Arbre Vert...a l'avenue de Paris

 

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 !

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!

 

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

 

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 !

 

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).

 

 

 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 

 
                        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...
 

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.

It's December 6, Saint Nicholas Day, and that means that in France some of the very many Nicolases are receiving cards that 
wish them a happy Saint's Day (Daisy has two Nicolases in her class and we know two fathers named Nicolas too) .  Almost every 
day of the year has a Catholic saint assigned to it and most French calendars list them), and the majority of people I've met are 
named after one of them.  (There are lots of Laurents, Florences, Veroniques, Ceciles, etc.)  If a person's first name is not a 
saint's name, then very often it's their middle name instead, and they get a card anyway.  My friend Sandra, who is British, 
received a card on Ste. Sandrine's Day, from her colleagues at the school of Chinese medicine where she was studying.  
Even alternative-type French people celebrate saints' days, and this persists despite the fact that it doesn't seem that anyone we know 
thinks of going to church on a Sunday morning.  In fact, the shops and markets are all open on Sunday mornings and close at about 
1pm (opposite to the US practice of staying closed Sunday morning and opening around noon for the traditional remembrance of 
the Sabbath through shopping).  

I'm curious to see what else is still Catholic about France--maybe the Noel season will reveal more.  Meanwhile, a Dutch colleague 
of Fiona's who has lived here a long time pointed out something interesting the other evening as we finished our Ariane apples baked 
with Calvados--something that despite my deep understandings of the essentially Calvinist American psyche (I was an American 
Studies major, after all) I had never thought of.  "Catholics are embarrassed to be rich and Protestants are embarrassed 
to be poor," she said.

So, Saint Nicholas Day and we're going to buy our tree today--notre sapin de Noel.  The offerings at the grocery stores and florists all 
look rather small and spindly to me and I worry that any tree we find (at a cost of about 50 euros) is going to be dwarfed by our high 
ceilings.  The Mozers, our exchange family who are very very excited about 2 inches of snow in Bethesda, have recommended 
getting ours at the "gay florist's" on the corner, and boy, is it gay.

 

On the other hand, Noel seems to be the time for everyone to outdo themselves on decor.  Shop windows usually look pretty good 
(and they always have a little sign letting us know if they're en train de renewing them so that we don't judge too harshly), but each 
ville and arrondissement makes a big effort too.  Below is a shot of the Rue de Midi, the smart shopping street of Vincennes 
which is pedestrianized every Saturday and where you can buy fancy party food at the traiteur*, very fancy party wear at tiny 
boutiques full of tiny clothes that I can't go in because someone will want to help me, and very very fancy tea, coffee and other luxuries 
at a shop owned and staffed by the parents of Duncan's classmate Clement (Saint's Day November 23, and this isn't Clement Masson 
but Clement Argy, "le-Clement-qui-j'embrasse" or "the-Clement-that-I-kiss" [sic]).

 

 

Although Napoleon disparagingly called England "a nation of shopkeepers,"  it seems to me that France much better qualifies for that 
distinction.  It really is true that people are butchers and bakers, though they don't all live above their shops like the family who run 
the alimentation general (corner grocery shop) across the street from us.  Even here in Vincennes, which is full of well-heeled office-worker
parents who go off to work in suits and have nannies, there are plenty of people who Ply Trades.  For some reason I just love it 
that a little girl in the class next to Duncan's is delivered to school every day by her boulanger father in a white apron and a 
light coating of flour.



I missed a week last week because first Daisy and then Duncan was ill--so I'll hope to catch up by posting an extra entry concerning
all those asterisked items that have been accumulating.  Little stocking-stuffers, if you will--and maybe by then I'll know if the French 
stuff stockings at all and what they call it if they do!

