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The Modest Adventures of an American Family in France

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October 1st, 2008

Monthly Update/Mise a Jour Mensuel

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Finally I’m finding a moment to write and let you all know that we are safely ensconced in our house on leafy Greentree Road here in Bethesda, MD. We miss you and many of the niceties and excitements of Paris, but we are also very happy to be home. Who wouldn’t be, with hurricanes to prepare for and candidates like Sarah Palin to get to know???

 

But just so we don’t get too France-sick, there’s this: two days after we arrived home on August 4, a huge moving truck pulled up in front of the rental-house just across the street. Being a neighborly American, I went out to greet the new family. “Are you my new neighbor?” I asked the father. “Yes, I am Joel—enchante,” he answered. And because I have lived a whole year in France, I now know how it sounds when a Frenchman says “enchante,” and indeed, the new neighbors are Joel and Sandra of Caen and their three children Leo (8), Nina (6), and Max (2). How wonderful! How convenient! They, like us, have put their kids in the ordinary American school—but it’s a different school than ours because of an odd division of school areas. But with Leo and Nina (who also speak Spanish) to play with, who needs French classes?

 

To keep in touch with you all, it’s my plan to continue the blog I wrote in English for our friends in the US while we were away--but now I’ll have the exercise of rendering it in two languages. I, at least, will have some French instruction anyway—I’ll be participating in the French/ English Conversation Club that was established by Marianne, my Vincennes counterpart, while she lived here. But this project will have to wait a little while until I’m really settled in my new job. I was finally successful in finding the part-time post I wanted in the public schools, but I’m surprised to find myself teaching 2nd grade MATH and science and social studies rather than reading and writing. But I work only in the afternoons, so it should be possible to do some poetry teaching in the mornings, and I’m following up some homeschool leads already.

 

Daisy is delighted to be among old friends in her new 4th grade class—and there are FOUR other French-speakers to keep things lively at school too. For the first time she’s required to recite a poem each month, but after all the practice with Madame Kahan, that ought to be easy. But with the math, there’s a lot of catching to do to succeed in the advanced class. She has joined a girls’ soccer team, is now officially a Swordfish (?) and is keen to play goalie; she’s continuing her piano lessons and gymnastics, and both of us are returning to her (fairly nontraditional) Girl Scout troop.

 

Duncan is the very oldest child in his kindergarten class and we’re thrilled that he has the same excellent teacher as Daisy had. On the first day he reported, “Oui, j’entend qu’il y a quelqu’un qui parle francais, mais je ne sais pas qui…” In fact there are two other francophones in his class. After school he needs plenty of action because recess only lasts 30 minutes in an American school, so he’s also doing gymnastics once a week and tae kwon do. He’s taking it very very seriously, along with an intent to train for the 5K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning. Fiona enjoyed buying him real running shoes and Daisy her real cleats. She's a sucker for sports gear, just like I always overdo it on the stationery supplies for school. : )

 

Fiona had hoped to work a little less upon returning to American time zones, but so far due to yet another Accenture reorganization that’s not really working out. Luckily this is somewhat offset by classes at her old yoga center as well as regular cycling.

 

Yesterday we all went to visit some kittens at the local Humane Society and chose one we liked called Garbo—but even if we approved as an adopting family, Garbo will not come home until AFTER Duncan’s birthday party on Saturday. Inspired by all the color, action and Silly String at the Mardi Gras parade we saw in Nice last March, Duncan has planned a Birthday Battle for which the weapons will include Silly String, shaving cream pies, Oobleck and water balloons. No kitten should have to live through that!

 

As Garrison Keillor tells me every morning—

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.

 

Heidi, Fiona, Daisy and Duncan

 

 

Finalement je trouve un moment libre pour envoyer de nos nouvelles : nous sommes encore installées dans la petite maison sur la rue arborée Arbrevert à Bethesda, MD. Vous nous manquez et les amusements et particularites vincennoises nous manquent également, mais nous sommes aussi tres contents d’être chez nous. Qui ne le serait pas, quand il y a des hurricanes dont a faire des preparations et une candidate comme Sarah Palin a faire le connaisance???

Mais on ne souffre pas trop du manque de la France : le deuxieme jour après notre rentrée ici, il est arrivé un très grand camion de déménagement juste en face de nous. Parce que je suis evidemment americaine et c’est l’habitude, je me suis précipitée dehors pour dire bienvenue. « Est-ce que vous êtes le nouveau voisin ? » ai-je demandé au père. « Yes, I am Joel—enchanté. » Et parce que j’ai vécu une année entière en France, je connais maintenant comment dit « enchanté » un vrai francais, et en fait, les nouveaux voisins sont Joel et Sandra de Caen et leurs enfants Leo (8), Nina (6), et Max (2). Comme c’est fantastique ! Comme c’est pratique ! Ils ont mis, comme nous, les enfants dans l’école américaine toute ordinaire—mais une autre ecole que la notre du fait d’une règle bizarre des écoles boundaries. Mais avec Leo et Nina (qui parlent aussi espagnol) pour copains, qui a besoin d’un cours de francais ?

C’est moi qui ait besoin d’un cours de francais! Pour garder le contact avec tous les amies francaises, j’ai prévu de continuer avec le « blog » que j'ai commencé en anglais pour les proches aux EU pendant notre sejour parmi vous—mais cette fois j’ai le defi de le faire en deux langues! Je vais profiter de la participation dans le Club de Conversation etabli par Marianne, ma correspondante vincennoise, pendant son sejour ici. Mais il faut que le projet d’un blog hebdomaire attende un peu jusqu'à je soit à l’aise dans mon nouveau poste d’enseignement. Enfin j’ai réussi à trouver un petit boulot dans une école publique, et je suis très étonnée de me trouver, avec une classe de 13 eleves de CE 1, maitresse non pas de lecture/ecriture, mais de MATHS, sciences et études civiques. Pourtant c’est juste les apres-midis, donc je peux, plus tard, continuer avec les ateliers en poésie les matins. Mais d’abord il faut que j’apprenne tout la programme mathematique !

