Street Food & Condoms

In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  This isn't the actual picture I took, but we did see it lit up on the train home last night. 

A funny thing happened.  I was at a college information event at the girls’ school (that’s not the funny part).    I met this nice woman whom I had only spoken to briefly on the phone several months before.   She kindly gives me a ride home and we’re doing the usual debriefing of each other’s lives.    When I tell her where I live in the US, she says she has a friend who lives in my town, and she casually mentions the name.  It turns out that we have a common friendship with a fabulous woman named Kathy.   Kathy is the one who bet me a bottle of very good champagne that we won’t return to the US after one year.

Everyone swears to us that our kids will be begging us to stay.   This slice of pretend life we’re living is fun, and our girls seem (dare I say it) happier with each passing week.    Still, I’m not convinced they will want to prolong our adventure.   Last week, a daughter declared, “we should go to London for Thanksgiving!”   I’m so taken aback by this statement, naively thinking she is embracing our travel opportunities.  Then she says, “they have a Whole Foods there.”   So Kathy, if you’re reading this, make sure the Veuve Clicquot you buy has that cute little ice jacket on it. 

Of course, this next statement may cause the French government to immediately rescind my Visa:  I don’t really love the Louvre.   Last year, we visited with the girls and did a drive-by (think of that scene in National Lampoons Vacation when the Griswalds visit the Grand Canyon, but substitute The Burns Family and the Mona Lisa).  As I’ve mentioned in prior posts, we prefer the smaller museums.  Regardless, Jim and I are determined to explore the Louvre thoroughly over the next year, and we started today.

We focused on the Egyptian and Greek Antiquities, and Islamic Art.   An hour in, and we’re drowsy.   By the time we wander over to the Greek statues, we’re ignoring our headsets and making up our own stories.  Jim calls the one pictured below:  early ancient pole dancer (obviously it’s a guy, but maybe men were the original pole dancers?).    We departed the Louvre after that.   Fortunately, we’ve got nine months left to see the rest of it.

Early Man - Pole Dancer

During the month of September, the Journées Européennes du Patrimoine (European Heritage Days) takes place.   For two days a year in Paris and the rest of France, thousands of monuments, government buildings, etc., open their doors to areas generally not accessible to the public.   We didn’t do this.

Instead, Jim, Allie and I ventured over to what I later learned is the “hipster” part of Paris.    We went to a street food festival at Point Ephémère in the 10^th arrondissement, next to the Canal Saint-Martin.  This area was an artists’ squat for a while and now it’s a venue for local art exhibitions and independent music concerts.   The area feels very Berlin-esque (or what I imagine Berlin to look like), as there’s lots of graffiti covering the concrete walls.   The day we visited, the Street Food Bistronomique was happening.   Local DJs were providing the music and about a dozen really good restaurants were selling their food.   We mingled with the locals, and ate some great food (BBQ pork for Jim and vegan cake for Allie). 

Point Ephémère

Canal St. Martin

Bistronomique!

We also stumbled upon a dog march.    The activists were from dogfidelity, which defines itself as “the first social network of the canine community”.   They were chanting something to the effect of “chiens vivent dans la ville trop (dogs live in the city too)!”  This reminded me of home and my friend Cassandra, who is always working tirelessly for our pups with Marin County DOG.   She would have approved of the French equivalent. 

Dogfidelity!

Katie did not accompany us that day, as she had just returned from a cross-country meet in The Hague and was bogged down with homework.    It turns out that the junior year workload is brutal no matter which country you live in.   Because this school offers the International Baccalaureate diploma, she is able to take several IB classes.    Jim and I are blown away by how hard she’s working – compared to us at that age.   I’m embarrassed by what a slacker I was.   My only real accomplishment in high school was to acquire a prom date.   

Allie had a teacher in middle school a couple years ago, who liked the phrase “productive struggle”.    I’ll have to send her a thank you note.   All of Allie’s teachers here seem to instruct based on this premise, but she seems well positioned to handle it.   Dance, on the other hand, is a little different.   If, by the age of about ten here, you’ve not committed yourself as a professional dancer, you’re relegated to a larger class with “mixed” skill levels.   So, suffice it to say, my dancer girl is a bit frustrated at the moment.  C'est la danse.   Additional material for the future college essay.   

Allie taking the Metro to dance.