 I had read about the French penchant for going on strike (la greve), and here we are in the thick of it.  One of the first things we all 
learned to say here was "Ce n'est pas grave" ("It's not serious, it doesn't matter, never mind"), but the transit workers' strike is 
indeed fairly serious.  Last Wednesday was the first day, and it's also the day that the kids go to a theatre class in English in the 
center of Paris.  (I wanted something they could do together and which would get us out of Vincennes, and when I signed up, 
Duncan wasn't ready yet for any extracurriculars in French.)  Our Ligne 1 is one of the lines least affected by the strike, so the 
possibility of getting to the Tuileries did exist.  With Fiona working at home, at noon I walked down into our Metro station to work 
on a poem and watch the trains for half an hour. Things looked pretty good, so we packed a lunch and left the house at 13h00 
(that's 1pm) to allow plenty of time for our 15h class.

Pas de probleme!  We got seats on a fairly empty train within 5 minutes and zipped along as usual to the Tuileries.  We had loads of time 
to eat lunch and play at the aire des jeux before heading over to the dilapidated building where the class is held (it ain't Imagination Stage, 
folks, but the Singaporean mime actress who offers it is fantastically energetic).  Afterwards, Daisy enjoyed half a playdate with her 
classmate Olivia in the park, but we skipped the part where Daisy would go to Olivia's house because I didn't want to be heading 
back at rush hour.  By 19h we were on the platform to catch our return train.  



Plus de probleme!  It was already too late.  The first two trains had not an inch of space to spare, but the third was exactly the same, 
so we sucked in our breath and squeezed in.  It was then that I remembered that my children, though formidable personalities 
their own right, are actually rather small people, and the view from their face level was grim:  darkness of coats, corners of bags, 
pockets full of keys and wallets and nowhere to hang on for dear life.  Although neither was actually suffocating, Duncan began 
to panic and cry, and then Daisy panicked because any cough, cry, or clearing of throat means that someone is about to vomit, 
which is her worst fear.  We had to evacuate two stops along at Chatelet.

There was no alternative: buses and taxis were at the mercy of strike-affected traffic, even if I had known where to find one.  
So we recomposed ourselves and as the next train pulled in, I hoisted Duncan up in my arms while Daisy clutched at us from below.  
We got on more easily this time, loads of people having descende le train, and it was okay except for the tricky braking and 
accelerating parts.  And then, fellow Americans, my faith in the basic civility of the French was restored (after all the incivility 
with the wheelchair)---two women with seats (mothers, I'm sure) rearranged themselves with great difficulty to offer those seats 
to my children.  I thanked them in all the ways I knew and stood between Daisy and Duncan with my face pressed to the window, 
feeling somehow exhilarated to be a part of it all.  

Fiona reports that in general people have been affected by the Unity Through Adversity phenomenon, more friendly and 
generous than usual.  But as the strike drags on  (click to watch a news video from the International Herald Tribune) and other 
professions take their opportunity to join in, I wonder how long that can last.  

On Tuesday this week there was a day of teacher strikes.  We were well informed that it would happen, but there was simply 
no school on Tuesday.  (We drove to Disneyland Paris with a friend and her mom--what else was there to do?) I learned last week that 
both the children's teachers, hardworking professionals with about the same 20 years of classroom experience as I have, earn 2000 
euros per month, or E24,000 per year.  Even if you translate that into dollars (and I think a euro here in Paris buys about as much as a 
dollar in the US) they're earning only about $35,500 a year!  

And they get nothing extra for further education, nothing extra for living in the most expensive part of the country (teachers are part 
of the national civil service here and are all paid on the same scale no matter where they live), and if I understand correctly, no 
increases year by year for increased experience and seniority.  C'est un scandale!  So while I wouldn't enjoy a long-term 
teacher strike, I'd support it:  the teachers have a better case than the train drivers for sure.

Fiona bought herself a new bike just before we left, in case they didn't have her size here.  Daisy, Duncan and I all got new bikes 
the moment we arrived.  Then Daisy saved up her allowance and bought herself a pair of roller-blades.  For his birthday Duncan 
received a folding Spiderman scooter.  And at the end of October, I rented a wheelchair from the pharmacy across the street.  

