattle of automatic weapons crackling off the 17th century stone walls is interrupted only by the thump-thump-thump of ordinance as the gunners take their target practice in vast firing ranges carved into the garrigues atop the plateau across the river from us, sending a tangible jolt through chest and window pane alike.

More frequent, however, are the flyboys – those French Top Guns in their delta wing Mirage fighter jets who dance across the Provencal sky at least two or three days a week. These modern-day flying aces stay at a high altitude, begging you to strain your eyes and your neck to catch a tiny flash of sun off of a wing before you can identify the source of the slow and lingering roar.

There are, however, exceptions. One clear morning I dashed outside and was able to spot two jets at altitude engaged in what looked like either a mock dogfight or some serious multi-million Euro showboating. It was an entertaining spectacle until I realized I was standing on our patio, staring at the sky, half dressed.

Of greater note, however, is Henri. Nearly every day when we first arrived last summer, and less frequently but still regularly now, an older, swept-wing fighter would roar over the house at a few thousand feet at best. Only the faint whine of the engine would provide a second or two of forewarning before the deafening thunder would shake house and soul and he’d be gone. He was always heading East to West when we saw him in the morning and West to East in the afternoon.

This strange linear pattern, so at odds with the regular pairs of jets we’d see at other times, convinced me that this clearly was a rogue operator. Some French Monsieur on his way to pick up a perfect baguette or to meet an acquaintance for an afternoon Pastis or, perhaps, a more amorous motive. We would see Henri from various places, when we were out in the vineyards picking grapes or on the bike in some village or another. But it was always the same pattern. Occasionally I would try to catch a glimpse under the canopy for, if I had, I am sure I would have seen an older Bonhomme, with a leather flight helmet and goggles, of course. His crisp white silk scarf would strike a dashing contrast to his dark elaborate moustache as old French music blared from his cockpit sound system.

I tried desperately to get a picture but no matter how closely I laid the camera, lens cap off, auto settings engaged, I was never quick enough and by the time I had viewfinder to eye all I saw was an empty sky. But, each time, as I stared after the fast-fading specter, I’m certain that I heard the haunting strains of Edith Piaf, hanging in the laden Provencal air.

Free

2009-02-25T16:40:00.001-05:00

Quick follow-up to the "Ellie vs. 400 Year Old Stairs" episode. When we left the emergency room, they told us they would send an invoice to our house. Having received nothing, and being a week away from packing a rented mini-van with all our European Worldly Belongings and driving away, we called the hospital today to find out why we haven't received anything yet.

Now, mind you, French health care is socialized, meaning that it is heavily subsidized by the Government -- a doctors' visit cost about $35 (without insurance!). So, we expected that whatever the cost, it wouldn't be much.

I should clarify that we asked a good friend to call for us as we've pretty much given up the ceremony of planning out phone calls by pre-translating anything we might need to say in response to a set of potential questions. So, our friend Amy called the hospital today. The response was comical.

In short, the man said, "wait, how many stitches did you say? One? Oh, they won't even bother to bill you for that."

So there you go -- need one stitch? It's on the house. Our pleasure. Come back again sometime!

In The Gallery...

2009-02-23T17:48:00.003-05:00

...lots of new pictures. To the left: France Round 10.

This brings us to February 10th. We're getting there.

Little Village

2009-02-22T16:58:00.008-05:00

It was one of the final acts of the Bush Presidency -- a 300 percent duty on the import of Roquefort cheese in retaliation for EU restrictions on US beef containing hormones, effectively closing off the US market to the iconic pungent bleu. It caused an uproar on this side of the Atlantic, from cheese-maker protests to comments from our friends here. It was, put simply, an outrage(!!) and understandably so given that not only are the French suffering the economic impact from reduced exports but, more tragically, they are forced to eat French beef, which is entirely indedible.

So, in the face of such unmitigated schoolyard politicking, we decided that the proper thing for us to do, as temporary expats and de facto ambassadors of the Obama era, was to drive to Roquefort ourselves. (Also, I never realized how close we were until I looked at the map and said, "Hey, we should go there!").

It turned out to be a surprisingly interesting and fun trip. The village of Roquefort is perched on top of a massive pile of rubble that formed when half a mountain collapsed eons ago. What was left was a series of chasms, with natural air shafts that allowed a perfect level of moisture to produce the famously moldy cheese. Legend tells of a young shepherd in Roman times who stowed his lunch sack in a cave and forgot about it, returning some time later to find his fresh cheese riddled with mold. Of course, just as you or I would have done, he promptly ate it and presumably ran back to the village to tell everyone how tasty his moldy cheese was.

Today, the commercial production of the cheese, together with the associated tourist spending, sustains the tiny village. It is a remarkably quaint industry -- special ewes, grazed in a governmentally designated area, produce milk that is turned by just seven producers into Roquefort cheese, a monopoly that was granted to the village by King Charles XI in 1411.

The most interesting aspect was that the cheese makers are all generally located along the one main road that snakes through the tiny hillside settlement. For a guided tour, you walk through the main door, off of the main road, and from the lobby, head directly downstairs into the caves. The village is literally sitting on top of the pile of prehistoric rubble. Underground is a stunningly complex and massive system of chambers, each filled with shelves on which the cheese is aged, having been seeded with mold spores carefully grown on loaves of sourdough bread. Each different cave imparts a distinct flavor to the cheese during the aging process. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take pictures.(Oops... my finger slipped).

Before heading home, we took a quick detour (and paid 15 Euros in tolls) to pass over the Millau Viaduct, an amazing feat of engineering that spans the Tarn Gorge and is, by some measure, the highest bridge in the world. I first saw the bridge from the air on a flight in to Montpellier and promptly checked The Google to figure out what it was. Having suffered through a lengthy, detailed (in French) tour of the cheese caves, the kids got quite a kick out of driving over the big bridge twice.

So that was the day – down into the dark dank depths of the cheese caves, then flying high across the Tarn on a beautiful marvel of modern technology.

For the next week or more, we cooked with Roquefort about 42 different ways but I think my favorite remains a simple, small, salty morsel on a thin slice of fresh bread. It is… so good. The cheese of Kings, the King of Cheeses. Now... if we could do something about those tariffs....

C'est Ma Terre

2009-02-19T15:22:00.000-05:00

"It's My Earth"

So this post serves to highlight the less-than-glamorous part of life here in France. On this morning, our snug little hillside hamlet had seen better days. The five houses in the hamlet have a communal trash dumpster that we dump all our trash bags into (and, weirdly, our seperated clear plastic bags of recycled materials... I am convinced they just throw everything away). In any case, some people close the lid back over the dumpster and some, apparently, don't. When the lid is not closed it opens up a smorgasbord for the neighborhood cats (and Lord knows what else) who tear apart bags and drag various delicacies out, leaving remnants scattered about. One day earlier this week, I saw a cat who had chewed into a bag of recycled plastic containers and actually *crawled inside the bag* to make sure no spare morsel was missed. He was still inside when I found him. Real nice. He politely declined my offer of assistance.

Today was a gorgeous day so the kids and I set out on a field trip to do trash clean up. Call it an early Earth Day practice run. Ellie asked several times why I had gloves on and I explained that sometimes other people's trash is not clean (she seemed okay with that explanation). So today was trash clean up day around the dumpster. I found many Coke cans, a flip flop, a metal hub cap type thing and an amazing array of other items that had escaped the bounds of their green plastic bagged confinement.

The dumpster looks just lovely now. Though the cats seem a bit forelorn. Hey, it might not really be MY village but, translating the accompanying music (by Christophe Maé if you want to check him out), it's my Earth, it's where I sit.

Take it With Me

2009-02-18T17:46:00.001-05:00

In a follow up to the "things I like about you," there are a few things that deserve to be pointed out that they "get right" over here... the kind of thing that, if I could, I would like to take it with me when I go... To wit:

*There are very few 18 wheeler trucks and the ones that we have seen usually have the soft canvas sides rather than the travelling metal boxes you see in the US. Must save a ton on gas as the truck is so much lighter.

*Gatorade scoop -- though here it is called "Hydra Endurance" or some such. The key is, the plastic scoop that comes in the container is narrow and tapered in such a way that you do not dump it all over your counter... even when pouring it into a narrow bottle. Brilliant!

*Pickle jar pull up dispenser - The pickle jars have dispensers in them that you pull up from the middle and it raises the pickles up on a plastic tray the width of the jar so that you do not have to fish around with a fork (or, gasp, your fingers) to get the last pickle out. How did we live without it?

*Deli meat is amazing here. Now when I say deli meat, I mean, of course ham or salami... because those are the choices... ham or salami. And really just ham. There are about 12 different kinds of ham for your choosing, from super high-end stuff to perfectly affordable everyday ham. The best part is that even the cheapest jambon is very good quality wheras the cheapest ham in the US is in the shape of a square and looks like SPAM. Let's change the subject. None of that here.

*While it's not an everyday deli item like it might be at home, the dried packaged meat is worth noting. You can buy a pre-packaged selection, with prosciutto, saucisson sec, and serrano. Just open it up and serve with wine, cheese, and a crusty baguette. So tasty.

*Orangina - enough said.

*Lardons - are the word for bacon but in France it really is more like chopped salt pork. It is such an important cooking staple that they sell them in pre-packaged containers already cut up and ready to put into your frying pan with oil, garlic and shallots as the way to start every dish. And I mean, *EVERY* dish.

*Cereal - is not all that different or special except that it is cheap. Seems like pure, unsweetened granola in the States is like six dollars a box. And for that you get one of those mini boxes that is only half full. Here, you buy a full-sized box of store-brand Muesli and you get no less than six dried fruits with crunchy granola. It's fantastic. Lance may never be able to eat another cereal again. I'm not kidding. (No really, she's not kidding. You have no idea how fantastic the cereal is here).

*Credit card toll booth - They do have something here similar to "Fastlane" or "EZPass" like we have in the States, but we do not have it in our car. However, we were pleasantly surprised when we pulled up to the toll booth manned by a French woman and realized that they took credit cards. THEN, to top it off - your credit card is faster than using cash - I am not sure how they run the card that fast but literally it is seconds! We got brave the next time through and went to the unmanned, automated lane. No problem... insert your ticket, then your credit card, gate opens, your card spits back out, and on your way you go. It's just freaking brilliant. I can't say enough about it.

*Booze. Okay, some of the liquor here is really (REALLY) bad. To that end, don't ever, EVER, drink rum in France. Just take my word on it. Instead, drink Gin or Vodka. Even the hypermarche store brand is quite excellent. Really, it's fantastic. If you don't believe me, instead pick up a bottle of Armagnac. It will make your belly very happy.

There are more things we will miss, I know. Perhaps we will need yet another "things we like about France" posting, but this is the list we have at the moment and it seemed like a good time to share it with you. There are many things I'd like to take with me. These are a few.

Immigrant Song

2009-02-15T14:50:00.000-05:00

OK, this post is a moot point as of now but still worth the telling of the story. It’s long but highly amusing.

So, in order to get over here all four of us had to apply for long-stay Visas (yes, even the one-year old) even though none of us would be working in this country or, frankly, staying here for all that long. So we go through the annoying process while we were still in Boston where we had to produce more documents than a tax audit, together with a large check but, finally, after several trips to the Consulate we obtained our "Long Stay Visas."

In addition, we knew might have to apply for a Carte de Séjour once we arrived in France (which apparently is a residency permit and the equivalent of a "long stay Visa." Residency Permit… wait a minute, we don't want residency so why would we need this? Wow this seems like a hose job). I say we "might" have to apply because the information you can find on-line is about as clear as the assembly instructions that come with a cheap Chinese tricycle. So, we consulted many people once we got here and the jury was still out as to whether we even needed to do it. Some people thought that such a thing didn't exist anymore since the opening of borders under the EU, others said "lay low and you'll be OK," and others, "if you leave the country every three months and get your passport stamped..." etc., etc. My lawyer husband would have no part of that so we dutifully submitted our painfully detailed applications at the local Mairie, and waited... and waited... and waited... With no news, no proof that we'd even applied within the prescribed two months of entering the country, and with me needing to travel in November, we went back to the Mairie and demanded (politely) some evidence that we'd handed in our paperwork. The woman sent us off to the supermarket (yes) to get pictures from the little photo booth, which she then stapled to a letter saying we'd handed over our dossiers in a timely manner.

Finally, we received an "official" receipt of our application in the mail. Then, soon after, we received two additional letters, one saying something about stamps and the other telling us that we had to appear in Montpellier for an examination by a French government doctor. Goody.

So this is where the fiasco starts. Our appointed time was while Lance's Mom, Sandy, was here on her visit so we turned it into a day trip. We found ourselves crammed into the Immigration Office with all ages, races, sizes... and let's just say it was very well heated but not that well ventilated. They told us to sit and wait. Lance and I finally got called for our physicals and they let us come in together. The nurse took our basic information and took us on our word that our vaccinations were up to date (they are but… seriously?). She then explained that we would have to have an X-ray to check for Tuberculosis. Yikes. More waiting. At this point, Lance went back to check on the kids who we’d left with Sandy, playing happily in a slightly larger waiting room next to the small waiting room, which was equally filled with people. Lance strode right through the closed door and sat down next to Sandy before realizing that he was interrupting a presentation by an immigration official to a room full of French citizenship hopefuls. Sandy had been caught unaware and unable to escape before the presentation started. I’m pretty sure she can now vote in France.