More on our cultural immersion.  We now do walking tours a couple times a month with this group of parents from school.  Our guide, Philippe, explores a  different part of the city with us each time, and then we have a wine infused lunch.    We’re gathering a list of excellent restaurants and learning a bit too.   That guy holding his own head at Notre Dame?  St. Denis. 

Walking Tour Scenes in Montmartre.

A vineyard in Montmartre.

We continue on our quest to visit small, unique, museums (sorry Louvre).   Last week was The Musée Carnavalet (Paris History Museum), and the Musee Cognacq-Jay, both in the Marais.   The Musee Cognacq-Jay houses the art collection of a wealthy, childless couple (this seems to be a theme), who founded Paris’s first department store, La Samaritaine.   This is a very cool museum, but still, my mind tends to wander.  On one of the walls there is a quote from Diderot (he was an 18^th century French philosopher).   It was a complaint about the Parisian Haberdashers Guild.   He called them “vendors of everything and creators of nothing”.   I immediately thought of the Kardashians.  See, we're never far from home. 

St. Paul, in the Marais.  We actually went in. And then the rains came.

This store is called "Thanksgiving".  It sells all kinds of American processed food.  We're sorry France.

We went for lunch afterwards at Le Petite Marchè.   An intimate, locals only, kind of place.   Wonderful food, and walls covered with sketches of naked women.   See photo below of my content and relaxed husband.    Jim seems to be surrounded by naked women without trying all that hard.   Last week, two mornings in a row, he opened our kitchen blinds to be greeted by a woman undressing in front of her hotel window across the street (she has since checked out).

We finally started our French classes.  A group of us will meet a couple times a week with our instructor, a lovely French woman named Isabelle.   She has assessed us all to determine our skill levels.   The first class, we had to tell her about ourselves in French.  I proudly declared I was born in 2063.  She looked at me completely seriously and said “ce n’est pas possible (this is not possible).”   Anyway, I’m not called a beginner, but rather, a “debutante”.   Finally.   There are four of us debutantes, and Jim.  I’m not sure what the male version of debutante is. 
 

We’ve attended a couple of parties.  Granted, they were parties we were required to be invited to, but still.   One was an 11^th grade parent cocktail party at a very beautiful, posh, Parisian apartment.  The guests were an eclectic mix of expats from all over the world.   The expat community is huge here, and very welcoming.   It’s easy to find your people, if you want.   However, I did have a conversation recently with an actual French parent.   Even after living here just a short time, I can say that the French rudeness stereotype is wrong.  They aren’t rude.  They are honest and won’t waste your time with false niceties.   The Jersey girl in me finds it really liberating.  Sometimes I just don’t fucking feel like smiling at random strangers on the street. 

The other cocktail party was hosted by our personal concierge and was in the Montmartre area .   This has become my favorite neighborhood (it reminds me a little of NYC’s Greenwich Village).   The crowd was younger, mainly child-free 20-somethings.   They were all very beautiful and interesting, and nice.   I noted the following:  we met at least three couples where the guy was French and the woman was American.   It’s true what they say about French women and I now understand that whole “je ne sais quoi” thing.  They are gorgeous and effortlessly chic, and certainly worthy of their very own blog post, so stay tuned.   Yet, we American women hold our own.  Or, in any event, there were at least three French men at this party that thought so. 

Montmartre at night.

Le Basilic in Montmartre.  The food here was perfectly fine, but we'd go back for the ambiance alone.

As I’ve alluded to in previous posts, there is a very relaxed attitude here towards alcohol.  Likewise, there is a more pragmatic view towards sex.    As evidence of this, there are vending machines all over the city, which dispense condoms.   They’re usually right outside of the pharmacies, and also in some metro stations.   I’m told that most of the public high schools also have them.   My very crude research tells me that teen pregnancy rates are way lower in France than in the US.   I love how this topic is not taboo here and that there is a pro safe sex attitude.  Condoms for everyone!   All this being said however, I’ve not yet encouraged my daughters to get the icondom app on their phones (yes, there is an app for that).   I think that must be the American prude buried deep within me speaking. 

à bientôt!

It's All Wine & Cheese.

It’s not all wine and cheese.  Well, it's been a lot of that.   I won't lie. 

