“I hope you have a relatively stress-free, non-threatening day.”

Back in 1989, shortly after I moved from New Jersey to California, a friend sent me a card with this sentiment.  I’ve kept it all these years and it’s become one of my favorite expressions.  Don’t get me wrong, I love all the “have a nice day”,  “you’re a winner”, type cards.   But this one just takes the pressure off.  It basically says, keep the bar low and things can only look up.   I write this on the eve of the first day of school for my kids, who have been dragged to this foreign land.  I truly hope their first day doesn’t totally suck.  Stay tuned for the update.

I have a new respect for stand-up comedians and bloggers (the really witty ones, that is).  It’s hard to be consistently entertaining and/or enlightening.   I need to remind myself that I’m writing this blog for the purpose of documenting our year abroad.  However, I admit its kind of thrilling when people are entertained, even a little, by what I write.  A lot has happened since my last post.   However, I’m finding that my inner wit is a bit constipated at the moment.  Anyway, until things loosen up, I’ll share some photos, interspersed with a few vignettes.   

Last week we spent a few days in Lake Annecy.   It is in the French Alps, very close to Geneva, Switzerland.  It's considered one of the gems of France and supposed to be one of the cleanest lakes in the world. 

In the Pedalo

When my girls were little, and I was forced to watch animated movies, I developed a begrudging affection for Beauty and the Beast.   I liked the little French streets that Belle would traipse down singing her songs.   To me, vieille ville (old town) Annecy, looks like a live version of Belle’s village (minus the tourists).   It is ridiculously charming,  full of cobblestone streets surrounded by pastel painted houses, with geranium planters in the windows.  Overlooking the village and the lake is the Chateau d’Annecy, which was built between the 12^th and 16^th centuries.

Near one of the canals

Local Charm

Dusk in Annecy

He wants to make sure it's REALLY California wine.

We visited the Chateau, which is basically used as a museum now.  The part I liked best was the story behind the Tour de la Reine (Queens Tower).   Legend has it that the king grew tired of his wife constantly nagging him about his infidelities.   So he locked her in the tower.  But she got some local monks to help her escape and sought refuge in the Abbey up on the hill.  The Abbey is still there, home to a bunch of nuns who’ve taken a vow of silence.   Sounds kind of relaxing.

Views from the Chateau . . .

quaint little streets . . .

and more views from the Chateau.

We ate ridiculously well in Annecy.  I can safely say the best food I’ve had in my life was at Restaurant L’Etage.   A steak cooked so perfectly, you barely needed the knife, with some sort of a brown butter sauce (I need a better word) that I can’t even describe.  Truffle risotto, with crispy slices of actual truffles.   The sweetest melon with paper thin slices of ham, delicately cooked baby artichokes with some creamy burrata confection.  Roasted bananas with rum.  I can’t even. 

And the wine.  I’ve always been more of a white wine gal, but I’m developing a real affection for reds.   Typically, if Jim and I finish off a bottle of red, I’m not feeling great the next day.  For some reason, the wines we are consuming here seem to go down a little too easily, with no morning after regrets. 
  

Being so close to Switzerland, fondue is a thing here, as well as something called “raclette”.   Basically, a big hunk of melted cheese.   They bring this contraption to your table that heats it up.  It looks like a medieval torture device.   I’m sure, in the US, they would make you sign a liability waiver before using it.   So, on our last night, we basically had cheese for dinner.  When in France . . .

 

We didn’t just sit around eating cheese though.   We did some paddle-boating (or Pedalo as it is called here), and did a bike ride around the lake.   We also visited the Gorges du Fier: a very cool walk through a narrow canyon on a footbridge about 25 meters above a gushing river.   

The Gorges

Allie and I, mid bike ride

Afterwards, we noticed another castle in the distance.  We found a short hiking trail and made our way up to the Château Médiéval de Montrottier.    A sweet little castle up on a hill overlooking a cow pasture.  We’re pretty sure our contractor could bring it up to code in no time at all.

Hike to the Chateau

Cows . . .

towers . . .

views . . .

and more views.

