the Irony

Last night Estelle decided to stay awake, crying or otherwise making life miserable, until 5 am. I was relieved to hear Thomas saying things like 'we SHOULD take her back". p.s. we really do love her, no one called SRS on us please.
This is what Papa Thomas looked like today:
This is what Estelle looks like when she is sleeping (during the day, of course). I think she is a vampire hence the no-sleeping-when-it's-dark thing.

Nacelle Estelle

"Nacelle" is the word in French for "carry cot". I've taken to calling my daughter with this rhyming nickname because it is where I always want her to be - asleep in the carry cot. How far from my wishes this is, however....
Who told me to have a kid? In fact, I think my ex-boyfriend #1, Allen, told me on email last year to "have a kid, Julie. It'll relax you." What? Was he on drugs?
Last night I said to my husband, at about 1:45 am after trying for 3 hours to get Estelle to sleep: "Demain on la rends". This means "Tomorrow, we are taking (xxx) back." Due to the ambiguity of the French masculine and feminine articles, and the essential non-existence of the word "it" in French, my husband was forced to ask me to clarify what I meant when I used the word "la". I could be referring to anything feminine, alive or inanimate, as long as it is a feminine word in French. I could mean "it" if I'm talking about "la table" or "her" if I'm talking about, say, my sister. He was amused but deep under the surface probably more alarmed when I responded "the baby".
When Scarlett O'Hara realizes that her waist will never be 18 inches again, she announces to Mammy and Rhett "I'm simply not going to have any more children then." Last night I said to Thomas "I can't do this again. Ever." He responded "You said you wanted 3 kids."
I said "take her away". Who takes care of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's daughter when she cries all the time and won't go to sleep in the middle of the night? Thomas, ever the optimist, said "They do." "You fool!" I said "They have a wet nurse, I'm sure." "What's a wet nurse?" said Thomas.
I'm renting any future kids starting at the age of 6 months. Enough of this newborn stuff. There's no glory, only fatigue.
In all seriousness, Estelle gained 90 grams between Saturday and Monday. This is very good news. The trip to the hospital on Saturday was just as traumatic as the one Thursday night, due to a stupid nurse who told us the wrong weight - she was off by a pound and a half, the idiot - she hadn't calibrated the scale first. When I said to her in my choking-thru-the-tears-French "do you think it is logical that a baby who has never lost more than 10 ounces since birth has lost a pound and a half in 48 hours?" I was less than calm. Anyways, she never apologized, and the whole incident threw me into a complete hysterical fit. Then they stuck 2 more urine bags on Estelle and made her scream bloody murder. That's how I know that I must truly love her and have a mother's instinct because when she started crying I started crying. Except I ran out of the room and into the parking lot of the hospital in hysterics. Less stellar motherly behavior, but true to Julie-style dramatics. Even in moments of extreme duress, it appears I haven't lost my touch to make a moment for the stage.

Fighting Weight

When people asked me if I wanted a girl or a boy, I always first said "just a healthy baby". After 3 trips to the local clinic and 5 hours in the neo-natal center of Nice's largest hospital last night, I reaffirm that statement.
Estelle, while seemingly otherwise fine, has been steadily losing weight ever since she was born, with a tiny upsurge while still in the hospital and since her release, declining.
This has everyone, myself included, in a state of panic. Long story short, the heat wave in France has many newborn babies fighting to gain weight, as they are too hot and drowsy to eat properly, and what they do eat is quickly sweated off.
I've gone from mildly self-assured and only concerned about sore breasts to hysterical, spending over an hour in a hot car yesterday during rush hour, trying to get across town to the hospital to do some urine tests and make sure that she doesn't have an infection inhibiting her ability to eat properly.
At 11 pm last night, I had watched her scream bloody murder as they stuck (literally, like with double sided super tape) this plastic sac into her to try and collect her urine, which they have to change once an hour for fear of infection, and she didn't pee for over two hours. Then the minute they took it off she peed all over the place, and a quick-reflexed nurse was able to collect a clean sample on a PH stick, thankfully to tell us that there is no infection.
Hormonal swings of post-partum depression are, needless to say, not helping the situation. Nor is the fact that every doctor we see has a different theory on exactly what order of things we should be doing with the breastfeeding. Nor the fact that I'm sick of speaking in French. I'm too tired. Although Thomas' a wreck too and he IS French and isn't suffering from the 'baby blues" (the English word they use in French to refer to post-partum depression).
We are now the proud owners of a mobile air-conditioning unit (welcome to Europe, no window units here like in the states) which is kind of like having a visitor sitting in the corner armchair of the living room. Last night at midnight Thomas was moving it and it caught in the curtain and ripped the curtain rods right out of the wall. Welcome to today's new project - fixing that.
We are asking for ideas from our readers as to what we should call the AC unit. Thomas' suggestion of "coolie" was rejected by me immediately.
I'm thinking "Cool Hand Luke", or just "Luke", since I like Paul Newman. But Thomas doesn't get the reference so that's no good. I said "you know, the movie where he rips off parking meters? It's a classic!" He said "Americans are weird."