Daisy se régale avec les anciennes amies dans sa nouvelle classe de CM 1, mais adore le courrier des anciennes copines de Vincennes. Il y a QUATRE enfants francophone dans la classe qui offrent la possibilité d’échanger quelques mots. Pour la premiere fois elle est obligée de réciter chaque mois un poème; après l’entrainement avec Madame Kahan, ça sera facile ! Mais avec les maths, il y a beaucoup de travail pour être encore dans la classe avancée. Daisy a rejoint une équipe de foot (« les Swordfish ») et attend avec ravissement la chance de jouer comme goal; elle continue avec le piano et la gymnastique, et ensemble, elle et moi, nous faisons encore les Girl Scouts.

Duncan est le plus âgé (et experimenté) dans sa classe de kindergarten. C’est en quelque façon encore de la Grande Section, mais on n’a pas de souci—il a la même maîtresse que Daisy au kindergarten qui est vraiment excellente—il ne s’ ennuiera pas ! Le premier jour il a dit, »Oui, j’entend qu’il y a quelqu’un qui parle francais, mais je ne sais pas qui… » En fait il y a deux francophones dans la classe. Après l’école il a besoin de plein d’activités parce que à l’école americaine la récréation dure juste 30 minutes—si on a de la chance. Donc il fait de la gymnastique et du tae kwon do, et il veut courir aussi une course de 5K qui a lieu le matin de Thanksgiving—le « Turkey Trot » ou « La Dingue des Dindes . » Fiona s’amuse en achetant pour lui de vraies chaussures de courses et pour Daisy de vraies chaussures de foot. Elle est toujours amoreuse des équipements de sport, de même que je suis folle dans une papeterie. : )

Fiona espère travailler un peu moins ici avec les zones horaires americains, mais jusqu’au moment elle ne reussi pas—encore une reorganisation compliquee a Accenture. Heureusement elle trouve son equilibre avec les seances de yoga et en faisant du vélo. La piste au Bois de Vincennes etait amusante, mais à côté de la Riviere Potomac, c'est plus le style de Fiona!

Hier on est allés visiter un endroit avec des chatons pour faire une adoption. On en a trouvé un bien adorable qui s’appele Garbo, mais même après on est appreuve comme famille adoptive, Garbo ne viendra pas chez nous jusqu'à APRES la fete d’anniversaire de Duncan le samedi prochain. Inspiré par toutes les couleurs, l’energie et le Silly String (il s’appele quoi en francais ?) au defilé de Mardi Gras à Nice en mars, il a planifié une Bataille d’anniversaire avec armes de Silly String, tartes à la mousse à raser, mousse au chocolat, Oobleck (fait avec de la Maizena et de l’eau) et des bombes à eau. Personne, spécialement un chaton, ne devrait survivre à cette expérience !

Comme je suis appelée par Garrison Keillor chaque matin—
Allez bien, faites du bon travaill, et restez en contact !


July 2nd, 2008

Update with Apologies...

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It is a shocking fact that around April 1, I, the unemployed and fancy-free, became TOO BUSY 
to regularly post any news to this blog.  It is a gratifying fact that someone noticed this.  If you
are one of those people who have been logging on and sending emails to check up on us, I apologize.

And now blazingly fast because the shippers come to pick up our boxes in 36 hours:

-In May and June I took two online courses with the University of Phoenix in order 
to update my MD teaching certificate, because
-when we return to Bethesda on August 4 I will be trying to find a part-time teaching
job in Montgomery County, because
-Fiona reckons it's time I started paying for some of that bacon I'm always bringing
home and I agree, but
-what I'd really prefer to do is teach poetry for 20 hours a week, here and there 
and everywhere, because
-in Feb, March, Apr, May and June I managed to find a number of ways to do my
poetry thing here in Paris--for money even--which reminded me that one of the 
ways I get inspired to write is by talking poetry with children, and even though 
-my second book is now with the publisher and getting ready for publication in 
Fall 2009 (please see www.heidimordhorst.com for further updates) I worry about 
whether there will be a third if I  take a job where I am pleasantly distracted by 
teaching everything or other things.  But 
-still, if you know of anything going at your local public school, I'm up for a last 
minute interview between August 5 & August 19!

Meanwhile, Duncan went to Pony Class at school and Daisy did a theatre workshop
at school and the whole family has Mixed Feelings about leaving.  Yesterday
I asked Daisy to compare her sadness about leaving with her happiness about
heading home on a scale of 1 to 10 and she answered (and this is Daisy all over
right now) "Sadness 10, Happiness 10."  Duncan is learning to read (partly because 
of online course requirements and partly because he's ready) and enjoys building
sentences with his word cards such as "Nastyman pees in a tree. Nastyman poops in
a hoop.  Nastyman is going to a fart party!"  I keep wondering whether this is because
his best friend at the moment is a little girl called FANNY.

Fiona has continued to travel and work like a dog (and that's another reason for me to find
a "bigger" job, so that she might be able to cut back a little and have a life) but
we have managed to squeeze in lots of tourist/cultural activities, especially when my
parents returned (6 months post-surgery for my mom) to visit, this time without a 
wheelchair.  We are now highly-cultured individuals.