We returned to Paris for our final week before school started, thinking we’d ease back into things.  Unfortunately, Allie woke up not feeling well a couple days after we got back.   Stomach pains, headache, mild fever.  Hmm, what to do?   I had just met another parent that very day and she was full of good advice.  Try SOS Medecines, she tells me.  You can get an English speaking operator, and they make house calls for about 50 euros.  Great!  I call and the message is in French.  I hit “0” in the hopes of getting a human.  I do, but he tells me he only speaks a little English.   It takes about ten minutes of him speaking progressively louder and me saying, “pardon”, but I finally make progress. 

In about a half hour, “François” shows up.  We’re pretty sure he’s a doctor.    I try to explain to him that Allie had a mild fever and had been shivering.   Ah, he says, she needs fructose!  “That is why she is shaking”.  Okay.   He asks what we have given her.  We tell him that because she was in pain and had not slept, we gave her Advil.  "Mon dieu!"  "C’est terrible!"  "But, you do not know!"   We apologize profusely for being stupid American parents.  He proceeds with the usual stuff:   listening to her breathing, checking her ears, etc.  He proclaims that he can find nothing wrong and that it is just something that must run its course.   But, he says, he can do a urine test if we like.  Great, I say, lets do it.  I wait.  François just sits there.  Ah, he means for us to provide the cup – the BYOB of urine testing.  

A couple of weeks ago at the marché, the cheese guy gave me some yogurt samples in these cute little glass jars.  I saved them because I figured they’d be good for something.    I tell Allie, “remember those little yogurt jars?”  She runs out of the room and takes care of business.   François puts the little test stick in and we wait.  One of the lines turns purple and he says, “see, I told you, she needs fructose!”  Jim had run out of the room earlier, but confirms with François as he leaves, “so you’re sure it's not Appendicitis?”  François turns back immediately and grudgingly rechecks Allie’s abdominal area and concludes that she is fine.  We are charged 100 euros.  I guess the urine test jacked up the price.

A couple of days later, Charlie (le chien) spends the night vomiting.   We think this was the result of her eating street food – literally.  She is fine after a day or so, but my sainted husband spent considerable time going up and down the five flights of stairs with her in the middle of the night.  He did observe a couple making out in front of our building at about 3:30AM.   So, there's that.

This all has led up to the above mentioned first day of school.   Jim and I had a great first day: visited the Musée Jacquemart-André, and had lunch at a little brasserie on Place Victor-Hugo.  Rainy day.  Kind of perfect.   

Then the girls get home with the following high praise for their new school:  "it's not completely terrible".   After that, we discover our ceiling is leaking.  Not such a perfect day.   The insurance we had to buy, but hoped we wouldn't need, just might kick in.  The adjuster will be here next week.    I'm betting his name will be François.

à bientôt

Random Street Molestations, Touristy Stuff, and Illegal Aliens.

My first run along the Seine.

Sometimes you just need to go back to your roots.  So this week,  we did a couple of  embarrassingly comfortable American things:  went to a Starbucks and saw a bad American movie (Jurassic World).   Worse, the whole time I was wearing my yoga attire (quel horreur!).   A few months ago, while having drinks with some friends back in Marin (while also wearing my yoga attire), I said to them: “I want you guys to know, that I KNOW, I can’t dress like this in Paris.”   I still believe that, but I think the month of August shouldn’t count.

My beautiful friend Jane visited Paris for the first time during the month of August several years ago.   Her memories of this trip were less then positive.   Mainly, she was dismayed at how few Parisians are actually in Paris during August:  they are all taking advantage of their government guaranteed five-week vacations (those French are smart).    Alot of the restaurants shut down – our neighborhood is littered with signs on doors (most hand-written), basically saying, “see you in September”.   So, you are left with a hot, very expensive city, teeming with tourists.

I know, another one.  My run was very inspiring.

Still, I find it alluring and very charming.  You have to be on alert for the really interesting stuff.  Like, what we saw today.   A couple of weeks ago, Jim and I got off the metro a stop too soon, and stumbled upon a really great English language bookstore.    It is across from the Tuileries, and also close to a very touristy tea room (Angelina), purported to have the most amazing hot chocolate.

With the excuse of fulfilling their summer reading requirements, the girls and I go to the bookstore and decide to sample the chocolate afterwards.   We are walking down rue Rivoli and we see ahead of us a woman about my age looking up while taking a picture of something.  I only noticed her because she was wearing a Little Black Dress very similar to one I own – and she had a really cute figure (I notice these things).    As she is focusing intently on taking the picture, an older woman, carrying a lot of bags, walks up right next to her, and very aggressively grabs her ass and gives it a healthy squeeze. 

