Washer Woman

Meet my washing machine. Those of you in America with your big washing machines, the huge lid you raise up, a spinning column in the middle, take note: it's a whole other world over here.
For almost 3 months, this washing machine sat in my kitchen, unusable. It is brand new. We paid 800 euros for it. Things are not cheap here in France, unless you are talking about wine, cheese, or health insurance. We used it for a month, and then, massive work began on the interior courtyard of our building, built in 1860. All the balconies were to be replaced, and the facade cleaned, painted, etc. Our "utility room", as I refer to it, in my mind, as a joke (with myself), is none other than a closet, outside, off our interior courtyard balcony. It was the former outhouse, or, as the owner says "the shitter". (more on that later - on second thought, perhaps not).
"What?" I can hear readers asking themselves. I remind you, this is Europe. You're not in Kansas anymore. When the work began (unannounced), scaffolding slowly materialized over a few days, and then suddenly there were two Algerian men tapping on my kitchen balcony. "Whatever's in your shitter must be removed. Now." They looked at my stomach (this was April 6th), and after a series of negotiations in broken English, unrecognizable French, and Arabic, the two men sweated and grunted their way through unhooking my 800 Euro machine, lowering it off it's pedestal, and hauling it over the balcony into my kitchen.
What I haven't told you is that the utility room has a little window, from its days when it starred as a latrine, and this window my landlord told me to always leave open to air out the washing machine. Please note, like a good daughter, I leave my washing machine open too, like I've seen my mother do, to prevent mildew or whatever. However, it doesn't always pay to do as you are told. To my shock, the washing machine was full of pebbles and dirt, little bits of concrete and sand that had fallen through the open window off the balcony above when they put up the scaffolding, and into my brand new machine.
Enter the union, the bldg rep, the owner, blah blah blah, who will pay to clean the machine, who will pay for the machine if it is damaged..... In the end, we vacuumed it and it is fine.
Today is July 3rd, and my machine was reinstalled last week, when the balcony and "utility room" became accessible again. What joy to not have to go to the laundromat in 100 degree heat. If only the cycles weren't so long. You can see on the photo the LCD display of "1:40". That means MINUTES, readers. Imagine if your washer at home took one hour and 40 minutes. And then, you had to hang everything off a little rack on your other balcony, since the balcony with your clothesline is surrounded by scaffolding still, after 3 months. Remember, no one has clothes dryers over here.
Today, of course, the water is cut, all day, due to more work going on. Thus I cannot use the machine, but the comfort of knowing that it is out in the shitter is pleasant.
The cheese might be good, and so is the wine (when you're not pregnant), but wash day brings the Old World out of quaintness to an alarming, often frustrating, reality.

Magic

I'm not even French, but I have to say, my water almost broke last night when France beat Brazil in the quater final of the World Cup in Germany.
My policy has been to root for the underdog in these games, and most anyone would have agreed that France was the underdog last night. Brazil is the recent World Cup champion, and carries with it an aura of the Gods of Soccer. The French were secretly, or not so secretly, hoping for some kind of miracle last night. But it was no miracle that France won - they simply outplayed the Brazilians. Les Bleus were lead by the French hero Zinedine Zidane (who has announced his retirement after this tournament is over) displaying an agility, startling ball techniques and a cool-head that belies his 34 years.
Long story short, Brazil never got past the French defense, and Thierry Henry got past the Brazilians to score the one goal in the 2nd half.
On a personal note, my husband and I watched the game from the comfort of our own apt. My due date being in 3 weeks, and it being our 1st wedding anniversary, we decided prudence might best see us safely indoors on what could be a volatile night, assuming France's hopes would be dashed by the dashing Brazilian squad.
When Henry scored, I can safely say that I witnessed a new side of my charming and young husband. Looking for the vocab to do justice to this is, as the French would say, "dur". What I can only describe as a sort of cross between "scampering", "skittering', and quite frankly "The Hustle". Then he ran to the balcony and began hollering out, along with everyone else on the Port of Nice.
After the whistle was blown, and the madness started, I looked at him, looked at the clock reading 11 pm, and said "let's go for a walk, we'll never get to sleep now anyways." And so off we went, flip flops and adrenaline. Into the bowels of the Old Town, passing firecrackers and screaming men, flares being carried along with flags on the backs of scooters everywhere you turned, various chants I recognize but cannot imitate....
Everyone was, (is, I should say) hot, as we are in a heat wave that probably will only get worse. Men were stripped down, bare-backed, painted with the colors of the French flag. Alcohol, however, was not a big factor in this celebration. I saw no violence, no fighting, nothing that made me fear to be out. The love of the sport seems to even overcome the human vice.
In the middle of a square in the old town we stumbled on tables set up where there usually are none, big screens all around, and salsa music playing - the socialist party was having a "fete", marking some anniversary and combined with the World Cup. That in and of itself was worth going out to see in the middle of the chaos.
We got a gelatto and strolled thru all the streets, me very amused at the relentless pride. Along the seaside, the beaches were hopping, the roads blocked, cars stopped, honking, people hanging from rooftops and sunroofs and riding on hoods. I intermittently saw 5 other pregnant women walking with their partners. We gave each other the "well, it's a little crazy, but at least I'm cooler here then I would be at home" look of sympathy.
Now on to the Portugese Wednesday night, whom the French hate, who play dirty, and who beat the English yesterday due to various factors which may not be based on their talent alone. The English world star David Beckham sat on the side-lines crying when England lost, and I can only hope the same fate does not await the French, and my husband, Wednesday night.