Respect

Here is the Blog Creator, fresh out of the hospital after a 6 day, 5 night private-room air conditioned stay that cost us less than three or four hundred dollars. Note to self: things to love about France - the health care system.

So, I just had a baby.
There's a lot of things to be said or recounted as the case may be.

But really I think I'll just say that I simply don't know how, or in what world, my mother did this over and over, 11 kids, 9 pregnancies, 2 sets of twins. I did literally think I was dying at one point during my exceptionally fast first-baby labor. Several times since I have doubted my capacity to meet the demands of motherhood, and I've been a mother for, like, 6 days.

I said to my mom on the phone yesterday "How did you do it?" She very matter of factly said "I just kept going. I didn't have a choice."

She did have choices, but she chose to make a lot of sacrifices. I hope I can do the same.

BabyBaby

Estelle is born tuesday, 1:47 in the afternoon. She is 6.2/3 pounds and measure 50 centimeter.
BabyMammy is great. WE ARE SO HAPPY. ON EST RAVI

Ouch

In my ever-present quest to escape the 95 degree heat that lasts all afternoon, yesterday I went to the movies. Saw a film called "The Berkmans are Separating", only to find out that the original title in English is "The Squid and the Whale". Just makes you wonder WHO up there makes these decisions when they start subtitling films and renaming them. I mean, truly, why can't they translate it literally? Why give away the whole dang plot by telling us what is going to happen to the Berkmans in the title? Why not leave the mystery of the interesting scary water animal reference? If I was French, I'd be a tad insulted.
Then I went and walked around the mall for an hour with my husband and sister-in-law, in the blissful air conditioning. I treated myself to my first "McFlurry" in about 3 years. Heaven.
Came home, took a nap, watched the Tour de France, watched the French guy who should've won yesterday's stage get duped in the last few kilometers by the sneaky German, and then listened to the French commentator say "Quelle deception" over and over.
At 6 pm, we drove next door to Villefranche for a lovely swim. Floating in the sea for an hour when the sun has hidden itself behind a cloud almost makes you forget you have 14 extra kilos. Except for when, on the way back to your apt, 3 blocks away, you suddennly have a contraction. I mean, a real contraction. Like, can't talk, can't think, freak out, thing your back is opening up at the tailbone contraction.
The whole thing was over in about 5 minutes, and hasn't happenned since. It was enough to put the fear of God into me, however. My husband dumped me out in front of the apt and my sister-in-law fumbled with his keys to get me into the bldg, still in my bikini and wrapped up in a sarong, doubled over waiting for the elevator. By the time I got into the apt they had stopped.
The evening continued with a lovely leek quiche made by Terrified Husband Extraordinaire and a game of Scrabble in French (p.s. I lost after coming up with only the following words in French: genius, he, she, it, drool, bed, iodine and koala).
The lingering memory of that pain is still with me this morning. Up until now, I felt happy to wait out the last bit of this pregnancy as I enjoy leisurely days with DVD's of "Guys and Dolls' and "The Sound of Music", mixed in with Season 1 of "Lost" and rolling the change in my big change jar. However, I now feel like I'm waiting to go before a firing squad. I'd just as soon get it over with, because sitting around waiting for that kind of pain to strike again is, let's say, less than relaxing.