Now, I’ve been known to surprise certain good friends in this fashion.  So, my first thought was that these were two French gal pals.  Surely, the old woman would turn around and the cute LBD girl would scream happily at being groped by her good friend.    That didn’t happen.   Bag lady didn’t miss a beat, kept right on walking.  LBD girl had a look of equal parts horror and “what the fuck just happened”?  I said to my girls, “that really just happened, right?”   The hot chocolate was actually amazing. 

I discussed this today with Samara.  Samara is our Personal Concierge.  I feel obnoxious even using that term because it sounds like someone who drives me around in a limo all day doing my errands.   Samara is actually about 24, and drives a Vespa with a pink sparkly helmet.  For a small monthly fee, she answers all of our dumb questions and communicates in French for me when I need help.   Also, she is very cute.  I figured if ass grabbing among women was a normal occurrence here, surely she would know.   It is not, as far as she knows, but she enjoyed my story. 

 “I don’t mean to scare you, but they lost my paperwork the first time.”  Samara tells me this after escorting me on a field trip to the post office.  I had to mail our applications to become legal residents in France.   We have perfectly valid Visas – issued by the French Consulate in San Francisco.  However, because we will be here for more than three months, we have to go through a whole separate process to stay here legally.    

I don’t know what one has to do, as a foreigner, to stay for an extended period of time in the US.  But, in France, they make you work for it.    We each have to get a medical exam, take a few hours of French history classes, and pay another thousand or so euros in fees to the French government.   This is all to obtain a little stamp on each of our Visas.   We have three months to obtain this little stamp.  If we don’t have it, and we leave France after three months to visit certain countries, they might not let us back in (unless we stop in the US first).  

Anyway, Samara warned me that because of the August vacations, I shouldn’t expect any action on our applications until mid September.   So, I was pleasantly surprised, when just a day after mailing our forms to the OFII (Office Français de l'Immigration et de l'Intégration),  I receive an email summoning Jim and myself for our appointments.    There is no mention of our daughters.  We tell Samara that this seems strange and illogical.   Surely, it would make sense for our whole family to have an appointment together?  No, she says, not really.   I suspect, as she did with Le Medecin Agency, Samara will be calling the OFII for me soon.  It would suck for the girls to be illegal aliens.  Though, this could be just the ticket for their future college essays.

We didn’t do a great job this week of finding unique attractions (aside from the ass grabbing incident).    So, I don't have alot of snazzy photos.   However, we did scout out a few reasonably priced boutique hotels for our (hopefully) future visitors, in the event our guest room won’t suffice.   Just across the street from us is The Peninsula Paris.  However, given the constant presence of serious luxury cars parked in front (this morning a metallic blue Bentley and what appears to be an actual gold Range Rover, both with Arabic license plates), I suspect this will not make it into our “reasonably priced boutique hotel” recommendations.  

If money is truly no object, you should stay at the St. James Paris.  The bathrooms are rumored to be spectacular . . .

or at The Peninsula Paris.  If its good enough for these guys, its good enough for our friends.

We did finally made it over to the Bois de Boulogne.   This is a very large forest-like park on the Western side of the city.   It is twice the size of New York’s Central Park, and one of the few parks in Paris that allows dogs off leash.   However, we like to take Charlie to a smaller park nearer to our apartment.  Technically, dogs aren’t allowed, but we noticed that some locals and their pups tend to convene there when the sun goes down, so we’ve started joining in.    

Jim in the Bois de Boulogne.

Charlie making new French friends.

The good food continues.   Our local Marché is open two days a week, so on those days we buy our dinner there.   This week is was Paella and an awesome Spanish wine recommended by our new friend Melanie at our local wine shop.   

Another day, we accidentally found L’Arbre à Cannelle (the cinnamon tree).    Exactly what you would imagine a small neighborhood cafe in Paris to be like.   Its in the Quartier Latin, near the Jardin des Plantes, good for walking around after the goat cheese crumble and the Raspberry/Rhubarb tart.   

Jardin des Plantes.