So, the plan is: leave this apartment the same day the Mozers return, which is also
the last day of school, July 8; spend 10 days with cousins and grandparents down in
Nyons; pass through Vincennes and Lille on the way to Brighton and then London; attend
family wedding in Wales August 2; arrive Dulles afternoon August 4; go for face-to-face
interview at MCPS central office August 5 (haven't they heard of Skype video calls?)

We will be thrilled to return to Bethesda, to our blue and yellow kitchen, to our yard, and 
of course Wyngate 4th grade and kindergarten (although we wonder whether Duncan 
may already have done kindergarten....)  And we will be thrilled to see YOU!

April 3rd, 2008

Springtime in Paris

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A double-barreled entry this time…before we get to Springtime in Paris, we are excited to find out that the cousins are coming! Fiona’s brother Fergus, Sandrine and their kids Cassy and Lucca live and work in La Tania, which is one village in the multitiered ski resort in the Alps called Courchevel.  Ferg leases four 10-person chalets and provides luxurious (i.e. boozy) but affordable ski holidays, mostly to Brits, from December to mid-April when the ski season ends. During the summer he transforms himself from "skideep” to “mountainhigh” and offers adventure-type holidays in the
same location.

 

Cassy (9 months older than Daisy, who is now officially 9—see birthday picture below) and Lucca, 6 ½, go to school in Le Praz, where we stayed for 5 days during our winter break.  In France, where the school system is a national one, the big school holidays (except for August when EVERYONE is on vacation) occur on an overlapping schedule so that every family isn’t trying to vacate at the same exact moment.  So just as we arrived for our holiday in Courchevel, Cassy and Lucca were heading back to school—dommage!  But we managed to squeeze in a Sunday afternoon tea party, a Tuesday afterschool playdate and a Wednesday afternoon that included lunch out, some hilarious and nearly dangerous sledding on one of the lesser-used ski pistes, a treasure hunt with bilingual clues in the chalet, and a dinner out which included Sandrine, who sells lift passes in the Tourist Office of Le Praz (where she grew up) and who can explicate a map of the Three Valleys upside down and backwards in 30 seconds flat and in French or English, as you like.

 
           Harry Potter party                          Duncan's staring at Lucca's
           scheduled for Saturday                       Nintendo DS, nothing else

 
                  cheeky girls                                         Fiona explains it all to 
learning to say bad words in French                                Sandrine

 

                 Daisy, Lucca and Cassy                            while Duncan preferred to
                 zipped down the hill...                       smash chunks of ice against his helmet

On their winter break, however, Lucca and Cassy went to the Centre des Loisirs (Activities Center, in the manner of day camp) every day because their parents, like most other parents in Courchevel, were busy earning their living off the ski tourists.  And because the local administration understands that nobody who works in the ski industry can take an actual vacation in winter, they grant an extra week of school holiday later, after the ski season officially ends.  So just as we are beginning our Spring Break on April 19, Ferg and co. will come to visit us in Vincennes!  This is especially nice because, while Daisy and Cassy, had no trouble at all getting on even last summer before Daisy spoke any French, Duncan and Lucca only just managed to connect during that last visit.  We are excited indeed.

 

Meanwhile, the clocks have changed here, it’s daylight from 7ish in the morning until 20h30 (8:30 pm), and wherever we go in Paris, we remark (as we shiver and put up our umbrellas again) at how vast the parks and gardens budgets must be.  Here’s our walk to school in the morning, lined with gorgeous crabapple trees and the NEW “think about picking up after your dog; just think about it, d’accord?” station outside our own Centre des Loisirs (where Daisy has been taking a modelage class on Mondays since October.  No, not fashion modeling, although she’s tellement belle so beautiful with all her long hair—it’s modeling with all kinds of clay materials.)

  
                                                                           "Ramasser, c'est aussi un besoin naturel..."
                                                                             Picking up, that's also a natural urge...

 
                                        And here's a full-frontal of Duncan presenting
                                                     Daisy with a "Night Light Potion" concocted with 
                                                                     glow-in-the-dark ingredients...
                    

 And here are some other pleasant views of Vincennes, including one of the three new parks that opened last month, all designed to cover sections of the RER A train line that runs through the center of town.  This is my favorite, with a gently cascading “river” approximately one inch deep—enough to be exciting, to splash in, to leap across, but not enough to get really wet.  Genius.  (I learned yesterday in one of my café et conversation sessions with the mom of Daisy’s classmate Anouk that in French engineers are called ingenieurs—they’re the ingenious ones who invent things!  While our engineers are doomed to be forever confused with train drivers.)  And because I am definitely no genius with a camera, forgive my “art shot” of the flower climbers made, I’m certain, of recycled yogurt pots…

 



  
  Many, many Vincennes garden plots are                       The preferred boulangerie
  are presided over by these huge figures                           of many a Vincennois
  meant to represent the Capuchin Freres
  whose abbey was the first established 
      residence in the Bois de Vincennes

March 20th, 2008

Une Nuit Blanche

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Yes, a white night—and I’ve known since October that Paris’s Nuit Blanche, running since 2002, is an all-night program of artistic and cultural events.  But I only recently figured out from a poster in a video rental shop that une nuit blanche has always meant a sleepless night in general, as in “Nuits Blanches a Seattle starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  So we missed La Nuit Blanche back in October when it was Fiona’s birthday, but last week, to celebrate my birthday, we finally got a taste of Paris nightlife.  On Saturday morning, after months of carefully building the grandparental relationship, Fiona’s dad took the children up to Lille for a sleepover.  F and I then had a full 24 hours to ourselves while the kids added a level to the treehouse with Granddad Damian, cooked a delicious Coq Au Vin with Mamie Madeleine (the birthday dish I always asked for as a kid, though we butchered the pronunciation of it along with the chicken), and yukked it up playing SuperPingPong with (Great) Aunt Ursula.