 
  No, this isn't the wheelchair--it's a Rosalie      THIS is the wheelchair, with three
   double for tooling around the Parc Floral         generations along for the ride

It was for my mom, who with my dad decided to make the planned trip to visit us even though she's has been suffering severe back 
and leg pain for months now.  Nothing, not even heavy-duty narcotics, has touched the pain, so they scheduled major surgery 
for the middle of November and came to Vincennes for a dose of a different kind of medicine. We tackled as much as we could 
(and some days that was sitting in the apartment all day, being hilariously together) and didn't do too badly at getting a taste 
of Paris, but let me tell you, it wasn't easy.

The sidewalks are wide except where they're narrow, and I may be mistaken, but most French people don't seem to feel obliged
to get out of anyone's way, not even poor suffering wheelchair users. (Luckily my French has progressed so far that 
I can say "Excusez nous!" with conviction.)  In plenty of places the sidewalks or streets are cobbled, but we could manage those just 
on the strength of their charm.  No, the real problem was the Metro.  I LOVE the Paris Metro.  The trains are fast and frequent, 
there are so many stations that in Paris proper you're never more than 500 meters from one, and it is, as the French delicately 
put it, pas cher ("not expensive."  We don't call anything cheap in French. Or ugly or stupid or mean.  Instead on n'est pas tres beau, 
pas tres intelligent, pas tres sympa).  But the Paris Metro, like the NYC subway, is old, so there are very few elevators, and it's complicated, 
so there are long correspondances (connections) underground that only occasionally offer an escalator--which required Gramma 
Lila to get out and stand on the way up or down.  This she did cheerfully and gracefully, while  Grampa Bob and I inelegantly 
wrassled the wheelchair and sometimes the children on after her.  We only used the Metro once, on their last day, and I'm very 
glad that otherwise Fiona was available to drive us to our destinations. (So far I've driven the car from the apartment to a nearby 
parking space.  French traffic habits are scary, and it ain't my car.)

And what were those destinations? Here are some photos to make you envious of everything-- except the wheelchair.

 
   Soaking up the artistic mist       Grampa Bob saves Duncan from a watery grave under the Seine
            near the Louvre                       overlooking the tip of L'Ile de la Cite, epicenter of Paris.

 
For 2 Euros, the children rented batons from an old guy in a fisherman's sweater and spent half an hour launching
their gorgeously patched and tatty old voiliers from one side of the fountain in the Tuileries.  Fiona liked it too.

 
The D's as Asterix & Obelix, bande dessine* heroes of the Gaul of    Our Halloween party was very extremely fun in
Roman times.  They won the Most Original prize at the Halloween                                  both languages.
                    party at the American Library in Paris!
 
 
   My dad loved the market and took lots of pics of the produce            There was trick-or-treating inside the flat, but before that
displayed in all its naked loveliness.  Above Daisy and I are buying                   there was Pin-the-Nose-on-the-Witch and 
the potimarrons to make our jean-de-lumieres (my original French).    No-Hands Donut Eating.  Whose bouche is le plus grande?





 

I bet I'm not the only one who doesn't care to think of buying candy corn the week after the kids go back to school, who's not ready to buy 
turkey-sized roasting bags even before the Halloween costumes are finished--unless they're PART of the costume, which could 
happen-- and who has been downright panicked to hear carols jingling away in the department stores before I've enjoyed 
my first turkey-sandwich-on-Arnold's-Brick-Oven-white-bread-with-mayonnaise.*  I prefer to work my way through the 
preparations and traditions of each holiday at a measured pace, giving due time to the raking of leaves, then to the cracking of nuts, 
and then to the hanging of greens--one activity per month, thank you very much.  But at home in suburban America for the last
five years or so, there's been an appreciable push to proffer the commerical possibilities of each holiday earlier and earlier.  Don't we feel rushed?