Hot as Hell

Notice the Corsican ferry in the background. How we dream to be on it.

When my sister Martha convinced me to buy these maternity shorts last December in Vermont, I said "I'll never wear those, are you crazy." She gave me a knowing look and said "yes you will, around the house, you just wait."
They are appromately 400 sizes too big for me. But desperate times call for desperate measures. This is the only time I have left the house in them - and it was just to get into the car and go to the beach. To document the moment, my husband (of one year exactly today) put them on at the beach. He loves them and prefers me to wear them low on my belly "beecooz dat way, you look like a rapper. Eeet ees cool like dat."
The glamour is gone, my friends, gone. One must make concessions to fashion when it's 98 degrees and you've got 3 weeks to go. You try carrying around 13 extra kilos. (in pounds, that's like, say 937 or something).

Nellie? Is that You?

Everyone keeps telling me that I may start to lose my memory while pregnant. I didn't think it possible, but this morning, after a particularly long night of not sleeping and flopping about in the Nice heat, I woke up with Nellie Olesen in my living room and thus felt sure I had, in fact, lost my marbles.
'Morning Cafe" (notice the anglo name), is a 2 hour morning show on a cable station broadcast nationally in France. It is mainly geared at adolescents, teenagers, and young 20-somethings. And foreigners trying to improve their slang French and knowledge of hip French culture. The daily program consists of various music videos interspersed with features on things like "where are Angelina and Brad at this very second?" and "how to do nothing, eat lots of cheese and lose 15 pounds fast". Sometimes there are special guests. Normally there's a smattering of gags and stunts. Lost souls from all over France send test messages from their cell phone which are then shown as a running ticker at the bottom of the screen that say things like 'J'ADORE Morning Café". Everyweek the contestants on France's Star Academy/La Nouvelle Star and every other French reality TV show come and make an appearance, In general, crap TV, but so good for your French skills! Also "Morning Cafe", and it's predecessor, "C'est Pas Trop Tot" (cleverly and enticingly named "It's Not Too Early!" for surly teenagers averse to the a.m.) have saved me on many occasion in front of my students when I actually knew what they are talking about.
This morning's guest, as I leered a bleary eye over my tea, was none other than.....wait for it......Nellie Olesen. Surely, my mind was playing tricks on me, I thought. But that little turned up nose is recognizable anywhere. It was the 46 year-old her, the tyrant of Walnut Grove, sitting on a bar stool in a studio in Paris, certainly plumper and older than her days behind the candy counter. I turned to the couch cushions and said "That's Nellie Olesen", to no one in particular. She just smiled the whole time but said very little. I quickly discerned the squiggly cord of a earpiece sticking out from behind her neck, and realized she was getting a simultaneous translation in her ear.
What the hell is Nellie Oleson doing on a cheesy teenager morning show in Paris in late June 2006? I got up and left the living room, and came back, thinking perhaps I just needed to clear my head. Nope, it was her all right. Alison Arngrim is the actress' name. She said occasionally things like "Je t'aime" and blew kisses at the semi-famous so-cool-he-only-has-one-name-comic-host, "Zuméo". The other hosts (there's a small group of "funny people") made comments like "Nellie, I don't remember you having such a formidable bosum back in Walnut Grove". There was a 3 second delay as she stared into space, holding her earpiece close to her temple, then coquettishly smiling. I finally gleaned that she is doing some kind of one-woman-show, translated into French, the title of which loosely transates as "Confessions of a Prairie Brat". What's more, she's starring in some French film by some unknown French director. The French LOVE Little House. The reruns are on all the time.
Eventually one of the hosts talked about the 2 American series which are the most famous in France, noneother than "The Young and the Restless" and "Petite Maison dans la Prarie". They showed the opening sequence of Little House, and when Carrie falls in the tall grass as she runs down the hill, Nellie shouted "Oh, la petite bébé Carrie" with a cringing American accent.
I'd had enough or the freakiness of the whole thing and turned it off. Nellie Oleson is the JR Ewing of my youth. You loved to hate her, even when she married pathetic Percival and tried to run her own restaurant.
The whole moment this morning was like entering into a Salvidor Dali painting. I'm still trying to get over it!