 Last night, we visited another tourist spot that a local had actually recommended to us last year:  le Relais de l’Entrecôte.    Steak Frites, served with their sauce secrète (which obviously translates to “secret sauce”, but sounds so much better in French).   That’s your only choice and it works.   Even our resident steak aficionado (Jim) was happy.    The servers are very nice and clearly proud of the place.   They even accommodated vegetarian Allie with a beautiful cheese plate.  For me, I would have been happy with the bread, the sauce (the French and their sauces!), and the delicious Bordeaux we had.  

I will admit there are times in these early days when I question our decision to do this.   I worry about all the terrible things that could happen.   Is this really a good thing for our kids, or are we just rationalizing a choice we made for them?   Then I’ll find myself walking on a random street, and casually look up, and spot the Eiffel Tower.   I realize it’s an overexposed tourist attraction to most people, but it is magnificent.    Or, we’ll be walking our dog while a tour bus goes by and people are snapping pictures.  Not that they’re actually taking a picture of us, but its fun pretending to be a local in this beautiful, historic city.   

But, what really works, when I find myself getting too wrapped up in my silly anxieties, is I try and imagine what my friend Kristin, back home in Mill Valley, would say to me (with an eye roll): “Just stop.  Are you kidding me?  Don’t even start.  Go eat a fucking croissant and get over yourself.”   I have very good friends.  I hope they visit and stay at The Peninsula Paris so I can see what the rooms look like.

à bientôt

Wine at the Prom, the "F" word, Fromage de tete, and machine guns.

Sacré-Cœur

I am taking a break from French bureaucracy for a few days.    Our box shipment has finally been liberated from Customs.    My next challenge is obtaining our temporary residence permits through the OFII (l’office francais de l’immigration et de l’integration).   I looked at the checklist of requirements and immediately felt overwhelmed.   I have no doubt it will provide for some entertaining blog material.  

(I will note here that my husband believes I am too verbose in my posts.   His former colleagues will find this ironic coming from him.  I will also acknowledge that I like to curse and I really enjoy wine.  So, if wordiness, swearing, or wine consumption remotely offends you, then this is not the blog for you).   

Anyway . . . last weekend was somewhat thrilling as we actually had plans – with other people.   We had dinner at a wonderful restaurant, Le Dôme du Marais, with another family whose daughter will be in class with Katie.   The mom, Kristin, has been a huge source of information for me in the past year and it was fun to get the families together.   When the wine was being poured, our serveur naturally offered both of the 16-year-olds a glass.   Jim and I just looked at each other and said, “when in Rome (or in Paris)”.    Kristin tells me that it is not unusual for wine and champagne to be served at the prom. 

The drinking age in France is, well, I’m not sure that there really is one.  At every restaurant we go to, a wine glass is always placed in front of Katie.   It’s just not a big deal here.    I would bet that France’s binge drinking among teens is lower then in the United States, despite our country having a higher drinking age.   What’s interesting to me is I’m not convinced that Katie even liked the wine that much, as she only sipped on it.  Maybe it’s just the thrill of being able to have it?   Maybe.

Our goal, until school starts, is to find unique, somewhat less touristy activities.  We are hoping to shift the girls' focus away from their temporary refugee status.  So this week, we visited the Musée des Arts Forains.  Yes, a museum, but it’s actually a collection of early 20^th century carnival rides.   It’s also interactive, so you can actually pedal on the bicycle-powered carousel.   What I didn’t know was that a few scenes from one of my favorite movies, Midnight in Paris, were filmed there (whatever you think of Woody Allen, the man makes a damn good movie).

A little pretend Moulin Rouge

Allie and le cochon

We were in a small tour group led by a charming French woman and we were only her third English speaking tour.   She was remarkably kind and patient with our eclectic group – which included:  an unpleasant, older American man, his young Russian wife and their ill-behaved toddler; a delightful British couple and their three well behaved children; and a gorgeous young European guy with his model-esque looking girlfriend.   The guy was wearing a t-shirt that said “I want to fuck you” (at least he was clear about his intentions).  I thought this was so funny and obnoxious at the same time that I tried to capture it on film.  However, in the picture, the t-shirt said “I want to love you.”    Bien sûr!

Yesterday, we took the metro to Montmartre and did a food tour with another charming young French person – a guy this time, named Stefan.  Our group was less eclectic: just our family, and two 20-something Norwegian women, in Paris for the weekend.   They were lovely and smart and really fun to be with.  The best part was watching my daughter converse with them about American politics.