With Lance rescued, we were called into the exam room and… without getting into too many details, PRIVACY is a foreign concept to them and apparently not something we were entitled to at this moment. At one point some random woman walked into the room while I was disrobed and began rifling through the desk drawers and no one else seemed to think that was the least bit unusual. "oh don't worry, she's a doctor." Um... okay.
Even though Sandy was with us and was watching the kids for part of it, both Ellie and Cole ended up loosing it at various points, such that the four of us ended up in the doctor's office together as the kids crawled around on the dirty floor. Meanwhile, Sandy listened to the immigration speech… again.

Apparently since we had not pre-purchased our five 55 Euro stamps (totaling about $330 US dollars for each of us) that were supposed to have been affixed to that other letter we received, we would not be able to get our Carte de Séjour that moment. But as soon as we bought our over-priced stamps and took our paperwork to the Préfecture in Nîmes, we would be all set. If we desired to do it immediately, we could have gone to the "Tabac" shop around the corner and purchased the stamps there… at the newsstand… 700 dollars worth of immigration stamps… (I am skeptical as to whether that truly would have happened as there surely was more waiting and more paperwork to be exchanged).
On the car ride home Lance and I debated as to whether we were ever really going to do finish the process, with me of course saying "No way I'm paying for this – it's ridiculous" and the ever-so-righteous lawyer insisting we play it by the book. So days and weeks went by with me saying nothing (hard to believe, I know). Of course, life intervened and now look at us – on our way home in 3 weeks and $660.00 richer because we never got around to buying the stamps and are no longer required to do so!

All You Need Is Love

2009-02-13T16:43:00.002-05:00

Happy Valentine's Day to all! See you soon. New pictures up to the left in "France Round 9."

Bonus question to anyone who can identify the reason this song is particularly relevant to our Valentine's Day in France.

So Close, So Far Away

2009-02-10T16:45:00.012-05:00

Lance hard at work outside his "office"

One would think that with such a short "commute," Lance would be "home from work" much earlier here. Well, kinda true... but not really. Lance's hours in France have been nothing close to 9-5 as he seems to always get caught by the time difference and when quitting time for him rolls around (7pm) he gets swamped with work/emails because it is the middle of the US work day. But that is an aside, and not for much longer.

Lance has been able to spend a lot more quality time with me and the kids while in France because he "comes home from work” for lunch and sometimes to help put the kids to bed. Family lunch is one thing that will be very missed. The irony of this statement is that Lance's "office" is located in our "French Castle" (Ellie terminology). Lance's office is in one of the bedrooms that is downstairs and is relatively removed from the rest of the house (an ideal situation for someone trying to work from home). It is connected to the house via a random internal staircase as well as an external door. So in the morning Lance “goes off to work.”

The funny thing is that Ellie is the only person in the family who does not know Lance is actually in the house and is never all that far away. When she did not ask too many questions about him “going to work” we decided it was in everyone’s best interest to keep a tight lip because if she knew where Lance was she’d be bugging him all day and I’d be spending all my time trying to keep her from bugging him. And when I say that Ellie is the only one who does not know, I am not exaggerating. Cole knows where the office is as I have often gone down there with him when Ellie is at school. In the beginning it seemed harmless – I mean how is he really going to tell her, he’s only 1? But now when the 3 of us come into the courtyard from picking Ellie up at school, Cole points to the door and says “Dada.” I think Ellie just thinks he’s crazy but little does she know that he is 100% correct. Very funny.

We’ve debated on whether we should tell her or not but as the ruse has gone on long enough she may be bitter that we uhm…misled her slightly. My attorney informs me that an error of omission is technically a lie…oh well. This will be one of the many things that we can tell her about when she's 20.

Gottta love the look of joy on their faces as they greet Dada, as he “just came home from work.”

Fire

2009-02-01T09:15:00.004-05:00

This post is way overdue, as we first featured pictures of the “Pizza Truck” in one of our first few albums, but it still deserves to be highlighted and we just went the other day so it got me thinking about it. The Pizza Charly is a wonderful, wonderful thing!!!! We are in such a rural area of southern France there is not a pizza place across the street from our house like in there is in Davis Square. The “Pizza Truck,” however, is a fully equipped (although questionably safe) mobile pizza-creating truck, fully stocked with fun French pizza ingredients, that sets up in three different villages throughout the week. The kicker is, IT HAS A FULL WOOD-FIRED OVEN INSIDE! The truck is open five days throughout the week and people drive to get their pizza, wherever it is scheduled to be that particular night. The pizza is a thin crust, wood fire pizza that is to die for. Highlight pizza choices of ours are the:

1. Cevenole (jambon, lardons, champignons & fromage - ham, bacon, mushrooms & cheese).

2. L'Armenienne (vinde hachée & oignon - chopped steak and onion).

3. La Fromagere (roquefort, pélardon, camembert, mozzarella & gruyère - a white pizza with some really good smelly cheese).

4. La Persillade (lardons, ail & persil - bacon, oil and parsley - also a white pizza ).

It was very difficult to only name 4 - we love them all (except I am not a huge fan of the ones with brandade (a salt cod type spread) and anchois (anchovies). Apparently, we are the talk of “The Truck” as our friends who are also regular customers said that the owners told them about the crazy “American Paparazzi” who order two pies every time and take pictures of the truck while waiting for them to be ready!

La Vie en Rose

2009-01-30T17:07:00.001-05:00

Gastronome - a person devoted to refined sensuous enjoyment (especially good food and drink),

a.k.a. - Cole

Tuesday at the Crèche Cole had a Roulé de Saussice (a sausage roll) and Soufflé de Fois for lunch. When I asked him about the Roulé de Saucisse and how he liked it, he said that is was a mild sausage in a light and flaky pastry, and quite enjoyable. Likewise about the soufflé he said that the liver had a nice flavor and the soufflé had not fallen. Yesterday, he had paella, which I am sure had real saffron in it as we are so close to the Mediterranean. Again, he eats better than we do! That is all we have from here.

Apologies again for the mass quanity of pictures in France Round 8 but we have to get current soon as we have limited time! Enjoy new pics to the left.

Workingman's Blues #2

2009-01-30T08:24:00.008-05:00

Grève!

Our time in France would not have been complete without experiencing at least one grève -- that is, a strike. Earlier in the week upon picking Ellie up from school, her teacher, the long-aforementioned Tattoo Lady, handed us a small printed note. At the top was the word "Grève" and below it were several demands. After a moment's pause, we realized that these demands and their underlying grievance were with the town... or the Department... or Sarkozy... it wasn't exactly clear... but at least they weren't with us.

As you may have seen on the news, yesterday some two million French took to the streets in a nationwide strike to champion any number of causes... and then happily returned to work today. As far as I can tell, the only true purpose of such mass uprisings is to provide the opportunity for every interested citizen to pull out their bright-colored banners, use up those old flares just sitting in the trunk, and play Jean Valjean for the day:

To the Barricades!

Rescue Me

2009-01-28T15:07:00.002-05:00

Anyone who has talked to me over the last week knows what a challenge it has been for us to try to change our airline tickets so we can come home early. The issue was that we came over on frequent flyer miles, which at the time was AWESOME, but now that we have “commenced our travel” and are in the middle of it they "CAN NOT change anything." Lance's Aunt said very nonchallantly to me, "you'll get it done, you don't take no for an answer." Ya, that is what I thought too.

After spending five hours on the phone on Saturday only to stop the process for Ellie's hospital trip, I was starting to realize this was not likely to happen. And, even if they did make the change they were going to charge us $1000.00 to change the tickets. Seeing the writing on the wall, yesterday I started to look into one way tickets as it really was not looking like we were going to get anywhere.

In one last ditch attempt I had sent an email to US Airways Customer Relations on Sunday and pretty much begged. Two days later Mavis Bailow responded and she is now our hero. Not only did she get us home, she did it free of charge. Now, our itinerary is not pretty, but it gets us home Friday, March 6, 2009. We fly from Paris to Philly (right over Boston), then take a 45 minute flight to D.C., then back up to Boston. But WHATEVER, we’ll be home!

It's worth acknowledging US Airways' willingness to be a company with a heart, even in these tough times. That does not happen enough these days and when it does, it deserves credit.

We made sure to thank Mavis for her help and this was her response:

"I was happy to help you out. I would only hope if I was in your shoes someone would show my family the same kindness."

Do unto others...

Amen.

Bittersweet Symphony

2009-01-27T05:24:00.012-05:00

So the title of this posting says it all (although it could have been called "Free Falling" and you see why at the end.)

Last week was an amazing week and a crappy week all in one. The Inauguration was just thrilling to see. But as many of you already know, on that historic day we received the news that Lance was going to be a part of the next round of layoffs at his company. This was not entirely surprising given the state of the global economy and the fact that he has survived some half dozen of these in the past three years. And, it's not terrible that Lance will be leaving this company, as it was a very different company than it was when he joined and we've had many conversations about when to think about looking elsewhere, but the timing could have been better for sure (I guess no one ever thinks the timing on this type of thing is ever good). So, the "sweet" part of the equation is that we are heading home early (March instead of June)! With this comes a mixture of emotions as we are excited to be coming home to our friends, family, home, neighborhood, etc., but we are sad to be leaving under these circumstances. We will have been here about seven months and it has been an adventure that we will never forget. We are very lucky and thankful that LPS (my employer) has a spot open for me to return to work and the kids to return to day care due to the excellent timing of my good friend Jen's pregnancy (guess someone was looking out for us, somewhere)!

In addition, a few days after finding out Lance is being laid off, we received some news about a close friend who is going through a tough time and I wonder if this is one of the many reasons why we are coming home (we are needed elsewhere). I am very thankful that I will be home to help her get through this latest challenge. The week ended with us playing a five hour game of "it's not our problem call the other company" with both US Airways and Lufthansa, trying to plead with them to change our ticket (as we have already commenced travel, they are both refusing and we're looking at having to buy new one-way tickets home), which only ended because we had to take a trip to the Nimes hospital once more (for those keeping score at home, that's now Cole: 1, Ellie: 1). Ellie took a tumble on a set of 400 year old stone stairs that put a nice little cut on her chin. We hemmed and hawed about how bad the cut was but in the end took her to the hospital so they could put a stitch in her chin and hopefully avoid a bad scar. She'll always have a little scar by which to remember France and her free falling escapade.

And that was not the only time that day that one of our kids bled from the face. Earlier in the day Cole was standing on a chair and tipped it over backward. He broke his fall with his face/nose for a nice little nose bleed in the library (a very dangerous place, of course). Man it was a bad week!

At the end of the day, while we're disappointed to be leaving a bit early, we can certainly look back and appreciate everything that we've seen and learned during this adventure. We sat down the other day to make a list of things we want to do/see before we leave and it wasn't that big a list. There are many things we would have enjoyed, certainly, but we've already packed so much into this short time that we'll have very few regrets. Of course, the adventure is not over yet and I'm sure there will be many more stories to tell (so stay tuned!).

Pride

2009-01-21T16:41:00.014-05:00

It's a moment that we'll take with us. One of those few that, when we're gray and old and tired, we'll draw back... pull out from the depths of our lives, set in a frame of history and stand back and say, "yeah. That was... something."

We planned ahead for the historic event, last weekend, as Sunday happened to be the "Journee de la Truffe" in Uzes, a city whose history is closely tied to the elusive tuber. The Truffle Festival was in itself quite an event. Set in the Place aux Herbes where the Wednesday and Saturday market is staged, the scene was a study in contrast, between the black clad, chapeau-ed patrons, dressed to the nines for this annual worship of the odiferous fungus and the leather-skinned, oil skin clad, massive dry, worn, rough handed vendors, hawking their black diamonds for princely sums that would stoke their kitchen fires well into the year.

We took in the festive day, browsing the truffle seller's tables, watching a bit of the auction where some sort of "Truffle Society" in oddly Moorish ceremonial garb oversaw the sale of the season's grandest harvest, and watched in wonder as four men worked tirelessly over a massive log fire heating the largest iron pan we'd ever seen as it was strategically moved over and then away from the ten-foot diameter smoldering fire by a forklift. We figured out finally that it was eggs, and truffles of course. We promplty amended our lunch pans and happily laid down seven euro fifty each for a heaping pile of scrambled truffle eggs, a hunk of baguette, and your choice of vin rouge ou blanc (bien sur). Ellie declined the opportunity but Cole enthusiatically helped Amy polish off her plate. He couldn't sign "more" quick enough to get another bite to his mouth.

After lunch we sauntered over to a ring at the edge of the square that had been filled with sand, planted strategically with tree cuttings, and emceed by a man introducing a series of crusty, charicatured, dog-handling truffle hunters who led their canine accomplices through the makeshift beach in a demonstration of how one comes into possession of a truffle. The finale of the demonstration was when a small man with hands the size of Montana emerged from an egg-shaped micro-trailer with a swine that would take the prize at any county fair and proceeded to plow through the demonstration area as though it was the simplest paint-by-numbers, snuffing one truffle after another in abject mockery of his canine adversaries.