 

The morning was sunny, so we enjoyed a power walk through the Parc Floral where the daffodils are in full swing and the tulips (both bulbs and trees) are popping.  Even some of the azaleas are blooming, which confuses me, but I guess they haven’t been snowed on like ours usually are.  Recently our own video rental store became a sushi shop a la Wagamama, so that was lunch.  Already we were having a good day.

 

Our mission for the afternoon was to buy Fiona some new work clothes so that getting dressed for the office won’t make her want to kill herself every day.  (In fact we later discovered that she had quite a few interesting things hanging in the backs of the double-deep closets here in the apartment, but Fiona’s complicated relationship with her wardrobe will have to be addressed in another forum.)  It turned out to be a lucky shopping day:  Devernois, Antonelle and Alain Figaret all offered smart options—more tendance (trendy) than American classic-casual, but not too fantaisie, as they say, for the Reston office.  Fiona even found a couple of things in my own favorite store, Stock Espace, which is basically Marshall’s or TJ Maxx with better brands, piled inelegantly in low-budget bins.

 

For my birthday treat, I really wanted to go to one of the historic Paris cabarets—but which one to choose?  Le Moulin Rouge for the classic tourist spectacle?  Le Lapin Agile for a more intimate experience, gritty rather than glitzy?  Le Cabaret-Cirque at the Zebre, off the beaten track in Belleville?  When I finally settled on Bobin’o, it was sold out…so we decided to go for the quintessential naked-women option:  Le Crazy Horse, which has been presenting carefully selected (measured, even) nude bodies in “creative” ways since 1951.

 

It was indeed exciting to wait in line on Avenue Georges V near the Champs Elysees (even in the rain), to have our coats graciously taken from us, to be ushered to our seats on red velvet banquettes and served a bottle of champagne in our own personal ice bucket, lined up right next to the own personal ice buckets of the people on either side of us: a couple in their 30’s wearing office clothes and a 50-something woman in an up-do, backless gown and escarpins (high heels).  The crowd was an intriguing mix and made an engaging pre-show.  Then the cabaret started and suddenly the excitement…waned.  Neither really first-rate lighting effects nor pretty good music nor expensive staging could hide the fact that the action was a bit…boring.  (Well, once we got past the initial oh-la-la of all those bare breasts and behinds, anyway).  The choreography was unimaginative, in general, and finally we decided that if you’re hiring girls because they measure exactly 13 cm from their navels to their taints, you might not end up with the most dynamic performers. 

 

The worst part was that the proprietaires seem to know this, for just when we thought we couldn’t take any more perfectly arched backs or swingy mylar wigs, out of nowhere two GUYS appeared: fully clothed (nattily), identically balding (gently) identical twins wearing tap shoes.  Quelle surprise!  And they were GOOD, in just the way we had been hoping the whole show would be, combining a clever musical mélange with killer footwork, a bit of clown, a bit of mime and a huge measure of the subtly suave confidence that I suddenly realize is very French (and rather sexy and very different from our big loud American confidence, designed to carry across wide sun-lit prairies instead of across cramped dimly-lit bars).

 

After the Terrific Twins enjoyed their rousing and lengthy applause, it was back to the nude women—and there were some fun numbers, a hint of which can be had on the entertaining Crazy Horse website.  We liked Second Life, a classic striptease slotted into a high-tech on-line encounter scenario, and Legmania, which was short (unlike the legs) and to the point; Kama, which was danced en pointe with some interesting layering of lights, curtains and skin, and Evolution, which required some real strength and acrobatic skill from the two performers who worked around an upright hoop spinning constantly in its spot on the stage.

 

When the show ended, we asked ourelves “Quoi d’autre?”  (What else?)  So we headed to a women’s bar in the Marais (which means marsh, which is what used to be on the Right Bank of the Seine before the entire Paris metro area was paved.  Now it combines Jewish, gay, and art aromas with the medieval and later generally Parisian flavors.  I’ve been reading to try and understand Paris’s history, but Europe is just so much more complicated than North America, tu sais?) Around 2am we had dinner in a restaurant that serves until 6 am, on the outdoor terrace under very effective heatlamps with the rain blowing around us and Bob Marley in the background.  The night was turning out as well as the day (and the bottle of champagne at the Crazy Horse was lasting well).

 

Then, as we waited for a taxi at Metro St. Paul wishing we knew more about the Night Bus system, which runs after the Metro closes around 1 am, I noticed the N11 pulling up behind us—destination Chateau de Vincennes!  We leaped on and paid our eminently affordable 1 euro 50 centimes, right behind a pair of English women wearing goofy St. Patrick’s Day hats.  They had clearly been watching Wales beat France in the Six Nations rugby match, to the tune of a lot of drink.  That was when the Late Show Paris Cabaret began, as the one woman (sooo old enough to know better) began conversations (well, more like arguments) with a wide variety of fellow passengers, each of whom she wished to inform that “Seize ans je paye mes impots, je pays mes impots mais je ne peux pas voter!”  (For 16 years I pay my taxes, I pay my taxes but I can’t vote!)

 

Meanwhile, first a group of 15-year-old girls boarded the bus, wearing matching hairstyles and a variety of interesting sunglasses, followed by a cadre of six burly Metro security officers bearing riot clubs, cans of mace and those handy little portable credit-card machines.  Their mission was to check everyone’s travel tickets—but they didn’t attempt to check the rantings of l’anglaise, who had moved on to demanding who played rugby, who was gay, sweetie, and who else was not a racist like herself, and who else “a paye ses impots depuis seize ans!” (had paid THEIR taxes since 16 years!)  Finally, a rather sensible older man (a Metro driver himself, I reckon) suggested emphatically that it wouldn’t matter if she owned the Tour Eiffel, she still wouldn’t be welcome to vote in France.  Fiona was pissing herself laughing by this point and found it necessary to defend her breed to the old gentleman, reassuring him (as we all got off the bus in front of our Chateau, glowing nicely against the stormy 3am sky—us and the Chateau) that not all the English have such chips on their shoulders.  