We don't have it so bad, it turns out.  Here in Vincennes, there are a few shops whose windows are festooned with orange and black 
this week, and people sort of know that Halloween exists, but it hasn't really caught on.  That's partly because it falls in the middle 
of the Toussaint (All Saints') vacation that begins tomorrow and lasts until  November 7.  We're having a little Halloween party 
and we've had to work hard to find six invitees who are in town on the 31st.  So there's no Halloween, really, and of course 
the French don't do Thanksgiving, either (and so far I would say that I mean that in the broadest possible spiritual sense--I'm not 
hearing a lot of gratitude talk in the Metro).  What this means is that in the Monoprix (our preferred grocery store)THE AISLES ARE 
ALREADY FULL OF Noel ornaments and candles and wrapping paper and chocolates and toys.  And already on the main drags, 
including on our own Avenue de Paris,  the lampposts are wearing their large neon snowflakes, though they haven't been lit yet. 
Can you make them out in the picture?



I'm just resolutely ignoring it all as we prepare the children to do what trick-or-treating we can arrange in their Asterix and 
Obelix costumes, and as we invite 10 people to have Thanksgiving dinner in our tinyish apartment (on Saturday the 25th, since the 
third Thursday is a regular day in France).  But it does pain me to be forced already into thoughts of  the turning of the year, 
especially because the snowflakes are hung above big plane trees--maybe you can see this in the photo too--that were unceremoniously 
shaved of all their upper branches last week.  A huge tractor with a giant  razor on a crane came along and gave our trees a Number One 
even before the leaves could turn nice colors and fall onto the sidewalk.  I'm sure there are good public health-and-safety reasons 
for it, but the whole scene out our front windows is a little sad now.  Somebody send me some maple leaves from that beautiful tree 
in the Bradley Hills park, the one near the fence on Folkstone Road...

This was the big news from Daisy at the end of the first day of school here.  And bien sur, the food experiences of a new country leave some of the 
strongest impressions.  So, what about the food in Paris?  Alors, let's start with the children's school lunches--they make a good baseline, I think.  

On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays both children eat at the school's cantine.  They sit at round tables of about 8 and as we walk to school in 
the morning we can see the tables already set--entree or first course plate on top, large main course plate underneath, proper metal 
cutlery and all.  Duncan and the other little ones in the maternelle (nursery school) are served their lunch by their teachers and a small number
of surveillants, while Daisy and the others age 6 and up serve themselves family style.  Here's what the children of Vincennes--and most of them 
do stay at school for lunch, although many go home for lunch at 12 and then come back to school at 1:30--are eating today:

salade d'automne                                      autumn salad
   (salade verte, pommes, noix, croutons)      (greens, apples, walnuts, croutons)
roti de porc, jus aux oignons                    roast pork with onion gravy
choufleur en persillade                              cauliflower in parsley sauce
fromage Coulommiers                                Coulommiers cheese
mousse au chocolat noir                         dark chocolate mousse
(Disclaimer: the above is a representative composite of October selections)


As you can see, in addition to the entree and plat, there is a cheese course and dessert (which is just as often fresh fruit or 
compote de pommes & rhubarbe ou bananes).  With this sort of lunch on offer, I guess it's not surprising that Duncan's 
greatest anxiety during the first few difficult weeks was that he might somehow be misunderstood as he made his lunch 
choice in the morning and be forced to go hungry!  To relieve these anxieties he now goes off to school with his pocket full of 
"crying supplies"--which include a little tiny stuffed friend, a photo of Mama and Mum, a tissue, and most importantly a laminated 
card with a smiling plate and silverware on one side ("Je mange a la cantine") and a neutral-face plate on the other ("Je ne mange pas 
a la cantine.")  And on Fridays both children come home for lunch, because that's cool too.