Not to let this moment pass, we bought our very own tuber melanosporum... with the help of a three year old, self-declared expert, rather than a giant hog, of course. We planned out an entire truffle based menu for the evening -- enough to get us through the preliminary proceedings, the oath, the helicopter, the parade, and maybe even one or two of the Inaugural Balls before we would roll off to bed, ready for Change to Come. We even splurged on a fine champagne to wash it all down.

Tuesday brought mixed news to us but the events that will transcend the small challenges that life brings were not to be overlooked. We watched with joy and wonder and amazement as America and the World saw the light of a new tomorrow shine bright from the Capitol steps. The vignettes that I will pull out and observe those many years along will be of both kids hopping down from their chairs, inches from the screen, to dance as the Queen of Soul sang My Country 'Tis of Thee, Ellie turning and telling me, "Barack Obama is my friend" and Cole, impromptu, waving and saying "bye bye" as Executive One carried its occupants on their way out of Washington.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours

2009-01-20T17:49:00.001-05:00

I should start out by saying “Sorry again.” I did it again...again! Quite a number of pictures in this posting. But in my defense I blame it on the photographer - tough to keep the picture postings to a minimum when he takes almost 400 pictures in one weekend! So these pictures bring you up to Christmas Eve and include our trip to Basel, Switzerland and Strasbourg, France for the Christmas Markets. Ohhhhh the glühwein! So...enjoy the pictures and the song. We are! Take a look at "France Round 7" to the left.

Scenes From An Italian Restaurant

2009-01-14T09:39:00.015-05:00

Or a French day care, as the case may be. Cole attends the Crèche two mornings a week from 9-12. They serve lunch at 11:30 so he has the privilege of a truly French toddler lunch. Now I am sure you are thinking hotdogs, chicken nuggets, mac & cheese…easy food for kids to eat, enjoy and digest. Oh no no. Kids in France do not eat those kinds of foods. Below is Cole’s menu for the week which is posted next to the door at the beginning of the week. And yes, this week on Tuesday Cole's starter was a beet salad with a vinaigrette, followed by a scallop of pork with peas and carrots (and not those perfectly square frozen carrots) and finally fruit of the season. Today he started out with an appetizer of cheese pizza. His main meal was sauted veal with broccoli flourettes, and dessert was fruit of the seaason. In the too much information category; Cole’s diapers are a different story on Crèche days.

We Three Kings

2009-01-11T17:00:00.010-05:00

Epiphany

There is a line on the front of the church that indicates the height of the 2002 flood waters. In front of the church is a small paved area that, based on my personal observations is designed specifically to house a large bonfire fed exclusively of old vine wood, a choir singing carols in French, a table behind which a kind man is selling vin chaud and galette de rois, and a fireworks dislplay that would give any small American town a run for its July 4th money. At the back of the paved square is a pedestal and an ornate iron crucifix overlooking the Gardon valley and the garrigue spreading out in front and beyond.

We only noticed the sign by chance... taking the kids on a quick swing through the village square in hopes of seeing a few more Christmas lights for Ellie to scream out... "look... I see some lights!!" There was the sign. Tied to a signpost... promising fireworks at the church in town... with a "concert, galette de rois, and boissons." Clearly, not to be missed.

So we drove up, and saw the bonfire in front of the church and saw the gathered crowd, and thought... "wow... we're really not going to be able to have a meaningful conversation with any of those people." We actually thought about turning around and heading home. Thankfully, the spirit of adventure took over and we parked the car and ventured towared the gathered mass.

Immediately, our assimilation was given a boost when Ellie spotted one of her classmates, Lucy, walking with her family towards the church. They hugged and then proceeded to walk the rest of he way to the eglise hand-in-hand... allowing us the cover of walking in with other people. As we walked in, the "choir" was singing some sort of carol and Ellie had already spotted another friend... or should I say, he had spotted her. We soon found our friend Amy -- the mother of Ellie's friends Owen and Noah, had a cup of vin chaud, and were settled in for the festivities.

This being the first Sunday after the Epiphany -- that twelfth day of Christmas, when the Magi reached Bethlehem to view the new born King -- it was a time to celebrate. A few "Jingle Bells" and "Rudolphs" (in French) later, it was time for the fireworks. The village spared no expense... being fortunate enough to have a Choir Director who was apparently trained in pyrotechnics and soon we were all huddled behind a metal crowd-control barrier whilst the choir director ascended the 17th century church in rock-climbing helmet and harness to queue the celebratory display. Much... *much* to our surprise, the fireworks were legitimate professional quality and enough to send Ellie's hands to her ears and to make even the adults take a step back in awe. Of course there might have been a slight aspect of self-preservation involved as several of the explosions seemed as though they were aimed directly at us.

It wasn't quite the same class as a Boston 4th of July but given the imminent risk of immolation it certainly was on par in terms of excitement and adrenaline.

When the final ember had faded we said "bon soir" to Ellie's friends and headed off into the cold, bright, full moonlit night. As we drove home and the immense orb crested the hillsides to the East, casting a noonday light over the vineyareds, Cole, looking out his East-facing window, announced, "Ball! Ball! Ball!"

Yes Cole, that is like a giant ball in the sky... isn't it? I only wish I hadn't left my camera home... so it wouldn't be left to me to remember the image of a curtain of fireworks erupting above and below the twin-belled steeple of an ancient French church on a hillside over a deep river valley, or the sight of an impossibly giant moon rising though the orange-hueing, light bending smoke of a thousand fires burning bright and warm in so many Provencal chimineys on a cool January Sunday night.

Field and fountain, moor and mountain, following yonder star.

Long As I Can See the Light

2009-01-08T16:38:00.007-05:00

The second chapter of Peter Mayle's iconic A Year in Provence, to which this space owes both its subtitle and its spirit, begins with a description of the ho-hum daily content of Le Provençal, the local paper. Mayle continues:

This traditional mixture was put aside, one morning in early February, for a lead story which had nothing to do with sport, crime, or politics: PROVENCE UNDER A BLANKET OF SNOW! shouted the headline with an undercurrent of glee at the promise of the follow-up stories which would undoubtedly result from Nature's unseasonable behavior. There would be mothers and babies miraculously alive after a night in a snowbound car, old men escaping hypothermia by inches thanks to the intervention of public-spirited and alert neighbors, climbers plucked from the side on Mont Ventoux by helicopter, postmen battling against all odds to deliver electricity bills, village elders harking back to previous catastrophes -- there were days of material ahead....

That was the only mention we’d heard of snow since embarking on this adventure – lost among warm reminiscences of sunny January afternoon lunches in the yard and laughing assurances that we’d never need snow boots here. Sadly, we’d resigned ourselves to a leaf-clinging, Mistral blowing, rain spitting, smoke curling, blanketed gray green brown winter of thick wine and hot-potted leek and fowl and apple of the earth and, perhaps, more wine after that. All of that changed Wednesday.

The Midi Libre, our local paper, proclaimed, THE MIDI IS PARALYZED BY SNOW! detailing the *one thousand* cars that were stuck on one of the main roads leading out of Nimes, just to the south of us. Compounding the matter, no doubt, was that yesterday was the first day of the “soldes” – the bi-annual government-authorized sales that rival any Black Friday madness back home and brought surely no less than thousands to the commercial sprawl on the southern outskirts of the city in search of that most-precious pair of boots at a price too good to be true. We too joined the masses and came away with a not humble trove before turning into the gathering storm and driving north for what should have been a twenty minute drive home. Two hours later, having detoured to the East and weathered roads that would have been better suited to take the kids for an afternoon skate than to navigate in an outdated rear-wheel drive faded luxury wagon, angry north winds whipping white across each roundabout in what even the most literal meteorologist would have called blizzard conditions, we arrived at the dark, cold, old, powerless stone farmhouse that is our home.

The lack of a functional electrical system was, of course, a surprise. We would spend the next 26 hours learning how the men, women, and children who build this old house actually lived in it some 400 years ago, mind you in much smaller rooms, and with far less concern for fire safety or knowledge of air quality issues.

While we waited to see whether the power company could manage to get a truck to our side of the hill in any reasonable timeframe, Ellie and I put on our warmest boots and thickest mittens and took off into the snow to document this Provencal rarity and throw a few snowballs at each other.

The whole dramatic event left but an inch or so on our hillside, barely enough for a proper Bonhomme de Neige, though we did our best, makeshift beret and all.

Restoring power was a greater challenge than one might have expected. After a few hours and with the day fading quickly, I walked to one of our two neighbors to see if they had power. They did, which meant we were in trouble because the problem was likely isolated to our house. This neighbor speaks no English so I fumbled through a bit of a conversation and he tried calling the power company for us, to no avail as, surprisingly given that all of the South of France was being ravaged by a winter storm the likes of which had not been seen in recent memory (they haven't seen any snow in four years in our village), all operators were busy at that time. Without a phone ourselves, thanks to the electrical needs of our IP phone, and without a functional cellular signal in our snug little hillside hamlet, we were dependant on friends and acquaintances to do our bidding for us. They did and the man with the headlamp and bag of black tape and fuses finally arrived like a tradesman's comic book superhero this afternoon to find the rogue fuse that had caused us to sleep in three layers and find every blanket in the house last night for the kids.

After spending a night by candle light, playing cards, and chatting, it was with a twinge of regret that we saw the clocks on the appliances flicker to life... a twinge that lasted exactly as long as it took us both to get our computers booted up and our noses firmly buried therein. Ahh, life in a rural farmhouse in the South of France.

History Repeating

2009-01-06T15:35:00.001-05:00

OK - we were on a bit of a hiatus over the holidays and are now starting to weed through our un-posted pictures and get them up on the blog. We enjoyed having Lance’s Mom here for the holiday and have many exciting adventures to report (some of which you've already had glimpses of). My goal is to upload pictures in manageable chunks (nobody wants to sit and look at 400 pictures at once). So to start, you can go back in time and check out a little bit of history, starting at Thanksgiving, in "France Round 6."

Cold, Cold Night

2009-01-05T07:44:00.006-05:00

Coldest night of the year so far for us last night. The mercury plummeted to a ghastly 27 degrees. Not sure how people ever survive these harsh, unforgiving winters. It was so bad that the water in the pool froze over! The forecast calls for a slight chance of flurries by Thursday. We're heading out today to stock up on batteries, water, and canned goods. Pray for us.

New Years Day

2009-01-01T15:27:00.010-05:00

Sometimes the titles of these things are just too obvious to pass up...

So, what to do on New Years Day when you're living in rural Southern France in the harsh, rugged garrigue where the Rhône Valley meets the foothills of the Cévennes; when even after building a sunrise fire and enjoying a long, lazy pancake breakfast, the first Tournament of Roses Parade marching band is still tucked in their hotel beds alternating between dreams of triumphantly striding past the Governor's stand and nightmares of forgetting every note that they've so meticulously drilled the past six months; when only the most hard-core tailgaters have taken up position outside a bowl-game stadium still dark in the cool first night; and when the last lingering revelers are probably still toasting one more drink into a warm Pacific breeze? What to do when the sun is up and bright and warm and the apples of your eye are looking at you with a trapped-in, cooped-up, pent-up, desperate gaze?

You strap your beloved cherubs upon your back and head off out into the garrigue for a three-hour hike down into the Gardon River gorge and back up out, of course.

Along the way you are rewarded with precipitous views of the Gardon gorge, ancient caves, not-as-ancient shrines built in to said caves and sweeping views of the Rhône Valley and the snow-capped Cévennes peaks. At the same time, by lugging a backpack full of water, multiple snack options and… oh yeah… a three-year-old (or 20-month-old, as the case may be) down into and (more so) back up out of the gorge, you get a flat-out kick*ss workout that at least puts a little tiny dent into the mass of calories you’ve consumed over the past month.

Happy New Year everyone.

Light My Fire

2008-12-31T16:24:00.003-05:00

So a quick New Year’s Eve post. As we sit in the lower living room (a room we use very little) in front of the fire place enjoying our oysters, shrimp, and fondue it occurred to me that I had not lit the candles. I was temporarily distracted by what appears to be “High School Musical” -- in French -- on one station, and on the other station we manage to get, from what we can gather, a celebrity/New Year’s Eve/costume party/bloopers countdown (HIGHLY entertaining). I grabbed the box of matches from on top of the fireplace and proceeded to pull one out to light the candles. But what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a previously burnt match, and many more were here. Seriously, who thinks this is a good idea? Are already-burned matches really worth the risk of putting back in the box to re-use? Really?

That’s all I got.

Happy New Year to all and we miss you very much. Enjoy ringing in the New Year – don’t bother calling us as it will be 6 a.m. for us and we’ll be hoping our kids stay sleeping (we’ve managed to get them accustomed to the laid back French life style of sleeping till 7:30, 8:20 today!)

Growin' Up

2008-12-30T18:03:00.000-05:00

This is a post about Cole…

Anyone who knows Cole knows that he is a thumb sucker. Although it has its advantages, anyone who knows me knows that I was against it (as a long time thumb sucker, I know what a hard habit it is to break.) I am not ashamed to admit that I have thought about that horrible tasting stuff to paint on his thumb -- I know, he’s only 20 months old -- can never start too early, right?