Phew

Imagine me wiping the sweat off my brow. Is it the 100 degree heat? No. The pregnancy due to end in 29 days? Guess again.
Rather, France scored JUST ENOUGH goals in last night's final 1st-round game against Togo to advance to the 2nd round, referred to by the France as the "huitième", which means, 1/8 finals. Of the 32 original teams, half have been eliminated as we move into the 2nd round (1/8) - among those eliminated include the Stars and Stripes, for which many French people have offerred me their condolescences since Thursday's loss against Ghana.

Yesterday was a busy day. Taught a 2-hour lesson in the morning to a 40-year old ivy-league schooled engineer, a man with whom I've been working since January. He's a big player on the Riviera-Monaco construction scene, and makes deals with Prince Albert himself. 30 minutes was devoted in English to how, and when, France could score the requisite 2 goals needed in order to make them be one of the 2 teams in their group to advance.
Then I took a train and a bus back home, had a little lunch, and waddled off to pregnant lady swim class. Isabelle, a woman who was due next week, and a regular at all these classes, was nowhere to be found. The buzz was on in the pool amongst those of us left behind: could it be? Perhaps she has delivered! The curiousity and excitement mirrored the frenzied discussion of the group of men on the train next to me an hour prior - of course they were focused on the match, not when my water might break.
Sure enough, after class, everyone turned on their cell phones and all got the same message: her baby boy had entered the world after only 8 hours of labor. We all looked at each other. Who will be next, the underlying thought. Sort of like waiting for the executioner's squad to come for you, sort of like knowing you are going to win the lottery.
Then a private lesson with a 16 year-old girl, straight off the beach and dripping sunscreen on my table, talking about how she knows a lot about America because she's got a 3rd cousin in Wisconsin. What do I know about Wisconsin, she asks me? Cheese, I reply. I realize I know nothing about Wisconsin. Laura Ingalls Wilder and the Little House in the Big Woods? Football? Am I loosing touch with my own country and culture? Moment of panic, but then, time to go off the my "kiné".
A "kiné" appears to be a physical therapist. I'm a bit unclear, but frankly I don't care. My doctor gave me a "prescription" to see this Kiné 10 times for massages. So, I walk to this lovely little place 5 minutes away, on the Port of Nice, and Gilles strips me down and lubes me up and massages my back and legs for 30 minutes. Sometimes he cracks things in my back. He puts warm towels on me after, and we discuss things like the Ironman competition taking place tomorrow in Nice and how the human body wasn't made for that, esp in this heat. We touch on more pertinent things like my scoliosis, how he's grateful to the Americans for saving France from the Germans 60 years ago, and, of course, will France win tonight against Togo.
The best part about seeing Gilles is that I don't pay him one red cent. Everything is covered by the French national health care. I've slept better the past 3 nights than I have in a month. It's because I see Gilles every day. Wouldn't you have a massage every day if it was free?