Meanwhile, in addition to a tomato and because it's amazing what you'll eat if you're really hungry after a tough morning of French grammaire,
Daisy the Boring Eater (as she is affectionately known chez nous) has tried and enjoyed taboule,  shepherd's pie, veal curry, 
filet of cod in basquaise sauce (whatever that is), various salad combinations and the aforementioned cauliflower.

Now, if you can believe it, there is a gentle air of complaint among les Francais about the quality of the school meals!  They should 
see our Bethesda menu, with its endless repetition of turkey tenders and "Chips Ole." I find this strange also because at 4:30, when they 
come to pick their children up after school, the first thing French mothers do (and nannies--the are plenty here in our bobo* suburb) 
is to hand their children un gouter or snack.  The first day of school I showed up with a little chocolate something to reward my 
children for their utter bravery, and was surprised to find that everyone else was doing the same with pains au chocolat, croissants, 
prepackaged Nutella crepes, chouquettes (miam/yum, little choux pastries sprinkled with rock sugar crystals), and other items of 
questionable nutritional value.  The second day I came with brightly polished apples (so as not to set a precedent of chocolate 
somethings) and found that every other child was again being offered pains au chocolat, croissants, prepackaged Nutella 
crepes, chouquettes and other items of questionable nutritional value.  These days I try to bring fruit as often as I bring other things, 
but it's hard to fight la vague de chocolat (the wave of chocolate)!  And I begin to see why there is mounting concern that French 
children are getting as fat as American children, even with all the walking and recess play they do.

 
Duncan enjoying his first pain au chocolate from that well-known 
                      bakery, Charles de Gaulle airport


              Daisy and Fiona reveling in gateau au chocolat

As for the adults in the family, we've been enjoying the cheese.  Although I do most of the grocery shopping at a small Giant-like 
store, most Friday mornings I also make a pass through one of the outdoor markets of Vincennes, where you can buy everything from a saute 
pan to a pair of Converse high-tops (very trendy here; your grandfather would be wearing them were he French), from a suckling pig 
to a potiron (a large pumpkin-like squash).  There's a cheese stall with a couple of guys that I find tres agreable, and every week I ask 
them to suggest an interesting new cheese.  Then I pay relatively little money for it (Paris is expensive but there are some 
things we find dead cheap compared to the States:  cereal, coffee, cheese, bread!) and take it home for lunch.  So far we favor Saint 
Nectaire and the very fresh round goat's cheeses rolled in ashes (don't know what that's about).  It will certainly be 
necessary to return to this topic of food...do stay tuned for the report on Chez Julien, a tiny place at the edge of the Marais, which we're 
looking forward to enjoying again while the grandparents are here! 

Although it's not possible to talk in French about your grandchildren (they are your petites-filles or petits-garcons, 
I guess because it would be strange to call them your big-children, which is what grands-enfants would be), 
it IS possible to talk about les grandparents, and for us it's imperative, since they're the main reason we 
wanted to spend some time in France. 

Both of Fiona's parents live at least part-time in France, and since they have each acquired new spouses in recent years, 
we enjoy the attentions of four grandparents here:  Grandma Teresa O'Brien (Grandma Treeze for short, GT 
for even shorter and especially at Happy Hour when we're enjoying gin & tonic), her mate John White (Pop-Pop 
John for short, PPJ for even shorter); Granddad Damian Grant (already short enough) and Mamie Madeleine Descargues.  
Not only this, but Fiona's brother Fergus is also married to a Frenchwoman, Sandrine.  They live in Courchevel, 
the world-class ski resort, with their two kids, Cassy and Lucca, where Fergus runs SkiDeep, offering ski 
holidays to English-speaking clients in several very nice chalets.  