So, an interesting thing happened. A few weeks ago Cole contracted the infamous “Hand, Foot & Mouth” virus. He developed blisters on his hands…, well you get it… The worst were the ones on his thumb -- because he had it in his mouth. So for two nights I put a band-aid on his thumb in order to deter him from sucking and making things worse. Deter…it did. He has not sucked his thumb since. And in my craziness I even specifically look for it at night to make sure he is not “closet sucking” when I give him a kiss before I go to bed. Either he is no longer sucking his thumb or he is really sneaky. Not sure what this says about my kid. On the one hand, does it suggest that he has such a bad memory that two nights is all it takes to forget a well-loved and established habit? Or on the other hand maybe he has such a good memory that he just can’t get that “bad band-aid taste” out of his mind. Either way, GREAT outcome.

Additionally, a report on Cole’s verbal skills. Although he can communicate his needs somewhat well in English, he is picking up the critical 20 month old “Survival French.” A bit of an explanation of the words he knows:

“Dou dou” – Lance and I were a bit alarmed by this one at first for obvious reasons. But in France a “dou dou” is any type of item that a child uses to comfort themselves (i.e. a teddy bear, a blanket, a pacifier, etc.) So for my kids it is Eileen Hersh’s “taggie.” Cole asks for his “dou dou” at naptime and bedtime… or anytime he sees his or Ellie’s.

“Bon bon” – you know what it means: “kicking back and eating bon bons all day.” It’s candy. And here they give kids a lot of it -- there is a bon bon factory in town for heavens sake. He learned that one pretty quickly, as did his sister.

“Coo coo” – this is a phrase that most adults use when trying to get the attention of kids. It is basically a combination of our “Yoo hoo” and “Peek-a-boo” but used more frequently. People say it to him all the time, in the grocery store, at the market, at school… For Christmas he got a mechanical rabbit that wheels around the stone floors repeating “Coo coo” incessantly. He loves it. He now just thinks it is the funniest thing to say and uses it appropriately to get people’s attention.

“Ca Ca” – so this one is tough. In France they say use the word “ca ca” to mean, well, just that. He is now trying to use that when contextually appropriate. HOWEVER, apparently “chocolat” (pronounced "showcolah") is too much of a mouthful for Cole so he has abbreviated that word down to “co co” but this sounds alarmingly like “ca ca.” So it is impossible to ascertain when he says “ca ca” if he wants chocolate or if he has to go to the bathroom (or, more commonly, already has gone to the bathroom).

One final note -- the 400 year old stone stairs that he could barley crawl up when we got here, AND are a serious safety hazard as they have very inadequate iron railings... he can now walk up on his own. I guess this is just his way of showing me he is growing up.

Stille Nacht

2008-12-24T17:46:00.010-05:00

It's Christmas Eve... or, at least it is for the next four minutes... and we've just finished up our sampling of traditional specialties, including escargot, fois gras, chestnuts and, to wash it down, Amy's homemade eggnog. It's been a bit difficult to get into the proper Christmas spirit -- there are minimal decorations in the village and the closest hope we have for a white christmas is a really heavy frost.

With that in mind, we decided to take a road trip this past weekend to take my mother to some traditional European Christkindlemarkts. We rented a car and drove to Basel, Switzerland and then Saturday drove up to Strasbourg, France. Basel has a well-regarded Christmas Market and it lived up to its reputation... at least, after two or three mugs of Glühwein it seemed pretty good.

Look at all those lights...

Strasbourg is a gorgeous city and they really know how to deck the streets out for the season (they had real chandeliers hanging over the streets for God's sake!) but sadly the Christkindlemarkt was more like a bad Walmart Boxing Day sidewalk sale. Amy thinks that characterization is a bit harsh. They did have some great food (you take a pretzel and bury it in cheese and bacon... there should be a Nobel Prize for this), and the brilliance of the 16 ounce cup of Glühwein can not be understated, but there was definitely a more "mass-produced" feel to this one as compared to Basel.

The beauty of both cities though was the sausages. One of the things we will miss most not being home for Christmas is Grandma Hile's (born and raised in Frankfurt) "hot dog" Christmas Eve, where every varitety of German sausage is chased with pickled herring and beet-soaked eggs, and washed down with the beverage of your choice.

At lunch in Strasbourg, the only restaurant that had any open tables was a beer haus with a food menu limited to sausages and pretzles (perfect!). The beer menu had something in the neighborhood of 42 seasonal beers (oh my). The sausages came four links to a paper plate, with a healthy dab of spicy dijon on the side and put a big, giant smile on Amy's face because they reminded her of home. And back in Basel we even picked up a Stollen because apparently, these Germans actually eat that.

We of course partook in the Swiss obsession with melted cheese as a main ingredient. It's really hard to go wrong with any dish that includes melted cheese and cherry liquor as its main players. I learned a few things, such as: Kirsch is not just for fondue anymore -- drop an ounce or two in your Glühwein and you'll be amazed at what you'd consider purchasing. Also, once you've had 2 or 5 mugs of Glühwein, you might want to pass on riding the mini-merry-go-round with your kids -- especially when they choose the spinning tea-cup instead of the pretty horsey. Ugh.

The drive home set us in the perfect Christmas spirit as we drove through snow-covered Alpine meadows and under the shadows of white-capped peaks.

The rest of the week here was a bit hectic but we did manage to corral the herd into the Cathedral in Uzes for the "family" mass at 6:00 Christmas Eve. We even stuck it through for over an hour, beating a stealthy escape just before they took communion and surely would have discovered our pagan... er... Protestant status. Singing Silent Night in French on Christmas Eve in a 400 year-old French Cathedral is something I will keep with me for a long long time. Juggling my squirming, cranky, restless, over-tired, under-stimulated kids for an hour is something I hope I forget by morning (excuse me while I go pour another Toddy).

Jesus, Lord at Thy birth,

Jesus, Lord at Thy birth.

Merry Christmas to everyone who finds their way to these pages.

Lonesome Day

2008-12-12T07:40:00.010-05:00

So I want to do a quick post about something that I found amazing. For the past 3+ weeks I have driven past a tiny red car parked in the vineyards outside our house. It caught my eye and I immediately needed to find the tiny little person who must be associated with it. On the contrary, it was an average sized man who was hand-pruning the vines. I should admit that it took me several trips back and forth to ascertain this information as the hairpin turns in the road and cars careening in the other direction around those turns were not conducive to long leisurely glances in to the vines.

I know, "guy working in the vineyard," no big deal right? But what I found so amazing is that this guy was out there everyday for almost a month -- sometimes in the sun (not too bad), sometimes in the Mistral winds, sometimes in the fog, and sometimes in the cold, cold rain -- all by himself. He meticulously and methodically worked his way down the LONG rows clipping the stray vines all the way down to the trunk. And then, nonchalantly, moved on to the next, and the next, and the next. I thought to myself. "How does this guy do it?" "How does he stay sane?"

It must be so overwhelming to look down the row, not be able to see the end, and see 50 more rows that look exactly like it. But then it occurred to me that it must be cathartic: no kids tugging at your pant legs, no faces or hands to be washed, no dishes to be done, no emails to return (no blog postings to write!). Just one vine after another. Must be nice to be in the silent vineyards of Southern France with nothing to do but clip, think, and sing songs in your head. So here are some pictures, as a shout out to this guy (he did think I was kinda crazy to be taking his picture). Chapeau.

Santa Claus is Comin' to Town

2008-12-04T16:42:00.009-05:00

Tis the season of Jingle Bells and frosty noses, hot chocolate and warm fires, and (in these parts) les Marchés de Noël. These local Christmas Markets bring out the best of each little village -- in terms of craft makers, olive purveyors, raffle ticket sellers, and (most important) the nice lady that goes into the back to microwave the vin chaud.

So it was on Saturday morning that we ventured north of Uzés to the little village of Vallabrix last weekend for the Marché de Noël, which promised a special surprise "pour les enfants" at noon. Needing that perfect shot to finish our Christmas cards, we dressed the kids up in their finest Christmas outfits, loaded them into the car (Ellie still not feeling 100% after the Thanksgiving Day Disaster) and drove North. We got there, drove around a few times, finally asked an older women which way to the Marché de Noël, to which she replied: "le Marché de Noël? C'est demain."

Oops.

So it was on SUNDAY morning that we dressed the kids in their finest Christmas outfits, loaded them into the car (Ellie feeling much better) and drove North. We were a bit surprised at how small and... informal the whole setup was, but we browsed the offerings and enjoyed some vin chaud and a crêpe with chestnut confiture and even found the answer to that question we've all asked ourselves so many times, when observing some horribly kitschy hand-made crafty type thing at our grandparent's homes: "where in the world does someone buy crap like this?!" Now we know.

When the church bells struck noon, we hurried the kids up to the road in hopes that Père Noël might pause for a snapshot. Oh, the excitement, the anticipation, visions of an old French Père Noël, jauntily swooping up the smiling urchins for the perfect image to adorn our Holiday missives...

And then... there he was! It was him...

... er, I mean her. I think. Clearly this was one of Santa's helpers. I really don't think any words of mine could do justice to this Santa. There are times when things are so beyond your expectations that you simply can't describe them. And there are also times when things are so below your expectations that they take on a new light. As comically inept as Santa was, the kids didn't seem to care one bit. I'm sure the basket full of bonbons didn't hurt but nonetheless it was nice to see them so excited at Père Noël's arrival.

As we walked back to the car, we couldn't stop shaking our heads and chuckling. Ho ho ho, and to all a good night.

"Um, Dad, this "Santa" lady is kinda creeping us out."

What I Like About You

2008-12-01T04:00:00.001-05:00

For all of the negative publicity France may get (from us, from the general public, etc.) here is a post of

"Things They Got Right"

*Bathrooms stalls - Although sometimes you have to pay to use the "toilette" in France they do have pretty great bathroom stalls. As opposed to American stalls where, when you have to drag your 19 month and/or 3 year old in with you they have the ability to crawl on the floor, under the door, and into other people's stalls, not in France. Every stall is its own little room. Sure you still have kids crawling on the floor and there's frequently no toilet paper, but at least they can't escape. Additionally, some of the public bathrooms on the street are entire sealed rooms that get hosed down (i.e. sanitized) from top to bottom after you leave. You walk in and everything is wet -- no crawling on the floor in these but at least it is clean.

*#1 and #2 flushes - O.K. a bit graphic but all toilets here have two buttons. One for when you need less water, and another bigger button for when you need more water flow. BRILLIANT - enough said.

*Pie crusts - They have some pretty awesome flaky pre-made "Tart crusts." They have several versions, one specifically for sweet tarts, one for quiches, one for savory tarts, etc. No plain old frozen, unfold pie crusts here.

*Oil changes - They told us that we would not have to change the oil in their car. This is not necesarily a function of the car but may just be a function of the laissez-faire attitude regarding cars and service maitanence. The French people in our house are probably not loving that they have to change the oil in our car every 3 months.

*Stain remover - Now in the US, we have a million products that remove stains from clothing -- far too many to process. Here in France they have two choices, the name brand and the Carrefour brand. We currently have the latter and it is AWESOME. It has removed more stains from the kids clothes than anything we have at home (ballpoint pen all over a white shirt, for example.)

*Clothes pins - Since practically no one uses dryers in France because of HIGH electricity costs there is a great need for quality designed pins to hang all your laundy (and hey, you never have to worry about anything shrinking). None of those wooden ones where the spring breaks - they have well engenieered and sturdy plastic ones that can hold a fitted sheet in place through the strongest Mistral.

*Grocery store bags, or NOT - so France has made it a policy to not offer any type of bags at the grocery store. If you want to carry your groceries out in a bag, you either bring bags in yourself or buy them at the store. Now this can be good and bad. Clearly great for the environment. Clearly bad for me when I get all the way into the store, shop, and then realize we have no bags and I have to walk out to the car with all the gorceries loose in the cart and bag them later. But you only make that mistake a few times.

*Cart return - So at the grocery store they have normal carts MINUS the child restaint straps. BUT all the carts are locked up in the nice cart return area of the parking lot. In order to get the cart you have to put in 1 Euro to unlock it. Then, good to go, in order to get your money back (you got it) return the cart to the designated area. For the little amount that it is a pain it actually is nice because it prevents you from trying to pull into an awesome parking space right up front only to find out that there is a cart in it that someone has lazily not returned.

*Butter in a tub - not margarine, Real Butter, from Brittany. So tasty. Maybe we have this in the States but I've never seen it. It is nice to not have to wrap the unused portion of butter back up in the waxed paper, just put the lid on.

*Cheap wine - I know it has been said before but it is nice to not have the over inflated prices on wine. You can get very good bottles of wine for $4.00 and phenomenal bottles for $8.00. What more to ask, really?

That is all I got so far.

Had A Bad Day

2008-11-28T14:59:00.012-05:00

So it was the ultimate improv...

We knew that we were going to have to be a bit creative this year in France with Thanksgiving. We thought that we were going to have friends of ours from London for the long weekend (not a big holiday in England) but because of a change in employer they had passport/visa issues and could not leave the country. Then, we then got invited to a dinner with with some of our American friends but thought that they were celebrating on Saturday (since it is not a holiday for anyone here). So we decided to invite Ellie's school friends, Noah and Owen, and their parents over; Amy (an American whose has been here for 13 years and has given up on T-day celebrations years ago) and Gil (her French husband who has never celebrated Thanksgiving -- why would he?).

