Exodus (Epilogue Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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)

[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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.