 It's also been a lot of long walks with some really great people.    I've been fortunate to have met some very nice women who like to walk.  Really walk.  Anywhere and for a long time.   We meet under the Eiffel Tower and go from there.   A couple of weeks ago, they wanted to check out the Marché aux Fleurs et Oiseaux.   A flower and bird market near Notre Dame, on this quiet side street in the midst of a noisy tourist area.  Who knew?   If you're a garden person, I think you'd lose your mind.   I'd never been to Luxembourg Gardens, so that was another walk.   We got a little lost trying to walk back, but that is never a problem here.  Just hop on the metro!  Another day was Parc Monceau.  Some walks are interspersed with random cafe visits where we happily violate the French dress code by sipping coffee in our workout attire.  

With Aviva at Luxembourg Gardens.

 

Kristin & Susan and Rufus & Charlie.

We are still legally responsible for two teenagers, so our attention is frequently diverted to more serious endeavors.    School is now in full swing, so the girls’ homesickness is slightly less raw.   There have been parties, concerts, and many “discussions” about curfews (as with the drinking age here, there doesn’t seem to be one for teenagers).    There have been field trips to The Louvre, and last weekend we hosted two athletes from a visiting team.  

Katie - first cross-country meet.  In the rain.   She won't like that I've posted this, but I love this picture.

 Both girls are somewhat of an anomaly at school, speaking only one language and having only lived in one place their whole lives.   The administration and parents are exceedingly kind and helpful and, it appears to us, that the other students are welcoming.    So, our daughters are slowly adjusting (one of them may vehemently disagree with that assessment).   However, life with them right now feels like a roller coaster at times.  Not the old fashioned, happy boardwalk roller coaster, but more like Space Mountain:  with wicked curves that take you by surprise, and the need for recovery time before you go back for more. 

We do our recovery time with wine and cheese.   All of the clichés about September in Paris are true.  The weather has turned to fall and it’s just beautiful.   The crowds are less, but we are still avoiding the tourist sites for now.  We’ve been visiting smaller, lesser-known museums.   Paris abounds with the mansions of private art collectors, and these are much more fun to explore.    A combination of really beautiful art and a secret peek into another life.  

Last week, we visited the Musée Nissim de Camondo.    Comte Moïse de Camondo was from a Jewish banking family.  He had his mansion built to house his massive art collection, which he intended to pass down to his son.   However, the son was killed in combat, and the rest of the family perished in Nazi camps.    This is a magnificent home with a really rich history.   A must see if you visit Paris. 

Musée Nissim de Camondo

After our museum visit, we were enroute to a restaurant Jim had chosen for our lunch.    Those plans were quickly abandoned as we passed by Restaurant 65^th bis.  The owner (we think), Pascal, was standing outside, beckoning us in.   We were seated at an intimate corner table.   The server starts describing the menu in French.  We let her go on a little and then admit defeat:  “nous sommes désolés, mais nous ne parlons pas bien français.”  Ah, she says and gets Pascal.  He cozies up next to us and goes over the menu.   We select a couple of “grandes salades” and let Pascal choose our wine.   He brings us over a little sampling of something from the chef and two perfectly chilled glasses of vin blanc.    

A little while later, the place is completely packed.   Sitting next to us are two men, who Pascal seems to know.    At one point, he comes over and takes a sip of one of their glasses of wine.   Pascal frowns, declares it’s bad, and brings the guy a new glass.   The two men are amused and we also find it funny.   It turns out that they are father and son.   Patrick (dad) is in real estate and Antoine (son) is a banker.   They are French by birth and long time Parisians, but their English is excellent.  It turns out that Patrick got his MBA at Stanford years ago.  He also has another son that lives in California.    They are both very kind and charismatic.  

Pascal & Patrick & Antoine.  Oh my!

 When we first arrived at the restaurant, I thought to myself that Pascal reminded me of that French actor, Gérard Depardieu (Google him, he’s well known, albeit with some sobriety issues).   Antoine and I are chatting and he confirms for me that yes, Pascal is the owner, “the guy that looks like Gérard Depardieu.”   I tell him I thought that too, “Gérard Depardieu, when he was still sane and sober”.   At this point, Patrick turns his attention to me and says, “you think Pascal is sober?” 