Katie in discussion with the Norwegians.

Stefan took us to the Chocolatier, the Macaron shop, the Pâtisserie, Boulangerie, Fromagerie, Charcuterie & Boucherie, and the Cave & Bar à vin.   We slowly wound our way up through all the super cool streets of Montmartre, passing  by the “love wall”, lots of great street art, and the home where Picasso once lived and worked.   We also visited a couple sites from another wonderful Parisian movie:  Amélie.   We ended up at a garden behind Sacré-Cœur for a picnic, sampling all of the goodies Stefan had acquired for us.  We loved it all – though the fromage de tete (head cheese) may be an exception.  Of note, this is NOT cheese.   We finished the day with a stop at the Creperie.

The "Love Wall"

Street Art

There wasn't much here for Allie the Vegetarian.

So, that’s been our week.   The last thing worth noting is the military, with their machine guns, casually strolling around the Arc de Triumph and other monuments.  The reason they are there is horrible and sad, and I feel equally disturbed and comforted by their presence.  I like their uniforms though.

à bientôt.

View from our apartment.  Bonne nuit!

Week 1 - Transition Blues . . . and Random Life Scenes

"AND WE'RE CHOOSING TO DO THIS??!!"  Both a question and an angry statement of fact from my daughter.   She delivers it with an impressive eye roll/ head shake combo.  The unmistakable message being: "my parents are selfish fools."  

This “why” question has been posed to me often in the last several months.  Every time some challenge related to this move is thrown my way, and my daughter witnesses, what she concludes, is my self–imposed angst.   She doesn’t even say it anymore.  The look on her face says it all:  “why are you dragging me away from the life I love, if the process of doing so is making you so crazy?”  

We actually wandered into this decision sort of casually while planning a visit to England and France last summer.   Jim would be retiring from his US Treasury job the fall after our return.  So, in one of those, “hey, wouldn’t it be cool if we could  . . .” moments,  a plan was hatched, sort of.   From there, it was “hey, while we’re visiting, lets check out a school.”   So, we visit the school, and its really great.  So then it becomes, “ok, we only do this if the girls get accepted at the great school.”   We apply, they get in, so we decide, “why not?”   For just one year.  

Remember that line from “When Harry Met Sally”, when Harry wants to take back what he said, and Sally says, “you can’t take it back, its already out there.” Once we said the words, we just had to make it happen. 


So, here we are.  And it’s a little surreal.   I’ll admit,  I’m a little homesick and lonely for my friends.   Every time I look at my daughter’s forlorn face, I can’t help but think about what she would be doing if she were back home.   We’re all a little out of sorts.  Torn between sheer glee at being here and FOMO on what’s going on back home.   My husband coined the phrase “Transition Blues”, and I think its accurate.  Nothing about this experience is complaint worthy or remotely sad.   But, it is a change, particularly for our kids.   This is the first time I’ve ever heard them say they are looking forward to school starting.  Fortunately, for me, my time has been taken up by the box shipment saga. 

On that note:  four boxes have actually arrived, plus a separate one with the dog supplies (so the dog at least has HER hormone pills).  That Fedex person who couldn't say the big words?  Turns out she wasn't totally wrong about needing special approval.   My penchant for honesty, actually admitting to having prescription medications in a few of the boxes, triggered the requirement for an import license from the "Medecine Agency".   
 
After several emails, faxes, phone calls (in French facilitated by Samara, more on her later),  le Medecine Agency agreed to give approval to DHL to unblock our shipment.   We think it might show up next week.   I hope so.   After that, I need to call the credit card company.   It appears that, not only was it a little more expensive to ship each box, but DHL seems to have charged the same amount TWICE for each box.   I’ve decided not to think about it anymore today and focus instead on the lovely meal we have procured from our local outdoor market (photo below). 

à bientôt

Evening walk with Charlie on the Champs-Élysées.

Notre Maison - well, really our apartment.  That's Allie and  I at the top windows.

We are on the fourth floor . . .

. . . with a really tiny elevator.

The most interesting man in the world - in Paris . . .

and his petite chien.

Shopping for necessities in our new hood . . .

so the girls could cook us dinner. 

Our first "frequent buyer card" (Nicolas Wines).

Our dinner from Marché President Wilson (the outdoor market near our apartment).