The 11th Hour

A photo is worth a thousand words. I think I can spare everyone my 1,000 words and let this image speak for itself. Thursday night I had my first significant contractions, which prompted my over-anxious husband to grab his keys and sit on the edge of the couch saying "On y va? Oui, on y va. Mais, on y va ou non? Julie, eh, on y va?"
Even if you don't understand French, I think you get it.
Whatever that was, it passed, and yesterday I "celebrated" Bastille Day for the first time in France. BOOOOOOORRRRRRRIIIIIINNNNNGGGGGG. No festivals, no parades (except the big one in Paris), no cotton candy, no BBQ's, no marching bands. I was pretty let down.
Imagine thousands of people on the beaches and the boardwalk, all watching this big fireworks display over the Mediterranean and no one saying a word. You could practically hear a pin drop over the waves of the sea. No oooohing or aahing, no clapping, no whistling. I said "Are we at a funeral?" Then I spontaneously hooted and clapped for a particularly big display, and everyone turned and looked at me like "there's a crazy pregnant woman here, clapping."
It's ok, gave me something to make fun of on our walk back home. After stopping for a gelatto.

Ed Harris

This is me at the Cannes Film Festival with the actor Ed Harris. Or, perhaps, this is me at a Cancer Institute here in Nice where I teach English to Dr. Pÿm. PYM are his initials, and everyone calls him PYM.
Dr. Pym is one of the cheif radiologists at this Cancer Institute. I have been giving him English lessons for a few months thru the Chamber of Commerce. His speciality is the insertion of under-the-skin ports into patients upper arms, where they receive their chemo treatments. I don't really understand it all, but it doesn't matter.
In his office he makes me tea every week, and sometimes he brings rice cakes, or I bring oreos or something wild and crazy like that from the States. His English level is very high, and so for 2 hours we talk about anything and everything. I bring him old Vermont Life magazines I have stashed at home, and he gives them back to me the next week and is full of questions. His mother is German, father French, and he was born in Monaco but raised near Paris. He did his military service in the French Antilles islands, and has never heard of the Wizard of Oz or Ed Harris. These are some of the salient points about Pym. I prep him before he goes off to conferences in Italy to make speeches in English about his latest research for radial arm ports.
Truly, I should be paying him. It's kind of like therapy for me. Pym seems to be a spiritual man, in the sense that he believes in some higher meaning and greater power - and for the French, who seem to have all renounced religion despite their high fidelity to any Catholic holidays that mean they don't have to go to work, that is a rare find in my opinion.
He asks me many questions about hospice in America, of which he has heard and read much, and of which there is very little in France. He tells me stories of patients he has lost to cancer, others he has helped to recover.
I help him learn expressions like "bedside manner".
Pym, and a colleague of his who was also my student recently, have both independently stated the same fact: In France, doctors do not as a rule tell their patients the reality of their health status. The practice is not to be honest, and lay it all out. One head of the hospital said to me during a lesson, unprovoked, "The French can't take it. We aren't like you in America. We don't want to be responsible for our health care, and our prognosis, because in any event we aren't paying for it. If we had to pay for it, we would be much more invested in our treatments, our prognosis/diagnosis, and our bodies' future." Pym, in a seperate lesson, said something along the same lines: "If a patient asks me if they might die, and I'm quite sure they will, I probably will not tell them the truth. It's not the way it goes here."
I told Pym about my father signing a Living Will, about his choice to return to our home, with hospice, to stop the chemo, to lie in relative comfort with Nat King Cole on the stereo. Most cancer patients in France die in the hospital or clinic, apparently, without necessarily haven't had the more frank conversations that seem to be a part of our system in America.
I don't know what to make of it all, and it's a much larger thought than a blog entry. But it's there and makes up yet another difference between Here and Home; the differences I am always trying to unravel.