Then I walked home, and there was my husband, his panic level mounting. Eat, quick! he said. We only have 75 minutes until the game started, and we were to go into old town and watch it outside on a terrace with friends who had reserved a table. It was a big night out for me. After staying in every night for weeks, I decided to treat my husband to a night in public with others. Well, let's just say that it was so fun to be out in the ambiance of "Fervor for France", as I like to think of it. We were on a patio of a restaurant, a huge pedestrian zone known as the Cours Saleya, in the heart of Old Nice, probably it's most famous area. The American tourists would pass thru, momentarily blocking someone's view of the big screens, and the French people, even middle-aged women, would throw ice chips at the tourists to get them to move out of the way.
When the first goal was scored, I had to hold onto my Perrier or it was going to go flying. When the 2nd goal was scored, my husband and his friends began to sing the Marseillaise. My gay friend and I looked at our watches, and went down the street for gelatto. At 11:30 we walked home along the Mediterranean in the moonlight. Cars drove by with men hanging out of sunroofs, waving the French flag and horns honking from every direction. In the port boats were alive, foghorns blowing. For a moment I even forgot I'm pregnant, there was so much to try and take in.
All for a soccer game.
Like I said, Phew. On to round two, against Spain, Tuesday.

Harsh Reality

The requests to view my middle are becoming fast and furious. After a midnight conversation last night with a certain nameless playwright friend of mine, whose words were something like 'Yes, but I just want to SEE what it looks like. Why do you have to live so far away?" Spoken from the NYC man who is about to head to Provincetown on the Cape for 2 weeks and live the clandestine life of Where the Boys Are.....
Without further adieu, here it is. Slightly reminiscent of William de Koonig's "Nude Descending a Staircase", isn't it?

Melts in your Mouth

This is a chocolate and not some collector's coin. Not just any chocolate either -This was in a box of deluxe chocolates from a famous chocolatier, given to me recently as a birthday gift from a friend. Just to prove that even the Willy Wonkas of France have jumped on the bandwagon.
God help America tomorrow night against Italy. I'm having a dinner party and the 6 attendees include 2 Frenchmen, 2 Italiens, a Dutchman (deliriously happy after their win this evening against the Ivory Coast) and yours truly. I'm not confident. May have to eat a lot of chocolate to get thru it.

Tous les 36 du Mois (or is that "moi"?)

This French expression, literally "Every 36 of a month" actually is their way of saying "every once in a blue moon". I so far have been unable to understand the origin of this saying, but the quest continues.

However, it is appropriate for today, my 36th birthday and perhaps the first in many a moon where I won't celebrate with a cosmopolitan. After another night of tossing and turning and very little sleep, eating yogurt at 2:30 am, trying to sleep out on the couch for awhile, I can't say I'm feeling my peppiest to start off the new year.

Yet, despite the looming France/Switzerland match this evening and a heatwave that is overshadowing everything else in the world here, my day was off to a good start: fresh pastries and local cherries brought to me in bed by my soccer-obsessed but darling husband. Second, 4 great cards from home that have arrived in the mail and I've been stockpiling for the big day - thanks family! And, best of all, 2 photos attached which actually made me tear up from my nephews, who deserve to be seen on this blog. Don't cross Cole (the blond one) in a dark alley - look at that stare!

Fleur de Lys

For those wondering just how far things have gone, here's a photo taken yesterday with my friend Craig - considerably tanner and in better shape than I!

La Coupe du Monde

When you look at it, it all seems innocent enough. It's just a ball, after all.

Imagine the Superbowl lasting for a month. Then throw in 32 countries - not states where everyone theoretically has the same nationality and official language, but countries around the globe. Now make everybody wait 4 years for it. And finally, just for a little added spice, mix in a controversial, overextended war being conducted in the middle east by powers from North America and western Europe.

This is the recipe for the 2006 World Cup which opened last night in neighboring Germany. While the rest of you over stateside are hunkering into the Stanley Cup or the NBA finals, or perhaps brushing off your mitt and whetting your appetite for hotdogs and lemonade, allow me to assure you that the REST of world is fully focused on the goings-on in the former land of the Third Reich.

The rest of the world includes my humble abode, and, my husband. I didn't even know him during the last World Cup in 2002. They say your first year of marriage is one of discovery, and my recent findings are that all the rules of your household change once this tournament of all tournaments starts. My Day One report is this: last night, at 6pm, my husband walked thru the door, a good hour earlier than usual. I had had some friends over for tea and peach cobbler (which I've made twice in 4 days, some sort of maniacal pregnant soul-food reaction to something as I approach my due date). The four of us looked up, surprised.

