The Red Balloon

Well, it might not look like the same little boy from the famous book and film by Albert Lamorisse, but at least he's got the same name - Pascal.
Pascal is one of my many private lesson students, and this photo is from us last night, standing on the front lawn of his house in the hills of Nice, overlooking the city and the sea - a stunning view. We have worked together once a week for 3 school years. I used to look down on him and now look him in the eye, have seen his elation over winning tennis matches and had him crying on my soldier the day his hamster Serge died.
Last night was my last lesson with Pascal and his older brother, Laurent, who is the one looking down on me now after 3 years and several centimeters grown. Pascal just turned 14 and got PlayStation games and a digital camera for his birthday. Combine that with his Adidas shirt, the posters on his wall of Les Seigneurs des Anneaux (Lord of the Rings) and you'd say he's American - except for that gelled-up hairstyle (can you see it in the photo?), the trademark of the French boy youth, so different from the American teenager.
At the end of our lesson, we talked about what he would do over the summer and how he could keep his English from going down the toilet. Sadly it is pretty much already in the toilet due to a poor level of instruction at private school that his parents insist on placing him in so that their lives are easier because it is closer to their home. Pascal and I shared a few squares of dark chocolate and he yet again offered me some "coca" (Coca-Cola)-- I reminded him that I can't drink Coke since I am pregnant, even if I am American ("everyone knows Americans drink Coke all day long" he stated in a serious matter-of-fact manner). I finished by saying "Do you have any questions for me?" He apparently took this as his cue to show his good French manners, and so counter-questioned me with "What are YOU going to do this summer?" I smiled and said "Well, I was thinking perhaps I might have a baby." His freckles disappeared under his blushing cheeks and he sheepishly slipped out a "Bien, oui."

Glitz & Glamour

Just when you think you can manage living on the French Riviera, you get 2 huge events happenning at the same time; then you realize that in fact, you DO live on the French Riviera and the Rich, the Famous, the Royals, the Stars and Everyone Else Watching is trying to get around here at the same time. The past week has seen the city of Nice sandwiched inbetween the Cannes Film Festival and the Grand Prix of Monaco. Film buffs and car fanatics mingling on train platforms while yours truly is trying, with 8 weeks left in a pregnancy, to negotiate the throngs inside the station to retrieve their in-laws for their recent 6 days visit from the north of France. Which essentially qualifies as 3 major events going on this week in Nice.
While cars were speeding around Monte Carlo and Tom Anks (as he is called by the French) was strutting around Cannes, I was learning the importance of the following word "bricoler", which means "handy-man stuff" or "do-it-yourself" or "fix-it". I have a whole new vocabulary in French now including things like "spackle", "curtain finial", "thimble" and finally "hexagonally-shaped terra cotta tiling connected with grout" (truly a word in French).
The photos of the coast feature VilleFranche, a charming seaside village close to Nice in the direction of Monaco, from a boat ride Saturday afternoon. I really do look that pregnant.

Moose Man

I know people think I exaggerate, that sometimes I might be stretching the truth. For those who ever doubted when I said my brother was the Moose Man of Vermont, I say "not so". Check
this link!

Moses

I recently experimented with trying to create tidal movement in the Mediterranean by exposing the waterfront to a large unidentified mass. See photos below:

Code de Da Vinci

So, it's Thursday and last night next door to me in Cannes, "The DaVinci Code" opened up this year's Cannes Film Festival. Interestingly, the night before last night, the film had it's pre-premier in Cannes to hundreds of insiders - mostly critics, people in the film industry, etc as a sneak peak to hype up the hype before the official opening last night which coincided with the opening night in regular movie theaters for the tired non-glam masses. All these movie critics and whoever else were ceremoniously brought over from London on a train with the cast and crew of the film - the train was decorated like a big poster for the film - media buzz buzz buzz. But the pre-premier was not all that it was code-cracked up to be: in fact, some say the film was a flop. In double fact, the film was whistled at the end. That's like Americans booing something. I refuse to hear anymore as I want desperately to hope that it will be as good as the book. For 2 hours and 32 minutes, I want it to take me away from my current daily existence of false labor contractions and random strangers coming up to me and touching my belly.
But what I must share, as part of my ongoing "Comment on Culture Corner", is the documentary that was on TV last night about the making of the DaVinci code in Paris. You know things are out of hand when a show about the making of a film is released on the same night as the film itself. This show, aptly called "On the Path of the DaVinci Code", was interviews with all the people who were involved in making the film - cast and crew. The FRENCH cast and crew, that is. So, in addition to Audrey Tatou, Jean Reno and Jean-Pierre Marille, there were all the French production assistants, the curators at the Louvre, the PR people at the Ritz, the Lieutenant of the Police of Paris, etc. All these Frenchies made a similar themed comment in various contexts and fashions throught the show - something along these lines "Wow, they sure work fast, those Americans." or "We had to be on our toes all the time", as well as "they don't waste a minute" and also, with an astonished air "they never say 'no can do' to anything. Anything is possible for the Americans - they just figure it out!". This was almost sadly comical for me, sitting on my couch, hollering at the TV things like "Of COURSE, that's BECAUSE THEY ARE AMERICAN!!!" while my husband tries to calm me with fresh cherries.
But the icing on the cake was the interview with Audrey Tatou, who may be known to certain circles of American foreign-film buffs as "Amelie", and is the Julia Roberts of France (except she is actually critically respected and can play something other than one type of role, furthermore nor would she have ever married Lyle Lovett). Audrey said "You know, it was really a wild experience, shooting this film. It was unlike any film I've done before. Every day, when I got up, I knew what I was going to be shooting on the set that day - every day was organized and scheduled and we knew what to expect and what would happen. It was amazing". I think she meant to say "It was American."