Now we needed a turkey. With poultry farms all around shouldn't be a problem, right? We talked to various friends who gave increasingly pessimistic responses ("maybe you could just get two big capons" was my favorite). Finally, we just walked into a butcher in Uzes and plowed right into trying to request a turkey. After the typical tortured exchanges, we concluded that we could order two half turkeys and they would be here in time but a full turkey, no no, that would take much longer. Unable to impress upon the kind bloodstained man that simply handing me the bird BEFORE he cut it would be less work for him, we thanked him, took his card, and left. In a last desperate attempt, we asked Amy, Noah and Owen's mom, if she would call and try to convince the man to leave the cleaver in the drawer. After a thirty minute debate, she prevailed and we were the proud owners of a 90 dollar, 16 pound, farm fresh American-style turkey.

Everything seemed in order UNTIL Amy & Gil had to cancel that day because Owen had been sick for 4 days with a 103 degree fever and the other American celebration got changed to Thursday and we had already uninvited ourselves because we thought we had plans.

So, OK, just the 4 of us. No problem - just lots of left overs.

Dinner was late and neither of the kids ate much. Lance only got through half of his plate because he had been feeling sick all day but I liked it and we were together. We put the kids to bed by 8:30 and began the clean up to only be interrupted by a scream from Ellie who was throwing up in her bed. And so it went, throughout the night. Multiple towels, clean-ups, changes of clothes for Ellie and ME, loads of laundry that had to be hung on the line to dry and hours later ALL were asleep. Luckily Cole slept through much of it, as did Lance since he was sick too and I needed him healthy for the rest of the weekend.

After the first throw-up episode Lance concurred that, yes, this is definitely The Worst Thansgiving We've Ever Had.

"The Sick Ward." Lance and Ellie asleep 1pm on Friday.

Blue Sky

2008-11-24T11:51:00.005-05:00

Great Moments in the Annals of Drinking Wine from a Jug, No. 352:

The weather has turned here. Sure, we've still got a good 10+ degrees on those of you in New England, but it's ten degrees colder here this week than it was last week. There was frost on the windshield this morning and as I drove Ellie to school, with the sun rising behind me and a cold, quiet fog hanging over the vineyards, there was snow capping the highest peaks of the Cévennes on the horizon. But after a few weeks of nonstop rain, the bright sun and clear skies that accompanied the cooler weather was quite welcome.

On the agenda for this past weekend was loading, hauling, and stacking the two cords of firewood that they dumped into the yard on Thursday. The cool sunny air was perfect for working up a sweat, and a sniffle, getting some free exercise. After several hours of bending, lifting, tossing, and stacking, the sniffle intensified and it was time to head in for a nice hot apple cider.

Wait... what do you mean these people wouldn't know apple cider from apple sauce? So, without the requisite hot cider, I had to improvise. And it is this necessity that bred the innovation that resulted in the sublime combination of red wine with a healthy shot of Cinzano Rossa in a coffee cup, microwaved until hot.

Oh, OH so tasty. Please enjoy responsibly.

Do You Wanna Dance?

2008-11-24T11:28:00.006-05:00

How does a small French village celebrate the one day of the year you can buy that season's wine (beaujolais nouveau)? Why, it hires a celtic/bluegrass band led by a fiddle-toting Canadian, with a Moose as its mascot, it sells the wine for two Euros per glass, and has a hoe-down that would put any Middle-American town to shame, of course!

Ellie had so much fun dancing I had to promise her we'd dance all the way to the car just to drag her out of there two hours past her bedtime.

Kodachrome

2008-11-16T17:38:00.003-05:00

More pics. Look to your left.

Nice bright colors... Makes you think all the world's a sunny day, oh yeah.

War (what is it good for?)

2008-11-11T15:48:00.003-05:00

The entire country is shut down today (except the pizza truck but that's a whole different story). The French seem to put far greater significance on the signing of l'Armistice than do Americans. Sure, we recognize Veteran's Day and we honor the brave service that all of America's veterans have given to our country. Rather, where in America we honor all of our veterans from many wars, in France, this is Armistice Day. They are celebrating the end of The Great War.

There is very little open. On the little board outside our gate, where the town posts official announcements, there is a notice inviting all residents of the commune to a ceremony in the village, followed by "apertifs" (bien sur). The kids are out of school, the town hall is closed, and the boulangerie is closed (and yes, we forgot to get an extra baguette yesterday, darnit).

So it was in anticipation of this day, celebrating the laying down of arms and the welcoming of a hard fought peace across Europe some ninety years ago today, that I awoke at the first hint of dawn to...

...a veritable fusillade of gunfire. Now, I've seen the hunters wandering through the vines the past several weeks, with their orange caps and green jackets. And I've heard, at some point nearly every day, the echoing of a shotgun blast, sometimes two if ol' Pierre wasn't so straight with the first barrel. But this... this had to be at least a half dozen different fellows -- everything from the apparently very near-sighted bonhomme with the semi-automatic (pop, pop, pop, popop!), to the dude that I swear to Yahweh had to be standing directly outside my window with a 12-guage (BAM! BAM!). Needless to say, the kids didn't take advantage of the holiday to sleep in. I'm not sure if this is a country-wide way to celebrate the armistice or if we're just the lucky residents of a gun-happy commune but I do know that it was a *real* bad morning to be a wild boar, rabbit, or grouse.

The Rising

2008-11-05T10:14:00.005-05:00

So I know it is lame to tell this story after the fact but I was too superstitious to post it before the election (did not want to jinx anything.)

Four years ago Lance attended the Democratic National Convention in Boston where a State Legislator from Illinois named Barack Obama gave the keynote address. Lance was so blown away by Obama's speech that he called his Dad during the speech and said "hey, turn this on you gotta see this." Afterwards he told both me and his Dad "I just saw the guy who is going to be the first black President of the United States."

No matter what your politics are, and whether you agree or disagree with his policies; it is a pretty special day. We just got back from an improptu post election party here in France where there was a mix of Americans, British, and French people and everyone was a buzz. It is a pretty special day not only for America but for the world.

The Times They Are A-Changin'

2008-11-04T23:16:00.004-05:00

At 5:00am our time...worth a thousand words.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x3st13_bob-dylan-the-times-they-are-achang_music

Ain't Wastin' Time No More

2008-11-04T06:44:00.008-05:00

From the "Classic Unintentionally Comical Packaging Translations" File:

Are you considering whether you need to buy a smoke detector? Well the good folks at ELRO have a simple question for you...

Seriously folks, "Why risk your life?" Why? Why would you even consider risking your life? Why? Buy this smoke detector now. STOP... Don't walk away! Come back here!! YOU'RE RISKING YOUR LIFE! DON'T RISK YOUR LIFE!!

Kidding aside, you all "fell back" this weekend, so we're back to six hours ahead of Eastern Time. Also, change the batteries in those smoke detectors. I mean, really... why risk your life?

(Also, GO VOTE!)

Born in the U.S.A.

2008-11-02T18:02:00.000-05:00

Someone stop the clock at 78 days. We finally broke down and went All-American this weekend (although entirely unintentionally... clearly a result of subconsious homesickness!). Saturday was rainy and not worth much for any sightseeing so we grabbed our ever-growing to-do list and headed to the southern side of the city of Nimes, to the "Ville Active" which apparently is French for "American-style Big Box Store Sprawl."

We hit the French equivalent of Best Buy, the Leroy Merlin (which is literally Home Depot in green), and, of course, the hypermarche for some electronics, clothes, and... oh yeah... groceries.

The highlight of the grocery shopping was that we finally found that one cheese that we've been craving the most. Here in the land of brie and camembert and local goat cheese that is legendary, we openly cheered when we found a block of cheddar. Sure it was orange cheddar from the UK and not proper Vermont Cheddar but no matter. The look on the woman's face when Amy ordered the cheese and kept telling her, "plus grande (bigger), plus. No, plus s'il vous plait" was priceless. I don't think she'd ever seen anyone buy so much cheddar before.

(Mmmm... the big block of cheddar)

Keeping with the American theme, we succumbed to an ad blitz that apparently was directed specifically at me (how'd they know I was going to be in Nimes that day?) that involved no less than four billboards along my drive through town and a prime location in the Hypermarche promotions aisle for that famous old Kentucky Bourbon, Four Roses (yeah, I'd never heard of it either but that didn't stop me). Manhattans never tasted so good.

And to keep things rolling, we kicked it up a notch this morning with pancakes and maple syrup (okay the syrup is imported from Canada but close enough right?).

However, the piece de resistance of the weekend, the one thing without which we could not have truly called it an All-American weekend was Saturday, in the midst of the rainy shopping.

Hungry, wet, with two kids who were even hungrier and getting increasingly cranky, in the middle of a commercialized nightmare with nary a proper cafe or even creperie in sight, we decided it was time to break down and get lunch at Micky D's.

Okay, okay, I know. Go ahead, condemn away.

Done?

Now consider this: the kids devoured their happy meals. Amy enjoyed the "M" which was the prize winner of the day -- a very serviceable burger on an unbelievable fresh roll. As for me? Well, could I really not go into a McDonalds in France and not order a Royale with cheese? http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xtqno_pulp-fiction-royal-with-cheese_shortfilms

And yes, I got the beer too. Everbody was happy.

Don't worry, we'll go back to sustaining ourselves on olives, fresh baguettes, local wine, and a nice brie this week.

Something in the Night

2008-10-31T18:49:00.000-04:00

They don't celebrate Halloween in France but Team Davis does.

We just couldn't do it - we could not deny the kids their "trick-or-treat experience." So we scrapped and scrounged and came up with makeshift costumes and... look at that -- a theme!Presenting Team Davis as "European Sports Fanatics."

Cast members include:

Ellie as "Sophie" the child prodigy tennis player

Cole as "Jacques" the Tour de France mountain specialist

Lance as "Dafydd" club rugby star, and

Amy as "Olga" German marathon champion

This French Halloween experience comes complete with indoor trick or treating, sponsored by Aunt Jill, and pumpkin carving (one French pumpkin, and one normal pumpkin -- they call them Jack-O-Lanterns here). We turned out the lights and outfitted the kids with their Halloween flashlights, "Boo" candy basket, and went knocking on doors, which there are plenty of in this house. So you know the drill -- knock on door, say "trick-or-treat," door opens, get candy. Ellie was in control of the Boo basket but was still more than able to grab all the chocolate bars she could find. Cole on the other hand foolishly went for size over substance and grabbed about 15 pretzel packets. Silly fool. Neither kid seemed at all upset to see Daddy behind every door, as

long as he had "the bowl."

I guess we all win because the "leftover" stuff in the candy bowl is all getting eaten by us!

Danke Schoen...

2008-10-31T17:53:00.006-04:00

to Marla for our fancy lips. Love that Ellie's are upside down. You have no idea how many shots it took us to get this one -- Ellie kept chewing on the lips!

Mountain Jam

2008-10-27T19:02:00.002-04:00

*Apologies in advance for the length of this one. It's a glorified ride report so proceed at your own peril.

It's been just sitting out there, mocking me. A spectre that looms out behind the house, past the vineyards and hilltop villages and the Rhone valley beyond. I didn't believe my eyes when I first saw it. I stopped dead in my tracks. "What is... is that... it couldn't be... yes, it must be!" It was faint in the distance. Just a form on the horizon through the haze of the already hot morning sun. It was silent and majestic and even flickering just slightly as the heat above the vines played tricks with the light. As I stood and stared shapes became more familiar... one long sloping side and the other terse and steep, a small cap on top of a bald crown, like a chapeau on an old Provençal farmer, sipping Pastis next to a game of boules as though he'd been in that same spot for a thousand years. That definitely was it. Just past the vineyards behind my house. Mocking me.

They call it "The Giant of Provence" for the way in which it looms over everything in its realm.

Its name, "Ventoux" means "windy" but it's barren rocky peak gives it it's other nickname, "The Bald Mountain." It's most famous for the legendary stages of the Tour de France that have finished atop the moonscape that serves as the summit. It will return to Le Tour in 2009, it was just announced last week, a dramatic, last-stage-before-Paris epic that finishes atop The Giant.

So, needless to say, from the moment we first seriously started considering this insane French adventure, I've had in the back of my mind that at some point I needed to try to get my bike up that hill myself. It seems like a great idea, really -- a classic climb, an easy drive from the house, and, coming off the PMC, I would be in peak condition. It sounded perfect. Unfortunately, life got in the way. My boxed-up bike didn't see the light of day for a week after we got here. I got in a ride here or a ride there but between travel, hospital visits, and just generally dealing with life in a foreign country, I haven't exactly been burning up the roads.

This fact, of course, was no deterrent to my Father, who was here the past two weeks. He's just read Johan Bruyneel's book (Lance Armstrong's coach) and came over here with the idea in his head that he wanted nothing more than to drive up the Ventoux, in a car, behind me, on a bike. Um... sure, that sounds great Dad.

I agreed to a "scouting mission" to ride a bit of the mountain on Friday, see what it's like, then hop in the car and drive to the top for some pictures and sight-seeing. After all, this is no little hill.

(those numbers in the middle are 9s and 10's, in case you lost your reading glasses).

The forecast looked miserable. Rain, wind, cold, um... rain. I packed every piece of rain gear I have. I made a Nutella and banana sandwich. I brought pretzels, peanuts, and a thermos full of hot coffee. I also threw in a RedBull... you know... just in case.... My expectation was a cold, wet training ride up a bit of the beginning of the climb -- hop in the car to warm up, have some coffee, drive up a bit, ride some more, then toss the bike in the car and drive to the top... under the pretense of "scouting" the hill for a proper assault in the spring. Amy, of course, just rolled her eyes and said, "you know you're riding the whole thing, right?"