What a hoot, et vive la nuit blanche, et merci aux grands-parents !

 

March 11th, 2008

Encore la

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Yes, we're still here--and now there are so many things I could write about that I can't begin until I get my thoughts and my photos organized.
Check in again soon for news of la grande grippe, further travels, the search for split pins, and le retour des poux (lice; ew).

February 21st, 2008

Obituary for the Best Jeans Ever, and a Desperate Plea

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Dear Old Navy Jeans Designers and Manufacturers,
 
It it with great sadness that I report the impending demise of the Best Jeans I Have Ever Owned. 
 
 
Originally made in Cambodia of  89% cotton, 10% polyester and 1% spandex, these OLD NAVY Brand Boot-Cut Jeans, Size 12 Short At-Waist Stretch (RN 54023 CA 17897), purchased in Bethesda, MD sometime in early 2006, will soon succumb to the ravages of faithful and frequent wear, which became nearly constant when I moved to France and found that French jeans are not cut to accommodate a fit-but-phat American shape.
 
Among the virtues of these Best Jeans Ever was a flattering cut that looked smart with boots and a jacket but could take a sportive turn with sneakers and a hoodie.  In summer I could turn up the cuffs of these supremely comfortable, perfectly midblue jeans for a breezy look with flip flops; they were also warm enough for mountain wear with tights underneath and a parka on top.  I will be forever grateful to my friend Elizabeth Kirkpatrick for pointing me in the direction of this stalwart fashion basic.
 
By the time I realized that I was wearing out The Best Jeans Ever, this model was no longer available in any store near me.  And now, with perhaps two weeks of wear left in them, I write to you in the desperate hope that there is a pair--maybe even SOME pairs--of The Best Jeans I Have Ever Owned lurking in a warehouse somewhere.  My gratitude would be deep if someone there could track them down.
 
Failing that, perhaps there is a new pair--same as the old pair--that is now available for me to buy at just about any cost.  Please, please don't leave me stuck with a lifetime of Passable but Fundamentally Mediocre Jeans! 

Yours sincerely,

Heidi Mordhorst

February 11th, 2008

The Caterpillars of Vincennes

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Back in the fall I was bemused and confused by the signs posted next to sections of lawn cordoned off all over the Parc Floral: something about chenilles and ne pas deranger (do not disturb). This was before I learned that oak trees in French are chenes and that a chenille—you know, the same word we apply to sweaters, blankets and nowadays, “chenille stems” or good old-fashioned pipe cleaners—is a caterpillar.
 
To be honest I never saw any caterpillars, chenille or otherwise, on the many oak trees around Vincennes, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any Caterpillars in Vincennes. In fact, at this time last year I started packing a box of materials labeled “The Caterpillar of Vincennes;” doing so assuaged my guilt at leaving Bethesda Cooperative Nursery School before Duncan could arrive in my Caterpillar Class of 4- and 5-year-olds, as Daisy had done before him. My idea was that, with Wednesdays free of French school, we could pursue some of the same projects Ms. Heidi and Duncan would have done together in the Caterpillar Classroom here in the apartment.
 
To be honest once again, the whole project of moving to France was cleverly timed to avoid the arrival of Duncan in my Caterpillar Class. While my year as Daisy’s teacher was an outstanding one (largely due to Daisy, who enjoys a more relaxed personality than either I or Duncan, aided by the generally excellent group of families that year, and a life not yet complicated by the birth of my book), I was pretty sure that being Duncan’s teacher would be…different. So we picked 2007 as the year of the French Adventure, and then the whole issue of Ms. Heidi and Duncan in the same classroom could be “reframed.”
 
So we came to Vincennes with this box of stuff and an intention to do the Caterpillar Class, and before long, I had met a handful of Anglophone families in the neighborhhood who thought the idea of a morning of nursery school activities in English would be worth paying for.  In the fall I offered The Caterpillar Class once a month, but since January, every other Wednesday at 10h a little group of 3, 4 and 5-year-olds arrive at the apartment for two and a half hours of circle time, projects, snack, free play, singing and stories.
 
All of the kids are spoken to in English at home by at least one parent, but all use French as their dominant language. Most have taken their sweet time to say any words at all in English, which is perfectly normal; meanwhile I feel much more comfortable using my French with them than with adults. But there's an interesting variety.  Tom, for example, has lots to say and does it in a mixture of English (papa), German (mama) and French (life). Daisy has tried reliving her Caterpillar days (too hard not to know it all), and being my assistant a la Ms. Pippa (boy, those were some tough shoes to fill).  Now she retires to our bedroom with my laptop and an educational DVD. And guess who is my most challenging student?  Oh yes! In the end it seems that moving all the way to France was a perfectly sensible way to solve the full-time version of that particular problem.  It's worth it, though.  Duncan loves being the one who can sing all the songs, always understands the teacher, and can help the others when they get stuck.
 
Donc, we started in September with apples, moved on to bats and pumpkins, made the Little Red Hen’s whole wheat bread (I had to buy five kinds of levure or yeast to find the right one), investigated dark and light in December and made family trees in January. This month, it being February, we’re learning about patchwork quilts (patchwork quilts in French) but of course we can’t make one big quilt and hang it in the library for posterity…so instead each child will sew his or her own mini-quilt.   We already did some glued-fabric collages, but because I couldn’t find any ordinary liquid glue like Elmer’s in any ordinary shop in Paris we managed with flour-and-water paste.   It's funny what it's hard to get in France--white glue, chart paper, popcorn.
 