"Quelle Deception"

This expression is a joke between my husband and I. It's what all the sports announcers say to mean "What a disappointment". I heard it first during the Olympics in Turin, when at every turn French athletes were not meeting the hopes of the French public. I've heard it during the Tour de France. `
And now, just when you thought it was safe to come out of the woods, France's Football Hero clearly lost his mind in the last 5 minutes of his long and illustrious career and headbutts someone, getting himself thrown out of the game, leaving the French team one man down, and leaving them without their star penalty kicker.
Did Zidane lose the World Cup for them? No, surely not. Without him they most likely would never have gone so far. But he will lose a certain following among the French for sure. "How could he?" were the words of my stunned and shocked French husband as he sat with his hand over his mouth on the edge of our couch.
What a bad taste in the mouth.
Back to life as I knew it before June 9th, before it all started.
Let's all get a grip here: People are dying in plane crashes and in the Gaza strip, and America is still crazily at war in Iraq. There are much bigger things to be disappointed about or worried about than a soccer tournament.

Ripe

Today I saw my doctor for the first time since my birthday. I had him sandwiched in between a trip to meet a pediatrician and a massage. Plus I had to pick up a few packages at the post office, one of which turned out to be our new vacuum which I hauled home strapped onto my little granny cart. A trying morning.
So Dr. Max snaps on his glove and delves in for a looksee. I see his eyebrows shoot up, and then he says "Ah ben, dis donc." This literally means "Ah, well, you say then." Or, in other words "Well, I'll be" or something like that.
The hand comes out, the glove snaps off. "You are 50% effaced and 1 cm dialated. The baby's head is right there. You're ripe. It could happen tonight, or in 2 weeks."

For future reference, if you ever want to put someone into a panic, saying any of those above things to a pregnant woman who thinks she's got a good 2 weeks to wrap things up will meet your goal.

I don't know if it was learning that the end is in sight, or if it really is happenning, but I've got a uterus that's been contracting all day, off and on, here and there, sometimes a bit uncomfortable, sometimes not noticeable.
What's a girl to do? Everyone knows the real problem here: The damn World Cup final is on Sunday. Dr. Max said "no one will be there Sunday. They'll just give you a wooden spoon to bite on until after the game is over." He chuckled at his own joke. I did not. "You don't understand" I cried out. "I can't go into labor before this game. I need my husband's help in this thing, and I'm not gonna have his attention until after this game is over, one way or the other." Dr. Max smiled and patted my hand "Do not worry."

Easier said than done.

Where are the Portuguese?

This guy, or rather about 3000 guys like him, were running around my neighborhood last night. They set off bottle rockets, screamed, sang, danced, cheered, mooned people, waved flags, whistled, and, of course, honked their horns. They sang a little ditty I'm beginning to recognize "Oh, oh, where are the (insert name of nationality you have just beaten in the World Cup)?" My earplugs are becoming my greatest friends as France continues on to the final round.
It wasn't pretty, but the French did win last night. This sets up an almost mythic final World Cup game, France vs. Italy, to ironically be played in Germany, the country still considered suspect 60 years after The War by those countries who were invaded.
The glamour and adrenaline of France's win on Saturday over superheroes Brazil was missing from last night's tough scrap over Portugal. It seems that with their team that much closer to the end things got more serious and, when people take themselves more seriously because they have more to lose, they become more cautious and less interesting. Such was the case for Les Bleus last night, but no matter, because the dirty-playing Portuguese shot themselves in the foot with a penalty kick, masterfully handled under extraordinary pressure by none other than The Greatest French Hero, Zinedine Zidane.
Our 11 pm stroll thru the port and around town last night wasn't as fun as Saturday. Maybe it was the lacklustery game, maybe it's the fact that my sister-in-law catapulted me into reality on the phone yesterday saying "You could go any day now. I was 2 weeks early with Wayne", thus placing me into momentary panic over every little twinge and pain which happen so frequently now.
I mentioned this to my husband last night during our walk, who stopped chanting "Where are the Portuguese?" mid-sentence and said "You don't think it will be THAT soon? Like not Sunday, for example?"
I smiled and pointed up above the sea at some high flares just shot off by a group of face-painted men on the beach. I didn't have the heart to point out to him the obvious - that 2 weeks early, for me, is exactly, dead on, this Sunday.
Here's hoping this baby holds on a little longer, along with the French team - long enough to beat our neighboring Italians.

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!