He was pleasant, said hello, gave them all the traditional double-cheek kiss - but he seemed slightly off-balance, jumpy, his eyes darting around and he manifested a delayed question-answer time ratio that seemed longer than usual. I kind of felt like Lucy Ricardo, eyeing Ricky when he walked in the door because he might have been sacked from the night club and his gigs with 'Babalou". My French version of Ricky picked up the remote and began tossing it lightly between one hand and the other while keeping up smalltalk. The light bulb went off and I said "Why are you home so early?" There was a pause. I took pity on him, surrounded by anglophone girls. I gave him a break: "When is the opening match?" I asked. His relief poured out in an quick exhalation with the one word "Now--" and with the flash of an eye he was on the couch watching the Germans start to beat the Costa Ricans.

Today - Day Two - The match between England and Ecuador took 2nd burner to the Roland Garros Tennis Finals in Paris, and the French Rugby Cup Final.

June 13th is the date of the lips of every Frenchman - not because it is my birthday, but because it is the first match for l'équipe de France. This bodes unwell for a timely celebration of the arrival of my 36th, which risks postponement. Stay tuned.

The Beast

"The Beast" is the name I gave to this "thing" in our kitchen when we moved in 4 months ago. It's called a "chaudiere", which essentially means hot-water heater. This piece of "equipment" is mounted on the wall in our kitchen, above the counter, and makes me feel like it's 1942 and I'm part of the French resistance or something.

The chaudiere is responsible for heating our hot water. Our hot water, in turn, is responsible for our heating in the apt - not an issue at the moment, as it is 27° celcius. However, hot water is one of those things, like electricity, that you take for granted until you don't have it anymore.

Guess what, I don't have it anymore. Friday late evening, we thought it was a fluke and forgot about it. Saturday morning, the problem presented itself for real. This was in the middle of Thomas doing a handyman project, involving drilling into the wall to mount a TV up high (remember, devoted readers, how I mentioned the BIG EVENT - i.e. World Cup which starts Friday?).... Is this the time when I should mention that in his fervor he drilled right thru the wall and into the other room of our apt? We can see clear thru now from one room to another. It's kind of like French voyeurism, except it's like peeping in on..............yourself.

Anyway, after ruling out that he didn't pierce a hold thru a pipe, and these 2 events were unbelievably but completely unrelated, and several fervent calls to our landlord, it was determined that something was up with The Beast. I call it The Beast because when you turn on any faucet in the apt for hot water, the gas flame which heats the water inside the beast fires up, time after time, and it sounds like there is a wild animal hiding out in my kitchen. Kind of like Cujo licking his chops. A bit disconcerning. It's like someone in the next room is watching a Stephen King movie 24/7.

No worries, let's just get out our maintenance contract for The Beast, which we have with "Electrogaz" (see very modern and professional photo above) - Electrogaz so conveniently located outside our front door (literally, I can spit on it front my balcony, which, incidentally, I have done several times over the past 96 hours). But, they are closed on Saturdays and Sundays. And, just our luck, Monday too, since it was Pentecost - you know, the 4th national holiday in France in the past 5 weeks, Pentecost, a day off for all these ardent practicing Catholics in France (right).

Again, no worries, there's a number for emergency calls during off-hours when you have a contract with Electrogaz. So we call, and --- it's an automatic service, which automatically links you back to the answering machine in the store. Literally, I stood in front of the closed store calling them on my cell phone and heard thru the glass window my own irrated voice echoing in the empty dark store on their answering machine.

Several boiled pots of water, sponge baths and showering at a friend's place later, it is now Tuesday morning. The French have woken up after their 4th 3-day wkend in 5 weeks, and Electrogaz, as I see from my balcony, is bustling with workmen standing outside smoking and eating croissants (remember the bakery below the balcony?)

My diligent French husband locked me in the apt just now and went over there to arrange for someone to come, saying to me "Do not begeeen to crier (this means "scream" in French) bad zings at dem from dee balcony, Julie. You be good." As if!

Pray that The Beast is resurrected. I see now why people love their dogs so much. That familiar growling sound is, almost, comforting.