We arrived in Bedoin, which was surprisingly beautiful. Searched out a cafe for a... well... cafe, and a nature break, then got the bike ready and I headed uphill.

Okay, so the thing is, riding for five hours, or even for two hours, as the case may be, around Eastern Massachusetts is one thing. Riding for two hours uphill, the WHOLE WAY, is freaking hard. The thing that surprised me the most was how hard it was to breathe.

About seven kilometers in I stopped because I couldn't keep my heartrate below 183. My maximum heartrate on the bike is around 186 beats per minute so I knew that I would need to keep my heartrate at maximum around 177 to 182 if I was going to have any chance of putting any significant part of this mountain behind me.

The air was cool but the sun was warm and I quickly was shedding layers. About an hour in, I stopped for lunch and realized I'd only taken a half bottle of fluid. Not good. Compounding the issue was that, expecting cold, I'd only brought one bottle of sports drink and a bunch of water -- I was losing sodium and couldn't replace it. My Dad had a bottle of Orangina so I figured "what the hay?" and dumped it into my bottle. I started out again, knowing that I was near the end of the line. At this point, the road was going uphill fast. After the first 6 kilometers of the climb, the road makes a hairpin turn and gets steep. Seriously steep. Up through the alpine forest... endless, unforgiving, up, up, up... averaging nearly 10% and in places almost 12%. I couldn't keep the heartrate down. The most frustrating thing was that my legs felt fine. Clearly, my cardio-conditioning had been the first to go. I stopped again just past the halfway point, gasping for breath. Of course, at this point, I had considered riding to the top and I was immeasurably frustrated at having good legs but no lungs.

The thing with cycling is that the most challenging rides aren't nearly as difficult physically as they are mentally. There is no way, especially on a climb like this one, to avoid the fact that you are going to be suffering for several hours. The key is being able to override the alarms going off inside your head, telling you to stop, and just keep steadily turning the pedals. Once you get in that rhythm, you can manage just fine until you lose focus and let the alarm bells start sounding again. It can be a constant battle between the inherent survival instincts that are telling you that, you know, maybe it would be a good idea to stop: get off this tiny saddle; put on a sweatshirt; have a sandwich; maybe a beer, and the mental discipline to say, "nah, let's keep pedalling up the side of this mountain for absolutely no reason whatsoever." It's great fun.

I started out again but only made it another few kilometers before I had to stop again to let my heartrate slow down. After consulting the map we were only a few kilometers from Chalet-Reynard, where the road turns and heads up for the final third of the climb to the summit. "Well, I might as well make it to that... seems like a good place to stop." Figuring there was no reason to lug a RedBull all the way up there without drinking it, I added that to the remnants of the Orangina/PowerBar Endurance Drink in the bottle and headed on. This time I *really* slowed it down and tried to keep my heartrate in control, knowing that if I had to stop again I was tossing the bike in the car. The road continued steeply for another kilometer or so but I kept it at 177 pretty consistently. As we neared Chalet-Reynard, the trees began to thin out and around a corner the building came into sight. Behind it was a barren rocky expanse. At the same time, the road had leveled out significantly -- to a laughable 7% grade. Hey! This is easy! I felt better at that point than I had the entire climb.

Now the voices in my head were going full tilt (actually, I think it was the little guy from the RedBull ads but in any event...): "Dude, why stop here? You feel good. Just keep riding a bit and see how it goes."

Um... well... okay...

So, you see where this is going. The wind picked up but wasn't nearly as strong as the epic gales that give the mountain its name. Around each hairpin the road "leveled off" (relatively speaking of course) allowing a good 100 meters or so to recover. I stopped again to catch my breath at the top of one steep pitch but at this point, the radio tower was in sight and you couldn't have stopped me with a shotgun.

(To provide a sense of scale, I'm on the road right in the very middle of that picture)

Of course, the summit being in sight and actually being close are two different things. I knew I had several kilometers to go and the hard part was not getting too stoked and blowing it within sight of the top.

Around the last bend the road pitches up to about 20% but I could have dragged a Mack truck up it without feeling it. So, as usual, Amy was right. I did the whole thing. Sure, I took a bunch of breathing breaks and rode so slow my legs were barely tired but I still climbed the Ventoux.

It's close enough to the house that I can't say I won't take another stab at some point before June, you know... just for fun. And of course, now that this one is checked off the list... hmm... how far away is l'Alpe d'Huez?

Time Is On My Side

2008-10-26T18:35:00.005-04:00

Just a quick post to tell you that we here in France suffered the depressing effects of the end of Daylight Savings Time. We "fell back" last night making us only a 5 hour difference from Boston time until you guys "fall back." Actually it was not too bad, we feared the kids would wake up at a CRAZY hour but they did OK. Just for fun, check out this oldie...

Oops!...I did it again

2008-10-26T16:31:00.000-04:00

I know I said I'd try to get better about not posting so many pictures at once but...refer back to title.

Sorry.

We've done some cool stuff these past few weeks and you all know how Lance is with the camera. These are the whittled down pictures - I promise. Hope you enjoy France Round 4.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2008-10-18T17:38:00.000-04:00

What have I become?

I have become someone who will turn my nose up to a day old baguette.

I have become someone who expects to get a GOOD, not just a decent, bottle of wine for less than four dollars.

I have become someone who drinks wine out of a box, "Vin en Vrac," and gets that bag refilled (they can do that!)

I have become someone who expects a high caliber meal every time I eat, even just a snack.

I have become someone who sets my alarm at ungodly hours to watch live sporting events.

In the "embarrassed to admit" category --

I have become someone who washes, saves, and re-uses ziplock bags (with no diaper pail - Cole's stinky diapers have to go somewhere).

I have become a "Cherrios pusher." When the kids have Cherrios for breakfast I spoon feed each of them until their bowls are empty because I just can't bear to waste such an expensive commodity (thanks again, Maureen).

I have become someone who, given the price of cold milk, has contemplated giving my kids sketchy, unrefridgerated, European milk from a box.

I have become someone who watches US television on a tiny screen on the computer (can't miss the Sox, the debates, The Office, Earl, and Survivor.)

Join Together

2008-10-16T08:36:00.002-04:00

I finally found the right widget to enable people to sign up and recieve updates when we post something on the site. Check out the box at the top left of the page, courtesy of FeedBlitz. Just think... now you'll never miss another post (aren't you going to sleep better tonight knowing that? You are, aren't you? It's okay, you can admit it.)

Running Down a Dream

2008-10-12T05:29:00.001-04:00

OK a quick post for me, only me (few and far between). Some of you may know that I have been pretty much unable to run since the last Marathon (April 2008). A random injury has plagued me and I have run maybe 10 times in 5 1/2 months. So the news of today is that after 5 1/2 months of Physical Therapy, medications and pain, I went for my first run in FRANCE. My run started out on the main road (YIKES - no shoulder, felt a car WAY TOO CLOSE) and then on a dirt road that winds in between vineyards. Good thing I got this "vineyard" run in today as "Shooting Season in the Vines" starts Monday. Gotta find a new route!

They Say It's You're Birthday...

2008-10-09T03:40:00.001-04:00

Actually, that is what we said.

We celebrated Ellie's birthday on September 27th (a week late). We mislead (OK, lied) to her and told her that her birthday was a week later because Lance was in NYC on her actual birthday. Good thing she can't read the calendar yet. Although, I have to admit that I did cut her some slack (on the DL) on Sept. 20th. We celebrated by taking her to the Haribo Candy factory that is very close our house. We opted out of the tour (sure fire way to bore a kid) and headed straight to the factory store. Wow. Now I have a full understanding of the phrase "like a kid in a candy store." She had a blast. We also took the kids to a mini amusement park with blow-up air castles (as much as they cause me flashbacks -- 1999 LPS head lice epidemic -- it was her "party" even if it was just the four of us). In addition, she got to pick out her "cake" at the Pàtisserie. Holy cr*p. Probably going to be the best birthday cake she ever has. There is a full pictorial account in the "France Round 3" slideshow.

I Want A New Drug

2008-10-07T02:07:00.000-04:00

As promised a quick follow up on prescription drugs.

So we go to the doctor the first time for Cole where they said it might be a cold, an ear infection, or chicken pox. Refer back to the ever famous saying "French doctors aren't really into diagnosing but they LOVE prescriptions." Although, we had no idea what was wrong with him, we left that doctor with 4 prescriptions.

1. An antihistamine for Cole's "Chicken Pox" itching (even though we told her he was not itching)

2. A anti-inch cream for his "Chicken Pox" itching (wait... haven't we covered that?)

3. A pain reliever and

4. Penicillin for his ear infection.

We asked the doctor about the antihistamine because we wanted to verify that it was just Children's Benadryl because I brought tons of that and I know his dose. We did the same for the pain reliever as I also brought tons of Children's Motrin and Tylenol ("Don't leave home without it," I always say). It seemed a bit redundant to have her give us prescriptions for things we already had but she still wanted us to have the prescriptions -- guess they really do love them.

So you have to go to a special "Pharmacien" to pick up prescriptions. Now you are thinking, "yeah, just like CVS," but NO. The only things they sell here are apparently somehow all loosely medically related -- i.e. ace bandages, band-aids, baby bottles, formula, head lice treatment (it is going around Ellie's class - keep your fingers crossed) corn removers, cotton balls, nail clippers, etc. So I get all our bottles, creams, etc. and open up each one to review dose (everything is in milliliters over here). "OK got it...no wait? What is this white powder doing in my son's Penicillin bottle?" She casually explains to me that I have to fill the bottle to a certain line with water and shake. "Are you kidding, I have to mix this at home?" She did not seem to care that I had NO pharmaceutical training whatsoever. Just wing it? Seriously? This is my kid's medication! What I found the most ironic about this is that you apparently need a prescription to get the equivalent of Children's Tylenol and Benadryl, which you can buy over the counter in the US and we already had, but they just give you the unmixed Penicillin, send you on your merry way and hope for the best. Yikes, can you say liability?

Doctor, Doctor, Give Me The News...

2008-09-30T18:32:00.001-04:00

I Got a Bad Case of WHO KNOWS WHAT???

OK - this post is way overdue. It all started about two weeks ago when Cole woke up with a slight rash and he was tugging at his left ear - no fever of course, that would have been too easy. So Lance and I headed straight to the doctor to get some "clear" answers. After much back and forth in confused, broken "Frenglish," we left with the definitive diagnosis of...

A cold OR an ear infection OR chicken pox ('cause those things are so closely related). Even though we tried to explain that kids in the US are vaccinated for Chicken Pox (they don't vaccinate for as many things over here - unclear why not) she still said "maybe" (and she is right, maybe). Although we had no diagnosis, we had no fewer than four prescriptions for this tiny kid. Penicillin for the ear infection, anti itch spray and antihistamine for the Chicken Pox (we tried to tell her he was not itching at all) and a pain reliever. Picking up the prescriptions at the "Pharmacien" will be a whole other post - it is CRAZY. One mother here told me that French doctors "aren't really into diagnosing but they LOVE prescriptions!" Apparently!!! So, he was now being treated for the ear infection and life is good, or so we thought. I did not give him the stuff for the Chicken Pox because in my expert opinion, with all of my medical training, he did not have it.

Skip to 10 days later: Cole wakes up with swollen and purple hands and feet, purple lips, and hives on his body. Some of you may know that Cole had this similar reaction this summer and ended up in the Emergency Room in Hamilton, NY. Apparently he liked it so much that he wanted to check out what it would be like in France. To his dismay...not the same.

So back to the Doctor we went, who gave us an "oh... c'est vous" look when we walked into her office again. She took a quick look and called a pediatrician to discuss the case, because she is a generalist, not a pediatrician. Sadly, this was news to us, as we'd thought she was in fact a pediatrician. Oops.

With a sealed letter for the front desk and vague, scribbled directions on a tiny post-it note, we were off to the "urgence" -- the emergency room in Nimes, where, apparently, they were waiting for us.

5 hours, 14 vials of blood, and countless "I Spy" games later we were still waiting in vain for the ellusive Bone Doctor to look at Cole before we could be admitted so we could have the joy and pleasure of spending the night. They tested him for a blood infection, lyme disease, leukemia, rheumatoid arthritis, and many, many more things. Some highlights of the experience were:

* The female ER doctor and nurse looked like this season's additions to the cast of Grey's Anatomy (Lance particularly liked this aspect... I think Cole did too).

* Lunch! Although the food was not the best we have had in France, it was better than most hospital food. And, although there was no wine, ironically it may have been the most relaxing lunch we have had with the kids in France. They both ate, did not scream or squirm and were generally pleasant company. Amazing. And on a personal sweet tooth note - I had the best brownie I have EVER had.

* Surgical gloves make wonderful balloons and can provide endless entertainment to toddlers. Apparently, the French have these in their exam rooms solely for this purpose and no other as countless nurses took blood from Cole on several occasions without wearing GLOVES! One nurse even leaned her arm down on the exam table right on top of one of Cole's used needles. She did not seem phased by it at all...I was just speechless.