At some point, Pascal decides we need champagne and brings us over a couple of glasses and a selection of macarons.   It is all delicious.  A little while later, Patrick determines its time for cognac.  Pascal thinks this is a great idea and we’re promptly served.  We’re having a great time and I swear my French is improving.  The words are just spilling out of me!  Maybe I’m finally getting a knack for this beautiful language, I think to myself.   But then Patrick says, “you will get a tutor while you’re here, yes?”   Fair enough.

The restaurant empties out and Antoine declares he must go back to work.  Patrick reluctantly agrees and we all depart after exchanging contact information.   Cheek kisses all around.  Even for Pascal.  We may never have such a haphazardly wonderful day again.

As I alluded to earlier, we still have parental responsibilities.  Later on that evening,  I’m in the kitchen when I hear anguished cries from upstairs:  “Oh no.  OH No.  OH NO.  NO.  NO.  NO!”  I try denial for a few minutes, hoping this is coming from another apartment.  Alas, minutes later, a daughter enters the room carrying her computer wrapped in a towel, along with an empty tea mug.  Yes.  It’s not pretty.   L’ordinateur est mort (the computer is dead).    C’est la vie (pun intended).  I've had to order a new one online, because they only sell computers here with French keyboards.  I proposed to Katie that this could be another growth opportunity.   I can't repeat her response, so here are a couple of pretty pictures. 

Another day, another Eiffel picture.

Parc Monceau.

Katie is on the cross-country team at school and she will be traveling to other countries for meets.   During these trips, she will be staying with host families.  Part of the deal then, is that we also serve as host family for visiting athletes.   This past weekend, we hosted two soccer players from an International school near London.  One of the girls was from a South American country and the other from a former Soviet Bloc country.   Both had lived in various parts of the world because of their parents’ jobs as engineers.  They also spoke several languages. 

We have an interesting discussion during dinner.   Neither had ever been to the United States, so we were curious about their opinions of Americans.  They are very well mannered girls and are careful with their answers.   We talk more about the types of social things they and their friends do.   South American girl asks Katie, “Do you get carded when you go clubbing”?   To her credit, Katie answers, “my friends tell me that no, they do not get carded”.  Good answer.

Katie is expected to entertain the girls after dinner by showing them around the city.  South American girl wants to “see everything in Paris!”  The school had sent out rules for host families to follow, one of which being that the athletes should have a 10pm curfew.  I bring this up during dinner.  South American girl finds this funny and thinks I’m kidding.   She says, “as long as we’re home before tomorrow’s game, right?”  We all laugh. 

A little later, Katie and Soviet Bloc girl are patiently waiting for the other girl to get ready.    She is on the phone with another teammate/friend.  The friend is unhappy, as her host family apparently doesn’t have such good food and she’s not sure she is allowed to go out.   South American girl tells me she advised her friend to “be very nice and perhaps suggest a time you will come home.”   I see this as my opening and say, “on that note, I want you guys to be home by 10:45 (10 did seem a bit early, and it was now already after 9).   I can see I’ve stunned her though.  Clearly she wasn’t expecting this.    I say to her “sorry, I’m sure this isn’t what you’re used to.”  I leave it at that.

Let me say here, that we are not overly strict when it comes to curfews (well, by US standards that is).   In hindsight, I feel slightly silly requiring these 17 year old, worldly young things, to be home at such an admittedly early hour.  However, we were responsible for these girls and they had to be back at school early the next morning for their events.   Plus, Katie was wiped out, and surprisingly, not protesting.  They all came home on time.   To the best of my knowledge, they remained here all night.

The last thing I'll note is that Allie's dance school finally started this week.  The good news is that the school is in the 6th arrondissement and a quick metro ride away.  Lots of good restaurants nearby to entertain us should we accompany her on the train.  A few weeks ago, a kind waiter wrote the following instructions for us on how to order steak in French.   Jim has been practicing and last night perfected his skill at a brasserie near the dance school. 

 The bad news?  During dinner we get the following text from Allie:  "ughh, all the girls are speaking French, and I have no clue where to go!"   This is actually an American dance school, and teaches in both English and French, which is why I chose it.  Apparently, they were only kidding about the English part.  I propose to Allie that this could be another growth opportunity.   Her response is less colorful then her sister's.   However, it's apparent that her feelings about all these growth opportunities we're throwing at her is about the same.   At least they're finally bonding as sisters.    Stay tuned.

à bientôt