Free

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...

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

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

Little Village

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

"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

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

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

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

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

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!