At 12h30 the parents return to collect their little Chenilles and hand over 20 euros each.   I admit to loving that cash-in-hand feeling, and nobody mentions taxes or insurance—although I’m probably covered, because in France it’s required to have an insurance policy for each individual child in case of accident during school hours and, more importantly, in case they CAUSE any damage or harm to others (which may explain the school staff’s willingness to allow all manner of rough stuff and play fighting on the playground. Guess how I know about that?)
 
In addition to this small living, I’m also co-teaching a Writing for Children class at a place called WICE, which offers loads of continuing education classes in English. They pay me as a “Foreign Lecturer,” a title which amuses me, and after a poetry workshop for kids at the American Library, the possibility of doing some classroom gigs is beginning to look good.  And meanwhile, I've finally received a contract for my new book, to be published Fall 2009.  If we were to stay longer, I reckon I could begin to live a proper working life in Paris.  All the same, I’m looking forward to being back in Bethesda, and I keep imagining that Montgomery County Public Schools really need a .6 Peripatetic Poetry Teacher on staff. Do let me know if you see that job listed in the Gazette…

January 31st, 2008

Gittin us some culture

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Maybe it takes 6 months to acclimate no matter where you move to, whatever your family configuration, but there seems to have been something magic about passing the 6-month mark. January has been more full of real Paris outings than all the months preceding it, and it’s rather delightful to look at each other over breakfast on Saturday morning and have this exchange: “What are we doing this weekend?” “Nothing, yet.  What do you want to do?” (And it must be said that despite working some brutal hours during the week, Fiona has been dependably available at the weekends for whimming it up.)

 
 
So, here’s Daisy learning how to mold chocolate dolphins at the racetrack.
Yes, you heard right—
in our nearby Bois de Vincennes (in addition to a piste cyclable, the Parc Floral, several boatable lakes, a working farm, aires des boules and aires de jeux, and miles of leafy wooded tracks) there is a real Hippodrome, a racetrack where, at the weekend, they attempt to attract the folks who wouldn’t normally be betting on the horses by staging various other activities, such as this Expo Chocolat. We signed Daisy and Duncan in for an hour-long atelier du chocolat while we strolled around tasting the wares of Paris’s fancy chocolatiers. There was a big national Prix de Belgique being run that day (some events were “concours de trot,” raced in little two-wheeled traps on which the jockeys sit spread-legged as though undergoing a gynaecological exam) but apart from the large chocolate horse that would be awarded the winner along with the trophy, there didn’t seem to be any connection between the chocolate and the racing. That didn’t bother us and we all had a tasty time watching a few races (Duncan consistently picked winners and made us sorry we hadn’t placed bets). Those batons we’re eating are guimauve enrobee en chocolat, and although one chocolatiere took offense at our suggestion that guimauve is just marshmallow, that is all it is and maybe not as good as marshmallow.
 
[I’m writing this in one of my preferred cafés (it faces the sun in the morning, if there is any sun), and le grand chien du Drapeau (the big dog of The Flag) has just come by to check for crumbs. He’s an ENORMOUS Alsatian, very well groomed, but still a little alarming if you’re not expecting him. At least he’s not allowed to crap all over the cafe…it really is true that in Paris, the glamorous capital of fashion, every season’s hottest accessory is a big steaming crotte de chien (dog turd).]

 
 
We do mostly get around by Metro, but we drove to the Hippodrome—right before we took the excellent red Renault Scenic left for us by the Mozers to have a rear wheel replaced for the SECOND time. Once in December, right before we set out for England, and once in January, we went to collect the car from the residential parking area next to our chateau and found that thieves had jacked up the car and helped themselves to one of the wheels, which are apparently especially valuable in the resale market. The first time we had anti-theft locking bolts fitted, but of course one needs the key handy in case of a flat; so the second time the thieves just broke the passenger window and helped themselves to the key from the glovebox. In fact they’d just about loosened all four wheels the second time, right under a streetlight and just opposite the gendarmerie.  But they must have been interrupted, because we only lost one.  Bien sur, the car now lives in the underground garage of the Shell station right next to the apartment.  Assez cher, mais pas aussi cher que les nouvelles roues! (Rather expensive, but not as expensive as the new wheels.) The other big news on the car is that I NOW DRIVE: not actually into Paris yet, but home from the Renault shop, around the ‘burbs and out to Disneyland (yeah, there was another day of teacher strikes last week.) Daisy and Duncan were so inspired by my success that they drove too at the Autopolis in Discoveryland. Click here to see the video.

 
 
We’ve also been to the Centre Georges Pompidou, the inside-out building full of art contemporaine (“Mama, why is that big knotted rope hanging from the ceiling art?”), where the kids burrowed into this Jardin d’Hiver  (Winter Garden) by Dubuffet and the special exhibition featured the work of the architect who designed the building. I thought this semi-permanent transient-housing installation was considerably more interesting. The children preferred the spectacles en plein air, the street performers in the big plaza outside.
 
And then, wonder of wonders, Fiona worked from home one Friday and was therefore available to pick up the kids after school while I ventured, toute seule (all by myself) to the Marais to wander the streets, finding my way eventually to the Musee Carnavalet.  This is the history museum of Paris itself, where among other things, I saw dugout canoes used by the early Gaulish tribes who hunted woolly mammoths on the bank of the Seine now occupied by Fiona’s office building. 
 