    
Daisy and Duncan with Madeleine, Damian, Damian's brother Kevin,                                   Damian, Fergus, Fiona and Teresa
        John & Teresa outside one of the chalets in Courchevel                                                          in the kitchen at Nyons

Grandma Teresa started her professional life as a French teacher and always made sure that the young Grant 
family spent plenty of holiday time in France.  Damian also learned French as a student and has always been 
eager to partake of French culture--and les produits de France as well.  When Fiona was nine and Fergus was 
seven, the family made a bold move and went to Tunisia for a couple of years, where the adults taught at the 
university and the children plunged headfirst into French-language school.  (Fiona knows whereof she speaks 
when she commiserates with Daisy and Duncan about their daily struggles to manage in a foreign school.)

In the last five years Grandma Treeze has not only met her new man-- himself a formidable academic talent with 
specialties in American race history and jazz and who has his own American grandchildren--but she has bought 
and lovingly furnished an old stone house in Nyons, France.  Just north of the Provence border, Nyons is the 
olive capital of France--enough reason to visit on its own, if you ask us--and the house is excruciatingly charming, 
set at the top of the "old town" on a cobbled lane called Rue des Petits Forts and built on three levels.  There's a 
lower terrace with a ping pong table, overhung by a massive wisteria vine, and an upper terrace with a walled 
garden graced with two kinds of grapevine, a pomegranate tree and plenty of lizards.  GT and PPJ 
spend long periods here several times a year, and we've been to visit three times, and not just because 
of the general vacational attractions.  The hospitality is always chapeau (literally, hat--meaning tip-top):  
always child-friendly, of course, and always plenty of local wine to be enjoyed as well.  Grandma Treeze takes
her chance to spoil the children just a little, and Pop-Pop has not been remiss in his manly duties 
towards the children:  Duncan has enjoyed learning about "piping" and has tested John's tobacco a few 
times, and Daisy has received more serious ping-pong coaching than she can gracefully handle.

  
             Daisy and John in one of                                         Cousin Cassy and Daisy between the 
            the lanes of old town Nyons                                         terraces at 57 Rue des Petits Forts

Granddad Damian and Mamie Madeleine live two hours north of Paris in Lille.  Damian keeps an apartment in
Manchester (and Teresa and John have a home near Manchester in Altrincham as well), but they live mainly
in Madeleine's comfortable house with a beautiful little garden, dotted with snails and punctuated by a pear tree.  When we 
arrived for the first time, Damian had already begun to build a treehouse in the back corner of the garden, which of 
course charmed the children no end (they had been missing Daisy's treehouse bedroom, inspired in the first place 
by Granddad's tale).  They spent all of a Sunday morning developing and improving the basic platform--Duncan 
wielding saws and augers and a huge concrete hammer and Daisy devising various amenities and secrecies.  
After all this hard work, Damian declared himself ready for a beer--so Duncan took himself along into the house, 
returned with two bottles of Hoegaarden and a bottle opener, which were hoisted up with the basket-on-a-string
amenity.  Daisy served as bar-maid and Duncan proceeded to enjoy his first full glass of beer there in 
what is now not just the Tree-House but the Tree-Bar.

   

Both Granddad and Grandma Treeze have made themselves available during Fiona's travels (yes, she's 
still traveling for work, leaving me on my own in a strange land for days at a time), braving the dubious 
comfort of the clic-clac canape or fold-out sofa bed* to help me do things like arrange for the children's
comprehensive school insurance* and meet my Bethesda writing group using Skype.  

As wonderful as it is to have the "other" grandparents nearby for a change, we do miss all our Maryland 
grandparents, of course--we're all looking forward to a visit from the Grampa Bob and Gramma Lila at the
end of the month, just in time for Halloween!*
 

I didn't mean for us to be in the Metro still at 20:54 on a school night (that's 8:54pm for those on the 
12-hour clock), but yesterday's Outing went on a bit longer than expected.....We have the grand luck to 
live in one of the areas of France that operates a 4-day school week.  Daisy and Duncan attend school 
from 9am to 4:30pm on Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday--and have every Wednesday off!  So Wed-
nesday  is our day to "spit-spot tidy up the nursery" and then go off on an Outing, just as though I were 
Mary Poppins and the children were Michael and Jane.  It's all part of the foolishness of Wednesday...
and Daisy's current book is Numero 9 in the Tom-Tom and Nana series, Les fous de mercredi.  She's 
allowed to read only French books* at school (our rule, not the teacher's).