REBUTTAL

This is Julie's Husband speaking : Thomas the "smarty pants boy" (refering to the last post).
I took the control of this blog to restablish the truth :
First, The BIG EVENT coming up is not the Soccer World Cup, but the birth of our child and more presisely give him a name !! For the moment nothing is good enougth, I hope we will be agree on something or we will have a unnammed kid.
Second, I was not expected that Julie would know the day where taxes are due, she don't even know how to declare and how much. That's why I told her noting about this deadline date, what's the mather ? I did all the work for her !!
Third, there is no third, it's too painfull for me to write in English. It took me 3 hours to write this 4 lines comments.

"QUE LA VERITE SOIT DITE".

Thomas, from the "angry's husband Foundation".

Tax Man

I would imagine all inter-cultural couples have moments where they suddennly realize that the most basic elements of their society are foreign to their foreign spouse. Thomas and I had one of those moments Wednesday night - or rather, early Thursday morning.

At 10:30 pm, I returned home from my final outing to the theatre where I'm subscriber. I was feeling nostalgic, having sunk into my red velvet seat before the show thinking "this is the last time I'll come to the theater where I won't worry about the babysitter or be leaking breast milk". Ridiculous, I know, but needless to say I can't pass up a significant moment like that without acknowledging it to myself and revelling in all its potential for drama. After when I got back, I found Thomas sprawled on the living room rug torn between 2 crucial tasks - working on our taxes, and watching a scrimmage match between the French national soccer team and Denmark, or somebody like that. His fervent attention to the TV bodes unwell for me and the BIG EVENT coming up. I refer not to the birth of our child, but the much more important date marked in red on the calendar, the start of the The World Cup on June 9th. But that, clearly, will be another blog entry - maybe several.

I'd double parked the car coming back from the theatre, unable to find a real spot. "You'll have to go out and move the car later". "Ouais......." he mumbled. At midnight, I was ready for bed. I was about to remind him about the car when I saw him pick up his keys, lace up his shoes, and head for the door. "This shouldn't take more than half an hour. I'll try not to wake you when I come in." he said gallantly. "You think parking the car at midnight on a Wednesday will take you half an hour?" I asked. "No, but the time to drive up there and back....." he trailed off.

Here's the beginning of the inter-cultural breakdown. I stare and blink. He stares back. "Up where?" "To the center, it's in the north of Nice." "Center of what?" "For the taxes." This is when I see the big manilla envelope in his hand. "What do you think I'm doing? It's May 31st!" he says, as if he's just told me the due date of my own baby, or, for him, the day the World Cup starts. He continues, exasperated "I have to take them. Earlier the line was too long." I am dumbstruck. "Our taxes are due today? You never told me!" "I have to tell you when taxes are due?" he starts laughing, the wrong thing to do to a very pregnant woman at midnight, after she's just had what may arguably be her last night of theatrical freedom for 18 years (or judging by certain French mothers I've encountered-ahem-for the child's lifetime). I snap back "Okay Mr, Smarty Pants (p.s. you can't say the French equivalent of this and have the same effect, I realize now since it only made him laugh more) when are taxes due in America?" Blank stare.

Jump ahead - I went with him, because I wanted to see for myself. At midnight, we got in the car and drove to another part of the city, looking for a one-way, one-lane street that I had NEVER heard of in all my travels in 5 years in Nice, not on foot or bike or bus. Suddenly he did a U-turn in the middle of Blvd General de Gaulle - and turned down what looked like an alley - and there, lo and behold, was a line of red brake lights. I let out a low whistle. My French husband was triumphant in his vindication. May 31st, midnight, and the city of Nice was turning out for the Tax Man. People were jumping out of their cars and running up to the bldg to deposit their envelopes. The atmosphere was congenial, almost festive. Thomas explained that earlier, up until 11 pm, a man stands on the sidewalk with a big canvas sack, and people just drop the envelopes thru their car windows, since the street offers no parking. This method of keeping the traffic flowing is so goofy for something so serious as taxes, and yet, so logical, practical and efficient, that I can hardly believe it is happenning in France, country notorious for all that is inefficient and cumbersome. Apparently by midnight, the Sack Man has seen enough of a drop in the need for his services that he's gone for a glass of wine.

All in all, a surreal experience.

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.