Just yesterday, Granddad Damian came to keep us company while Fiona’s in San Francisco. We went to the Jardin des Plantes in the 5th arrondisse-ment to visit the Grande Galerie de l’Evolution—an attempt to clarify for the D’s something about how the first daffodil got planted (or not) and how the first person was born. I’m not sure which is harder to explain, conceptual art or intelligent design…tips from the audience are welcome.
 
But the best part about yesterday, I thought, was that we made a long-awaited return to Le Petit Menhir (The Little Boulder, roughly), a creperie near our apartment where I took the children once in the fall—without realizing then that the woman who waits the tables is la maman de Fanny P dans la classe de Duncan! (There are two Fannys in Duncan’s class, just as there are two Clements.) Although I see her everyday and we say “Bon soir” because at 16h20 it’s already evening, we haven’t ever chatted. But last night, Marine, la maman, was delighted to see us and graciously served the adults hard cider, traditional with the buckwheat crepes salees (savory crepes; Duncan had ham and mushroom) and then our dessert of crepes citron sucres, all of which were cooked by le pere de Fanny P!  Afterwards she even brought Fanny out in her pajamas to say “bonne nuit” to Duncan, because the whole family lives right there behind the restaurant. Again, the old-fashioned, concrete-minded global-village peasant in me finds this totally cool. And the crepes were excellent too.
 
Ha—to round off today’s entry nicely, I’ve just seen this very Marine du Petit Menhir passing coincidentally by my café, and now the sun is out and the gargantuan dog is howling and the Patron is taking him out for a walk, no doubt to leave his calling crotte in the path of some other Vincennois that I regularly see around town--but not L’Homme (The Man), because although this mysteriously ubiquitous neighbor is often here in Le Drapeau working on his own manuscripts, I’ve already seen him this morning going into the apartment building opposite. The plot thickens...more on the topic of L’Homme next time!
 

January 17th, 2008

Bienvenue 2008

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 Ooh, I’m so behind.  Luckily, in France people express their meilleurs voeux (best wishes) right up to the end of January, so we're still in good time to wish you 

We are fully recovered from our wild December tour of friends and relations, but it’s taken me a while to get the photos of it out of Fiona’s deluxe new camera. And though life in Vincennes is peaceful right now, I finally got word from my editor that they really are going to publish my second book in October 2009, so there’s been a flurry of writing activity as well as some workshops and organizational tasks for the French chapter of the anglophone SCBWI (Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, a title which I personally feel could use a poetic reworking). In other words, I’ve been busy actually doing what I planned to do during my “sabbatical” in France. Would anyone care to critique an early draft of my easy-reader entitled Quiet Time?
 
But memories of our trip to England are now refreshed by the photographic evidence and the British branch of the family deserves its moment of blogfame. As a traveler, I favor arriving at my destination, putting my knickers in a drawer and calling it home, if only for two nights-- I’m not really the live-out-of-your-suitcase backpacking type.  Fiona, however, is an accomplished backpacking type (viz her 4-month-long sojourn through the Southern Hemisphere in 1988, during which she had no Blackberry to worry about losing out of her haphazardly-zipped luggage). 
 
Thus we enjoyed visits in 7 destinations in 12 days and caught up with approximately 31 dear ones, almost all of whom appear in the gallery below.  We had a grand time with every single one of them, the highlight being our first stay, over Christmas, at the UK headquarters of Fiona’s mum Teresa and her partner John (yes, the ones who also have the house in France—lucky them, lucky us). There we luxuriated in a traditional English luxury Christmas dinner featuring many luxury ingredients from the luxury ranges of Tesco, Sainsbury's and Marks & Spencer (the French open-air marche is a wonderful thing, but when it comes to supermarkets, England wins).
 
  

I must say that the children were charming most everywhere we went and took advantage of every opportunity to get on with new friends—but eventually Duncan started saying that he was too dizzy to brush his teeth, and there were those barfing incidents, so maybe the whirlwind approach isn’t his thing either. Daisy, on the other hand, delighted in never quite knowing the whereabouts of her hairbrush (click here for a pertinent Veggie Tales song) and traveling in the same clothes she slept in on occasion--
though never, I hasten to add, sleeping in the same clothes she traveled in.  One has to maintain some standards.

 
                        First stop:                                                                 It was ferry entertaining, 
   Mamie Madeleine and Granddad Damian                            crossing  the Channel ou La Manche
          light up the Winter Solstice

    
                         Stop Number 2:                                                                   Stop Number 3:
  "Uncle" John and "Uncle" Big Duncan show      "Uncle" Martin welcomes the weary  fog-addled travelers with a 
                 us all around Brighton                                                   very late lunch in Leamington Spa

    
                         Stop Number 4:   Altrincham                                         Duncan regards Grandma Treeze's
         Pop-Pop John and Duncan fire burning matches                   masterfully decorated luxury Christmas cake
   from miniature tanks across the newly-installed wood floor

 
                     a cracking Christmas dinner:                                                 in Didsbury (Stop 4b)  with Uncle Marcus,
 Grandma Treeze is wearing her new Daisy-made necklace              (a blood uncle this time, as it were, and bloody fun)

       
         more jollity and mince pies in Stockport (4c)                          Auntie Val, Cousin Luke, Baby Lola, Uncle Kevin and Cousin 
             "Grandpa" Dave and "Grandma" Kath                                         Sam had everyone to Boxing Day lunch in Rochdale 
                                                                                                                                        (4d, birthplace of Fiona!)