* At several times during the experience I proclaimed to Lance that I was "taking this kid home" to get this figured out and when I said "home" it involved a plane NOT a car.

* The Police Nationale bringing a patient into the adult side of emergency room and Ellie wandering over to "see the bad guys."

* So they brought Cole some dinner after we got settled in our room. Poached salmon, haricots verts, fancy chocolate pudding, but no milk. I asked the nurse for some cold milk, as opposed to the unrefridgerated milk everyone here drinks. And the nurse was so surprised, she said "Milk at night too?" Cole passed on much of the fancy french meal but drank 2 huge cups of cold milk!

And in the "Somebody was lookin' out for us" category:

* Elodie - our French nurse who is married to a British man! She served as our translator for everything from getting food and PJs for Cole, to paying our hospital bill. An added bonus was that she had two back to back shifts during our overnight stay - bummer for her, GREAT for us.

* Dr. Walenda - the awesome (and might I add cute) English speaking, German doctor who crossed every "t" and dotted every "i" with all the tests he ran on Cole and all the specialists he brought in to check. Lance kept wanting to ask when he was going to do his highwire act (sigh).

* Random French cartoons that happened to be on one of the 3 stations we got in our room. Ellie loved them and I learned some words too!

In the end, we left the hospital with no more information than we had when we started, refer back to "the French aren't really into diagnosing." We came home and called our doctor at Mass. General and within 5 minutes she asked if anyone had spoken to us about "Serum Sickness?" I said, "Maybe, how do you say that in french?"

So, alas, a DIAGNOSIS, from our US doctor!

Harvest Moon

2008-09-28T18:52:00.003-04:00

Harvest Time. Let's get at it!

It's been a bit of a whirlwind lately. And that may be the understatement of the year.

The past few weeks have been interesting, to say the least. There's far too much to include in one posting so Amy will handle some of the utterly ridiculous aspects of our recent lives, while I share a bit of the sublime. For that, we need to go back to the early morning hours of September 17th....

It's 5:30 in the morning and I'm lying awake praying to hear nothing.

For the past hour, we have been kept awake by a certain Mr. C.J. Davis (and Amy kept out of bed trying to console him) who is suffering from some unkown malady that, according to Madame le Medecin could be anything from a cold, to an ear infection, to Chicken Pox. Gee, thanks for the rock solid diagnosis Doc. Of course, it's possible that she actually said he has none of those things and I just misunderstood -- all I know is that we came away with four prescriptions and C-Dog now has more chemicals in him than Keith Richards circa 1972. [queue foreshadowing music...]

As he finally settles enough to put him back to bed, I hear the sound of a tractor rolling up the road outside. "Guess some farmer is getting an early start on the vendange today." But instead of rolling off around the next bend, the sound just gets louder... and louder... and louder. By a twist of what surely must be some wickedly vindictive fate, said farmer apparently decided that the grapes in one of the fields behind our house had to be harvested RIGHT THEN. No matter that the sun was still a solid hour and a half from even threatening to rise. No. The full moon was just a day ago and once the eyes adjusted you could have read a mystery novel by the light it cast. Apparently these French take the whole "harvest moon" thing VERY LITERALLY.

So, we laid there for the next hour and a half listening to the machinery fulfill its purpose of making obsolete the centuries-old tradition of les vendanges by hand and feast by night....

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gP4oN6Wx5uE).

Somewhere beneath the anger and bitterness we felt at having -- finally -- two sleeping kids while a symphony of metal blades and diesel engines serenaded us from outside, I did find a little hint of excitement knowing that the harvest was in full swing and within a day, we would be walking rows of vines, bending, reaching, cutting, and loading bucket after bucket of sun-ripe Grenache.

And so it was that on Thursday we drove out to Castillon-du-Gard, four villages down the road to the East, and met our new friends, Matt and Amy (yes, ANOTHER American named Amy -- that makes three for those keeping score at home) at their "big vineyard" for a day of harvesting grapes by hand, in the traditional sytle.

After following Amy down roads barely wide enough for her tiny '78 Renault 4L, we pulled up into the field, unloaded the kids, introduced Ellie to Daisy, the over-friendly pooch that makes sure Matt and Amy get everything right, who promptly barrelled Ellie clean over with a giant enthusiastic wet kiss, and learned how to pick grapes.

Here's a little tidbit that you don't really think about until you're in the moment: picking grapes is actually work. Sure, there's the romance of the vendange, the big lunch, the wine, the sun, and the lively conversation, but when you get right down to it, it's still just a lot of bending, reaching, cutting, loading, lifting, walking and repeating again and again. Now, this is not to suggest that we didn't have fun. It was a good, solid day's work that felt great when we were done. Mind you that we didn't exactly set the world ablaze with the speed of our harvest. We spent a good portion of time chasing Ellie up and down the rows and, of course, attending to King Cole. Ellie, much to her credit, did legitimately learn how to cut the grapes. She would find a bunch, locate the stem, reach up with the snips, cut if off and put it in the bucket. At three. Needless to say, we were impressed. If things continue to go south with the economy, we're considering sending her to California on a seasonal basis to bring home a few extra bucks.

Nuthin' to this.

Cole, on the other hand, was another story. Keeping tabs on him consisted of: keeping him from pulling the grapes out of the buckets and tossing them into the next row, keeping the tiny ball of fluff known as Sydney the puppy from attacking him and licking him to death, and of course, carrying him in the backpack while bending, reaching, cutting, etc., etc., etc....

I think the lowlight for C-dog may have been his post-lunch nap. It sounds like a perfect plan, right? Morning picking grapes, big lunch, then a nice snooze in the sun at the edge of the vineyard. Frankly, I wanted to join him, having perhaps enjoyed one too many glasses of wine at lunch. So, after lulling him to sleep in the backpack, Amy set him down, still in the backpack, which has a stand that I'm sure is designed specifically so that a child can be left entirely unattended in the middle of a vineyard in rural Southern France.

As I'm clipping grapes and chatting with the person working the next row, I hear an odd "thump." I'd never heard that exact sound before, yet, in the millisecond of silence that followed it, I knew exactly what it was. Before I could turn my head back to the end of the rows, I heard a low whine that quickly escalated into a plaintive wail. I sprung back to the edge of the vineyard and, sure enough, there was C-dog, backpack and all, toppled over onto his right side. Um... oops... sorry Buddy.

We ended the day with a cold beer and plenty of thank-yous and poured everyone into the car to hobble home... whupped.

We'll look forward to visiting the winery soon and, of course, stocking several bottles of the 2008 vintage from La Gramiere. If you can find it in your local wine shop (and it would help if you live in Californina, Brooklyn, or... um... Maine, apparently), you clearly must try it (www.lagramiere.com).

Daisy makes sure the grapes are ready...

Brown Sugar

2008-09-21T10:17:00.003-04:00

As promised a second post about the Supermarché. So typical of France and most European countries there are specific little shops that you go to for all of your necessary food items. The Boulangerie - Bakery, the Pâtisserie - Cakes and Pastries, the Fromagerie - Cheese, the Boucherie - Butcher, etc. In addition there are local Morning Markets usually 2 times a week where you can get fruits & veggies, meats and fish, olives, oils, truffles, etc. Also, most people have refrigerators like a quarter the size of US ones so shopping in small waves works well for them. Because we are in the south of France and in a pretty remote area someone felt the need to build a Supermarché - "Carrefour." It is a good thing because sadly, no one has thought to open a "Frozen Chicken Nuggeterie."

Carrefour is it's own complex. It has a it's own gas station. The best way to describe it is that it is like one of those grocery store Walmarts ON STEROIDS. In addition to groceries you can buy underwear, shoes & laces, office supplies, flat screen TVs, vacuums, kitchen & bath stuff, bulbs for the lights on your car, bikes, and (bien sur) WINE! You name it they GOT IT!

The problem is, you can't always find it...

That last statement has been the biggest source of frustration thus far. At one point I had ventured back for another go at it and spent 2 hours at the grocery store for like the 3rd time since we had arrived, and was finally able to find raisins and cranberries, KETCHUP (Thank God - French people rolling over in graves), batteries, hair conditioner, ziplock baggies, replacement bulbs for our car tail light, and nail polish remover (girl's got to have nice toes). It literally took three multi-hour visits to this place to finally find them.

Things that are currently still on the "Missing in Action" list are peanut butter, chicken stock, ricotta cheese, regular cheerios, and mac & cheese. Floss had been a long hold out on the "Missing in Action" list until I finally found it tucked in a corner. I now know why it took me so long - I had been looking for a display or section of flossing type products. OH NO, NO - there was ONE floss. I don't understand... is floss so popular here that is is always sold out or is it that French people... you know what? let's just move on. In addition there have been no signs of "Cheese-Its" anywhere. People are missing out. Processed cheese crackers are way better than fresh brie on baguette toasts. Come on people!!

So the next challenge is to figure out how to make a birthday cake for Ellie's 3rd birthday. I have looked and looked for the aisle that has the boxed cakes and Betty Crocker frosting. No luck. So I guess instead, I need to find flour and brown sugar... OR a good Pâtissere!! Wish me luck!

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2008-09-17T08:44:00.000-04:00

O.K. the long dreaded GROCERY STORE blog entry. I have procrastinated on this entry because the whole experience caught me totally off guard. I NEVER anticipated how important the grocery store would be OR how much of a challenge and stressor it would be in my life. Here are a couple of different things that drive the stress factor through the roof.

1. I am planning for, shopping for, cooking for, and cleaning up for 21 meals a week (3 squares, 7 days a week). There is no "Lance, on your way home can you pick up Anna's?" or "I think I'll just heat up those left overs from Red Bones." No take out of any kind! We are eating every meal of every day as a family in this house. Now that has it's benefits as we are spending a lot of quality time together but it is also VERY time consuming (how did women get anything done in the olden days????) On second thought, I stand corrected. Last week we only ate 19 meals in this house as we went out to lunch with the kids on Saturday and Sunday (even lunch with 2 kids can be relaxing with une bouteille de rosé.)

2. You have no idea how time consuming it will be to find all the food that your small children desire/require. On our 2nd day in our new land we ventured to the Supermarché (more specifics in a follow up blog). After having been there for 2 hours, each kid flipping out in their own unsafe shopping cart, we left feeling somewhat defeated. Even though we had spent 225.00 dollars, I felt like we had nothing! I said to Lance "we are in a culinary wasteland!" (quote credited to Jackie). To which Lance in SHOCK (eyes bulging out of his head) replied: "What are you talking about???????" Obviously, he is right if you're an adult; clearly for us we are in the food Mecca. BUT if you are an American 3 year old or 16 month old kid - things aren't looking real great. Lance's brilliant plan of "well they'll just have to deal, we're in France and I'm not buying processed chicken nuggets" only worked for like 2 meals because no body wants to deal with 2 hungry, displeased, and sleep deprived kids.

So the moral of the story is that in the first 9 days we were in this country, the place we spent about as much time as we had spent in our new home was the Supermarché. We went 4 times in 9 days! And these weren't just quick in and out trips. Everything about going there is time consuming. It is not just that you are in a different store and you don't know where stuff is in the aisles. It is more that when you FINALLY find the item you think you want, you then have to translate it to see if it is in fact the item you want. One of many perfect examples of how difficult this can be is that I had to employ the 3 strikes and your out theory on LOTION. The first time I tried to buy it I accidentally got bubble bath (OK - the kids are loving it). The second time I got shower gel but, the third time by process of elimination - I got lotion!

From Small Things (Big Things One Day Come)

2008-09-11T09:35:00.000-04:00

...well, maybe one day but not yet! ...EVERYTHING IS SMALL HERE!

I don't know why.

Is it because geographically European countries are smaller in area, so factories have to be smaller, therefore they can only make small things???

Is it because Europeans don't want to be bothered carrying large items up and down all of those stairs? (OK, I would get that!!!!)

Now, I'm not exactly from ("Everything's Big In") Texas. I live in Boston. We have old cities, narrow streets, and small homes, and you can even drive a hybrid without someone calling you a *$%#ing liberal sissy. Yet I'm continually amazed at how small things are over here.

The stereotypical small things that are still worth a mention:

°Cars - the biggest SUV we have seen here is a Jeep Cherokee. Most of the cars are just tiny. That translates into tiny trunks, which makes things tough for us with all our luggage, stroller, etc.

°Roads - this is a big concern with Lance riding his bike over here; the shoulder is a line to them here!

The more surprising and odd small items are:

°Toilet paper squares - not sure what's the point of this. Is having smaller squares supposed to dissuade me from using any less than the amount that I feel I need? Seriously?

°Paper towels - see comment above, messy kids require the same amount of cleaning in France, don't they? Maybe French kids aren't messy. ...or maybe they aren't clean. Hmm...

°Toothpaste tubes - I asked Lance to get toothpaste when we divided up at the grocery store and when I unpacked it at home I asked him why he brought me the travel size? He said it was the biggest one they had.

°Food containers of ANY kind - milk, dried cranberries, hot dogs, apple juice, drinkable yogurts regular yogurts, chicken, etc. When you're used to buying these things in bulk quantities (or even just normal gallon sized jugs) those mini drinkable yogurts just aren't cutting it for Ellie. After she's done she looks up and says "where's the rest of it?" And the regular yogurt containers are just really MINI - I am sure they are less than a serving size.