Any Way You Slice it

Bread: fundamental element of life. Especially in France.
This photo is taken from my 5th floor balcony. The throng of people on the street, half hidden by the awning, and largely non-representative of the true scope of the mob, is the line to buy bread. There's a bakery on the street level of my building, "Boulangerie Maritime" (apparently so named due to our 2-block proximity to the Port of Nice). And within this picture lies a primal instinct of the French - fresh bread, every day.
To me, as a time-conscious American, the idea of shifting my weight from foot to foot for 15 minutes every day waiting in line so I can spend 80 cents for a baguette of white fiberless bread is not only unreasonable, it's pure insanity.
I make the usual unfeeling jokes to my husband "What is this, Russia?" "Is the apocalypse coming tonight?" "Are the Germans on their way back?". He shakes his head and stuffs another mouthful of warm bread into his mouth. "Eeet eees not like deees. Dees bread ees pairt of oooo we are."
The clincher is that you can't stock up on the stuff. If you don't eat it the day you buy it, it's hard as a rock the next morning. And trying to throw it in the freezer doesn't do the trick either. It's like a vicious cycle - you must go back everyday to get your fix. I was thinking about my friends in highschool who used to get jobs for the Vermont Dept of Transportation, sitting in lawn chairs at intersections and counting how many cars came through. In about a month, when my pregnancy truly limits my ability to be in the classroom, I'm going to work for the French Dept of Bread, if it exists. I am going to sit on my balcony and take notes on the people and count how long they spend in line each day waiting for their one baguette. Imagine the cumulative time spent waiting for your baguette on a yearly basis - staggering.
Once or twice a week when at the supermarket, I buy my "loaf" of square-shaped sliced wheat bread, with its preservatives and a soft crust that doesn't cut up the roof of your mouth when you make a sandwich. It's called "Harry's American", even though it is made in France, they call it "American" bread because it isn't fresh, and essentially represents what the French think of our food - square and full of chemicals and no inspiration.
Bakeries are everywhere in France, I mean EVERYWHERE. It is amazing to me that this part of their culture remains staunchly rooted in their day-to-day routines, despite the trickle-down effects of globalization. But, when you have and hour and a half, or two hours to go home and eat lunch every day, why not wait in line for the good stuff? C'est la vie.

5 Years

Today (in France it's May 15th already) makes 5 years since my father passed away. 4 years before that in 1997, my father lost both his brothers suddennly, within a few weeks of each other. It was the dawning age of my family communicating with each other using email. I have never forgotten an email from my brother Peter, in reference to to loss of my uncle Richard who was relatively young. "As sad as it gets", Peter wrote. And it was. Conversely, we were lucky to say goodbye to our father, to leave not much unsaid, to care for him when he needed it, and to help him through and beyond his suffering.


Dad: Class Orator & Best Dancer, among other given superlatives. Dashing and dapper in 1944; graduating from Barton Academy.


May 20th, 30+ years later, enjoying a little birthday strawberry shortcake, with me--quite happy to be by his side.

Baby Shower

Here are a few shots from my surprise baby shower in Nice last wkend.


That amazing highchair was plucked, abandoned, from an alleyway of Nice in the wee hours by my friends. It was then cleaned up, given a whole new look and thus was re-born. Kind of like the same thing which will happen to me once I have this baby.
Glamour never dies, my friends, it just goes into stretch panels.

These girls below represent Italy, Poland, Sweden, Canada, Ireland, the US, and, of course, France.

Here Goes Nothin'

At the behest of my dear friend and Blog-specialist Peter Henry, here is my fledgling attempt at blogging. Somehow, he convinces me, my life of constant trans-Atlantic communication with the masses of my followers state-side will be easier if I become a blog-head. And so without further ado: Here is a photo of me and my husband last Halloween. I was pregnant, and didn't know it. Note the timestamp on the photo was November 1 - let's just say it was well past a pregnant woman's bedtime. Ah, those were the days.