 
  
          Daisy with First-Cousin Once-Removed Molly                                                    Stop Number 5:
                                                                                                                a visit to Warwick Castle, just the four of us
 
  
                      Stop Number 6:  Bristol                                                        Ju's husband Andrew, Oliver and Duncan
       Juliet and Fiona, wacky college flatmates                              (true kindred spirits, evidence in the bruises) and Bella

    
                                     Stop Number 7:                                         (not pictured: "Auntie" Sam and "Auntie" Helen)
                      The Four Little Fairies of Croydon...                             or is it The Four Nude Wrestlers of Croydon?    
                        Aila, Cora, Duncan and Daisy

You see that our notion of family is rather expansive, but we think of our way as an expression of old-fashioned values rather than a 
society-toppling alternative lifestyle.  Take that, you right-wing religious types!

A big thanks to everyone in the North European Zone of the Global Village who hosted us.  We hope to do the same for you sooner 
rather than later...
 

December 18th, 2007

Tellement Gemutlich!

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After sticking close to home all fall, we joined the jet-set this past weekend and went to Munich for three days.  
Summary report: really cold, really festive, really fun.

   

We stayed in a luxurious Marriott property courtesy of the Accenture corporate discount.  Staying in any hotel at all is always the highlight for the children, and Daisy was impressed that in addition to a “parlor”, the two king beds, the TV, excellent lemongrass grooming supplies and the little minibar refrigerator, there was a MICROWAVE.  I was about to be impressed too, until I saw that the “microwave” was lined with carpet and was really a safe. (These are the incidents that remind you how young your 8-year-old still is.)  Still, setting and resetting the code on the safe was almost as much fun as the Weihnachtsmarkt, and Duncan went around all day Saturday repeating “6-2-0-3” so he would be able to retrieve his half-empty bottle of orange juice (kostenlos, or free!) from the microsafe when we returned for room service and an evening swim in the Zen-style pool and (aahhh) hot tub.
 
Lovely light snow sifted down as we walked up and down the Marienplatz and all the surrounding pedestrianized areas full of darling little wooden stalls, stopping every 20 minutes to warm ourselves with gluhwein (mulled wine), hot chocolate, wurstchen mit semmeln und senf (sausages with rolls and mustard), lebkuchen (gingerbread, preferably coated with chocolate), gebrannte mandeln (almonds coated in caramelized sugar, like burnt peanuts), waffeln mit puderzucker (waffles with powdered sugar), spaetzle, and datschi mit apfelmus (potato pancakes with applesauce).  We even had lunch at the celebrated Ratskeller, which manages to be as beautiful and historic and intimate as it is cavernous, cheesy and touristic.  But, like everything else in Munich, it was strikingly cheap compared to Paris, where, we have surmised, people don’t think twice about spending half their salary on food.

 
 
I was both distressed and elated to discover that, while I could hardly get a word of French out in July when we arrived in Paris because the German I spoke so well back in 1985 kept popping up and getting in the way, this weekend I could hardly get a word of German out because my new French kept popping up instead!  (Still, let’s face it: I could never express a thought that complicated in any language but English.  Or perhaps not even in English.)  But by the end of the weekend, the German was flowing and I was imagining living in a city where the buildings are painted pretty colors, where the U-bahn or Metro is bright and spacious, and where people clean up after their dogs.  Too bad Munich is so cold.

  
 
We went ice-skating at Karlsplatz, for which the sun came out for an hour or two, and during which Fiona fell and whacked her skull hard on the ice, giving an Devastating Injury Performance worthy of a World Cup footballer, complete with clutching, grimacing, rolling, kicking and groaning. (I can say this because although it was a real crack, she was back up and actively worrying about a concussion within 10 minutes.)  We visited markets at Schwabing, the Englische Garten, and even at the airport, but everyone’s favorite spot was the Mittelaltersmarkt (the Middle Ages Market) at Odeonsplatz.  Smaller, more rustic and with a stage for performances every half-hour (music, dance, acrobatics and trickery/foolery), it was less overwhelming than the main market.  Daisy got a game similar to checkers, played on a round leather board with glass stones, and Duncan got a wooden dagger with a sheath on a rope belt which he wore constantly for the rest of our stay (but which he agreed to check at the airport in case it should be confiscated at Security). And of course we all ate and drank some more.
 
But the highlight for the grown-ups was making contact with the families we knew when we lived here long ago...for it was back in 1985, when Heidi and Fiona were both fresh young au-pair girls in Munchen, that they first met and fell in like. (Swelling romantic strings here, or should it be an oom-pa-pa biergarten polka?) Little did either know that they would return as spouses (or perhaps “spice,” as in “spice girls”), encumbered with a complicated history and two children, all of which was too much to explain in one evening.  But we tried on Friday, when we had dinner with Sybille and her son Kevin, now 26, who was Fiona’s charge for a whole year when he was Duncan’s age.  They served us an excellent cheese fondue in the very same apartment where Fiona lived and worked, and isn’t the world a marvelous place, that one can just pick up and start again after 22 years?  



And we ALMOST managed to meet up with my family also, with whom I spent a really important 3 months, at the airport where they were picking up their second daughter Rebecca (who is now herself an au-pair in France!) as we were returning to Paris. Unfortunately her flight was cancelled, so our meeting didn’t materialize, but I spoke on the phone to Rosel and Jochen and Miriam (still living on Angerbachstrasse  in Rosenheim), who was called Mausi at 14 months.  She flattered me greatly by saying she remembered me, but with photos to help, I suppose it’s possible.  Miriam is now 23 and, among other things, a winner of beauty-contest titles! (She was indeed an adorable baby, and, with the sheep we visited almost daily down the lane, helped me immensely with my German.)  
 
I figure that by the time Daisy is ready to go off and be an au-pair, Miriam or Rebecca or Kevin will have children who need one.  Wouldn’t that make sense, in such a marvelous world?
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