°Glasses - OK this one is funny. We get to the house and they have an entire cupboard full of glass wear. Pastis glasses, juice glasses, cappuccino cups, tea cups, coffee mugs, white, red, and rosé glasses (bien sur), champagne glasses, and 3 -- count them -- 3 highball glasses. Apparently if you want to drink 6 ounces of something then you use one of these glasses. OK - not bad for first few days but when Lance and I have to refill our water glass like 10 times (and heaven forbid our gin and tonics), it gets kinda old. So we set out to the hypermarché to get some bigger glasses. The selection was bleak but we left with something that resembled a pint glass (in theory.) Nope, got it home and although it is shaped like a pint glass - it held the SAME AMOUNT as the stupid tiny ones we already had! But at least now we have 6 of them and don't have to hand wash them as much (not sure why but all glasses are sold in sets of 3 here). We've resorted to using Lance's cycling water bottles for our everyday beverage needs.

°Scissors - this goes in the "what up?" category. We got here and in addition to the house being entirely void of office supplies (no tape, stapler, paper clips, post-its, etc.) there was only one set of scissors for the entire house. The scissors apparently must have been stolen from some Kindergarten classroom because they are a mini set that one would use when learning to cut. Mercifully we did find FULL sized scissors at the store! I've never been so excited about an office supply purchase in my life.

Photograph...

2008-09-10T09:20:00.004-04:00

Some of you hadn't noticed the new album to the left ("France Round 2") with new pictures. So here is a clear and definitive notification of its existence!

We are hoping to figure out how to actually post some video of the place but we haven't yet been able to find a brainy French 13 year-old who's willing to explain YouTube to us. So, hopefully that will be coming soon. Or not.

Other recent highlights that may or may not make their way into their own entry but that I'll mention here so that we don't fall too far behind in the "how are things going?" category:

- Rain, lots of rain, last weekend. Like, "Noah, get the boat ready" rain. Thankfully, it's gone back to the "perfect blue sky 80 degrees with no wind" weather that appears to be the norm here. It's tough... I mean *really* tough to get used to.

- Speaking of Noah, Ellie's new friend (purely by coincidence the only kid that speaks English in her class) is named Noah. Aim took the kids over to his house this morning to play. Ellie came back covered in dirt and Cole was fast asleep. Must have been a good time. I have a feeling this won't be the last entry that mentions Noah, as his mother is from Virginia, is an artist, is named Amy, and been tremendously helpful in explaining what we are and are not supposed to do for Ellie's school. I'm pretty sure I saw a distinct circle of light around her head when I met her.

- I finally got back out on the bike this past weekend. I've now done two rides and I've yet to be run over by an insane Frenchman... or a sane Frenchman for that matter (I think there are one or two around here but I'm not certain).

- New people are in the guest house for the next three weeks. Americans. Between us, them, and the Brits that are in the house next door, there are more native English speakers in this hamlet than French. Go figure.

Things That Make You Go Hmm...

2008-09-05T07:56:00.009-04:00

It seems as though in France they have less strict views on basic safety concepts compared to the US. Someone here told me that the French try to give off the impression of caring about safety while still managing to do the bare minimum to require it or ensure it.

Lets take car sets for example; it was only a short time ago that car seats became mandatory in France. OK, kinda odd but the more pressing issue is that the car seats that they now deem to be appropriate to keep their infants safe in case of an accident have 1 little buckle with 2 thin straps. No chest buckle at all, so if an infant in a French car seat were to be in an accident there is a good chance that even if this kid was snapped into the car seat correctly, he or she would come flying out through the straps because nothing is keeping them secure up top. All of the French people who we've encountered so far must think that Lance and I are freak parents as we've dragged our 5 point harness car seats, on the plane, on the train and we actually put our 3 year old in one. This leads me to my next point...

Motorcycles; they seem to be quite relaxed about the use of helmets or any type of safety gear here. The second day we were here we met one of our neighbors "Guy" with 2 of his kids on his Hemingwayesque motorcycle. Nobody had on helmets - not him, not his 13 year old daughter or his 18 month old son whom she was holding. There was some talk initially of car pooling with these neighbors back and forth to school with the kids. Not sure where Ellie's car seat would fit on the back of his motorcycle????

Pool standards - they are not really into safety here. Fences, pool monitors...who needs them? Actually, to their credit, if you rent a property with a pool associated with it, you do have to have a fence but if you own the pool you are free and clear to let your kids or anyone else's kids fall right in.

Shopping carts are quite possibly the funniest to me. Immediately upon getting your cart and entering the Supermarché you see signs warning you about how dangerous it is to put your kid in the basket. OK, that I agree with. Additionally, they have right and wrong signs about how to put your kid in the front basket of the cart properly. OK, still with ya. However, this is when things start to fall apart. After you follow the instructions on how to put your kid in the front basket you have no way to clip them in with a belt or any other safety device to keep them from crawling or falling out. There are hooks and notches where straps might go but actual straps...Nada. It has caused me to bring a belt with me to strap Cole in when we shop - again people must think I am NUTSO.

Also, it seems like a lot of people subscribe to the "it's noon somewhere" theory. It was 10:00am the other day when Lance and I went to go get our bank accounts and we walked past a café and there were some people having coffee but at least 5 normal looking people were having a beer!

And my favorite of all...I was leaving Ellie's school one of the many times I dropped her off today and I saw a woman, not just any woman, A SCHOOL EMPLOYEE, smoking a cigarette about 15 feet from the main door of Ellie's school, she was waiting to lock the gate behind me (for the safety of keeping all the kids in). How ironic.

Stranger in a Strange Land

2008-09-04T08:34:00.006-04:00

Two things I would not like to be in France:

1. A single, working Mom or Dad. As far as I can tell it would be nearly impossible to be a working Mom in this country. The kids' school day is set up in such a way that you are back and forth there to pick them up like 4 times. Drop off in the morning is at 9:00 (trip #1). You have to pick them up at 12:00 for lunch (trip #2). You come home and have a relaxing lunch with the family (VERY COOL) and then bring them back at 1:30 (trip #3). Finally, you pick them up for the day at 4:30 (trip#4). Not sure how this system works for anyone who is gainfully employed.

2. A handicapped person. On a seriously less humorous note this country is not handicapped accessible at all. There are stairs to everything. Not just a store or a cafe or a bakery. Major things like train stations, town halls, post offices, schools, etc. And even if you manage to get yourself successfully into a building, there are no elevators. I am embarrassed to admit that the reason I am so keenly aware of this is because places that are not handicapped accessible are not stroller accessible. It is one thing to keep with the "old charm" of Europe but I do have to give a "Wag of the Finger" on this issue.

Songs in the Attic

2008-09-02T16:56:00.010-04:00

While Amy has wonderfully described the "First Day of School" extravaganza in a separate post, I thought I'd share a few observations and vignettes that might be worth memorializing. If you haven't read Amy's posting yet, you should read that first.

As we walked up the hill towards the school it was amazing to see the varitey of characters all herding themselves towards the chute, complete with metal gate, that corralled both parent and child into the entry area. There was the overweight guy wearing man-pris and a massive salmon-colored t-shirt. There were the many Moms, young and not so young, in a variety of shapes and sizes. There was the wine lady (!). There were the two separate Dads who greeted each other with a handshake and an exchange of pleasantries, each wearing blue jeans and a dark t-shirt, and funky, odd, rectangle-framed glasses that by all appearances were purchased together at a two-for-one special. And there was the Queen Bee, who drove up in her big, shiny, chrome-appointed Audi crossover, dwarfing every other proper green-friendly Euro-sized car as it barrelled past them all right to the front door, with sunglasses that looked like they cost more than most of the people in this area make in a year and, of course, smoking a cigarette.

What proceeded when they finally unlocked the gate and released this diverse mass of humanity toward the school can only be described as a goat rodeo. Complete and utter madness doesn't even begin to describe it. Having managed to find her appointed hook, hang her backpack, amend her nametag with a hand-scribbled "Ellie" under her proper name, we left her happily, quietly, playing with the kitchen set as a surprising number of the French kids cried like... well... like little kids. "Ha!" we thought. "We knew she'd be fine!" As Amy recounted, when we picked her up, the teacher, who I'm certain is on the fast track to sainthood, despite the significant tatoo on her shoulder, explained in yet another tourtured Frenglish conversation, that Ellie cried for three hours. Given that we left the school at 9:30 and she wasn't crying, and it was now about 12:10 and she wasn't crying, I privately hoped that Tatoo Lady wasn't the math teacher.

When Ellie came home in the afternoon, she proudly informed me that, among other thrilling activities, she sang "Blue French" songs, which in that one moment justified the countless nights over the past few months that we'd dutifully played her one of the three (color-coded) French kids' song CDs as we put her to bed. Knowing the words to the song... isn't that really the true key to proper assimilation?

Tomorrow the school is closed, then we're back Thursday and Friday, with the hopes that Ellie will continue the success of this afternoon (and that Tatoo Lady sticks with Blue French and steers clear of Red French... we didn't play that one as much!). Cole starts Thursday as well. Should be interesting.

School Days

2008-09-02T15:51:00.008-04:00

So the long awaited day is here...Ellie goes to school. "How will she do?" "She's so flexible." "She won't understand a word they're saying!" Well, the moment of truth is here.

She has been talking about it ever since the second day we got here when Nathalie took us on a tour of the area and showed us the outside of "Ellie's school." We toured the inside last week and she was into everything in the pre-student, pre-teacher, abandoned classroom. So excited!!!

This morning she dons her backpack and off we go. She transitions into the room remarkably well and as I say good bye to her I know I am more sad than she. This is the first time she has not been with me - she comes to work with me and is in the most phenomenal day care at my school. I can visit her whenever I want. So, as I say goodbye she asks me, "Where are you going?" I say, "Home with Baby Cole" and she says, "No, you're going to work." Just like at home. Off we go.

The school hours are different here. She goes in the morning from 9-12 and we pick her up for family lunch and then again from 1:30-4:30. So we pick her at 12:00 and the teacher informs us that she had cried all morning. Such a surprise. It turns out that some others kids were crying and it upset her. At some point she attempted to communicate something to her teacher. Apparently she tried to communicate this for some extended time period without any success and they ended up taking her over to the older school where there is a teacher who speaks English and what Ellie wanted was "a tissue;" Heartbreaking!

Lunch was good and surprisingly she was very willing and even excited to go back. We were told she would nap when they got back (good luck, she hasn't napped since we got to France). So equipped with her "Taggie" she strolled right into the nap room and barely said goodbye to me. The afternoon pick up and report was very positive, as she strutted towards me with "Taggie" in hand. Lucky her that she got to keep it during the waking hours! She must have thought "hey, even though I can't understand ANYTHING anyone is saying, they let me have "Taggie" so we'll call it even."

She came home reporting that she had sang, played with animals, trucks, had water out of a cup and did not cry!

Kids are resilient.

Red Red Wine

2008-09-01T16:17:00.008-04:00

I'd like to introduce you to my new friend. My new friend is... how can I say... a bit "stocky." She's almost as wide as she is tall. She's very pale, slightly translucent. She has a red cap and a handle on her top. She holds five liters, she only cost me 1 Euro fifty, and I can fill her up any time I like for a mere five Euro (about 7 dollars and 45 cents). Yes, she is a wine jug but she prefers to be called a vessel du vin. There is a winery 3 quarters of a mile down the road where a very nice French lady will fill 'er up with a gas pump with either red, white, or (of course, it is Provence after all...) Rosé. I may actually never leave this place.

Born to Be Wild

2008-09-01T07:59:00.011-04:00

So many of you know that for a number of weeks this summer Cole re-visited his long since forgotten "Satan Days" from when he was a wee lad (between the ages of 0 and 3 months old). In his defense this return to "Satan," as we called it, began right after his trip to the ER for an unidentified rash/hives/allergic reaction of some sort that caused the ER docs to give him a steriod to get things under control. OK - we'll cut him some slack there BUT Cole seemed to turn this into an opportunity to develop an invisible ambilical cord between him and me. He was waking up (for the day) at 4:30 a.m. and all he wanted was Mom (Dad just wouldn't do - lucky Dad). If I even thought about leaving the room he would start to whine and hang on my leg. As a result, we luckily travelled everywhere together ;-)!!!!

Why am I telling you this? Although he has never been a kid who has had difficulty seperating from me/us - he sure was now. In the back of my mind I just keep thinking, "how the heck is he going to survive in France?" My plan was to volunteer in Ellie's school 3 afternoons a week (teaching English - I am sure this will be a future blog) and he would attend the day care as a way to allow me to do that, as well as interact with French kids and adults. Jump to present day - we visited the "creche" today and within minutes the director was asking us to come into her office and leave Cole with her very lovely staff. OK - here goes? We shut the door and I waited for the crying. Not a peep! I checked on him through the window a few times and he was climbing on all the big toys and having a BLAST. Just goes to show you what I know.

867-5309 Lisa!

2008-08-30T17:23:00.001-04:00

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

2008-08-28T07:10:00.000-04:00

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...

2008-08-25T17:06:00.001-04:00

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

2008-08-24T15:33:00.000-04:00

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

2008-08-23T17:01:00.001-04:00

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...

2008-08-22T16:38:00.000-04:00

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...

2008-08-22T16:11:00.000-04:00

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.