Yesterday rain was expected, so we settled on a water theme for the day.  After a leisurely morning of
breakfast (on Wednesdays it's permitted to eat in your pajamas, and not only that, you can have
chocolate cereal) we had a check-in call with Fiona, who's in Frankfurt for a few days bringing home
the wurstl,  leading meetings and battling food poisoning.*  Then we undertook to clean the tank of the two
goldfish who live in the children's bedroom.  This involved, despite my diverse precautions, a fair amount of
water and gravel on the bathroom floor, but when it was finally over, the fish looked very happy in their 
sparkling tank surrounded by an artful arrangement of the finest specimens from Daisy's ample cork 
collection and all of Duncan's birthday cards...





For indeed (and now we flash back to Sunday September 23) Duncan celebrated his 5th birthday last 
week in the company of his immediate family and six other children practically unknown to us whom
Duncan selected rather randomly from his class of 28.  The blond boy in the picture is his best friend
so far, and why not?  He's also called Duncan!  He's thoroughly French, but it just so happens that his
tres sympa parents named him Duncan and he's in the next-door classroom.  We call him AD around 
the house, short for "L'Autre Duncan."  The party was fun though not one invited parent stayed--I definitely 
got a sense that here, parents feel that if they've delivered their children (very punctually) with a present,
they've earned 2 hours of free time and shouldn't be expected to help with the games.  There are
therefore no pictures of the games--all hands were needed to oversee "Pop the Monster Balloons 
Filled with Candy Using a Pointy Sword Created by Duncan out of a Yogurt Cup and a Wooden Skewer," 
followed by "Fish the Monsters* Out of the Lego Castle Moat Using a Pointy Sword Purchased by Duncan
at Disneyland Paris" and "Pass the Monster Parcel."   I'm sure you can detect a theme at work--and notice
what Duncan's holding in the second pic...So, joyeux anniversaire to Duncan, and much changed he is by 
the three months of life he's experienced since most of you last saw him.*

And now, flashing forward again to yesterday's Outing.  I'm not driving in Paris yet,* so we took the Metro 
(yellow Ligne 1 from Berault station in Vincennes to Concorde station in the center of Paris, where we 
enjoyed a performance of flamenco guitar and then transferred to the violet Ligne 8 to Balard station right 
on the southern edge of Paris in the 15th arrondissement and then walked 4 blocks under the Beltway of 
Paris, the Peripherique) to "Aquaboulevard," a rather glorious indoor/outdoor waterpark surrounded by shops
and a fitness club and restaurants and a cinema.  We spent four hours there riding the waves on a giant foam
float, exploring the jets and currents and fountains, climbing through the life-size body of a pregnant blue
whale to get to just one of the dozen waterslides, and generally disporting ourselves.  After a shower we
nipped upstairs to Hippopotamus, a well-known French family restaurant, where Mary Poppins revived
herself with a glass of red wine and a steak and we all looked down at the show in the pools we had just left. 
At 40 Euros to get in, Aquaboulevard is assez cher (rather expensive) but totally worth it--and unavoidable,
since Daisy has read all the "Paris with Kids" guides we own and circled everything that ISN'T historically or
culturally significant.  Next Wednesday we'll do something free--and something that gets us home before dark!

There it is, our maiden entry...but please note that items marked with a * will be further addressed in future
entries.    : ) All comments are welcome--just click the link below.

It's our anniversary--we've been in Vincennes just about 3 months now, and with a month of school (for the children) and French classes (for Heidi), things have settled down some.  We hope, avec l'aide des pruneaux quotidiens, to be pretty regular from now on about sharing news and photos of our Paris adventure.  Stay tuned...