The Big Letdown

Unlike the semi-final match this evening where South Africa slaughtered Argentina, last night's semi-final between England and France was neck and neck, right down to the wire. First the English led, then the French, and then, finally, the English. A low-scoring game, and fantastic to watch. We got a babysitter and off we went, into an English pub, the English on the ground floor, and the French fans on the 2nd floor. What a scene.
But, it was not meant to be.
The best part of the night was Thomas and I going hime on my bike shortly after midnight, me on the seat holding my legs slightly bent and out to the sides, him pedaling standing straight up in front of me. We whizzed along thru the streets of the old town, giggling and weaving around the pedestians. Just like the old days (and nights) of our busy social life B.E. (before Estelle). It was all so exhilirating, despite the rugby loss - but unlike times of yester year, this evening's bike ride home included a pit stop at the ATM to get cash to pay the babysitter. Ah, reality.
And so, here are photos of some happy moments this weekend. Estelle playing with Elliot (remember Elliot, the little boy chewing on her hands at the Epiphany party back at the start of the year?). Here is the old photo of them for January:

We love Elliot, who, like Estelle, is the child of a foreigner mother (she is Dutch). Like Estelle, Elliot lives in 2 different languages, and, like Estelle, Elliot also has learned sign language to help hearing babies commuicate quicker. Elliot, who walked at 10 months, is only 6 weeks older than Estelle, but he can run circles around her now, and recognizes and produces 40 signs, whereas Estelle has 10 or so.
Other friends Estelle visited this weekend are Zack and Madison, "uncle" Craig and Doug's hungarian veeschlas at their Mougins villa.

Let's see what's under your Hood

Today, Estelle got her first vehicle. It's been out on the balcony for 8 months, a gift from a friend leaving town. Today it occured to me that she might, in fact, be ready for it. We cleaned it up, and---well, it ain't the Monaco Grand Prix just yet, but there's potential.
She has inherited her late grandfather's mechanical genius, as she began to unscrew all the big plastic coloful parts of the chariot (which is meant to happen as part of the 'game" for a TODDLER). (p.s. have now accepted I have a toddler, after some self-help group intervention). A few days ago, I disovered the bin of unloved and unwanted videos IN ENGLISH at the local Catholic Aid shop - and lo and behold: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which we have been enjoying in 20 minute daily installments during snack time. Thus she seems thrilled to have her own version, though I'm a bit sad Dick Van Dyke can't join her for a number. She squeals whenever he dances.


The 2nd photo has that Steppenwolf "Magic Carpet Ride" feel in my opinion. One hand possessively on her 'ride", the other almost haughtily on her hip,thumb hooked around a beltloop, a slight snarl of disdain and disregard for authority. WHO IS THAT KID? Thomas commented she looks like she's looking for a chicken fight like in "La Fureur de Vivre" - literal translation = The Fury of Living - or, after a lot of "huh" and "what?" on my part, otherwise known by its more recognizable title as "Rebel Without a Cause"...... I said 'La Fureur de Vivre? What a ridiculous translation!" He said "Rebel Without a Cause? THAT'S the original title? You must be joking!"
Some couples fight about money. Others squabble over translations of classic film titles. To each his own.

Dr. English

My friend Jeri, who lives in Toronto, has been working on her dissertation for 7 years. I met her in September of 2002, here in Nice, with her husband Gordon. She was here to enjoy a year in France and continue working on her dissertation. In 2005, when they flew over for our wedding, Jeri was....working on her dissertation. Now, in the fall of 2007, she has successfully defended....her dissertation - which is something like this: "Prolouges written for litterature pieces by French women in the 500 years before Jesus Christ" - or something like that. And it was something like 7329 pages, written in French.
The amazing thing is that the specialist who was to "judge" her work, of course is some French professor, now living in England, who phoned in as a conference call on speakerphone during her 4 hour long defence, in front of a jury. Jeri claims the woman was on a beach as they kept hearing seagulls cawing out of the speakerphone. Only mildly distracting on the 2nd biggest day of your life. The first being of course her marriage to Gordon.
Also hilarious is the fact that every physical action in the room where her defence took place had to be verbally announced into the speakerphone for the benefit of said seagull-befriending-somewhere-on-the-coast-of-England-super-specialist-lady. So someone would bellow into the speakerphone "The candidate (that would be Jeri) is crossing the room. The candidate is sitting down behind the table. The candidate is picking her nose"
I just had to share this, because I think a little insight into the wild and wacky world of PhD people is, well, secretive, and wacky.
Here are photos of Jeri and Gordon, the before and after. Doesn't she look composed?
The best part is that her last name really is English. So now she is Dr. English, except she is teaching women's studies, in french, but no matter.
The 7 year itch paid off! Now if we can just get my friend down in Virginia to pony up likewise - right huffy?

Labels

An American woman I saw the other day referred to Estelle as a "toddler". It's enough for cardiac arrest. "No, no, she's just shy of 15 months", I replied, laughing. "Exactly, a toddler", the smug New Yorker retorted back to me. What? Where is my baby, Estelle? Toddler? I think I'm in shock. I need a cocktail. Toddler? Surely I'll be, like, 40 or something when she's a toddler?

Fun at the local playground on Saturday afternoon. Papa does things Mommy hasn't dared to yet!
Ah yes, brownies for the rugby match, and little missy got a hold of the spoon.

The Impossible Dream

Just like last summer when France beat Brazil in the World Cup playoffs, something no one expected, the unbelievable happenned last night over in Cardiff, Wales.
France, who was being crushed by the oh-so-powerful-and-intimidating New Zealand All Blacks, with a score of 13-3 at half-time, came back to win and thus advance to the semi-finals in the Rugby World Cup.
I admit that my lack of comprehension about the game (see previous post- you know, throwing backwards, letting the ball "live", all those legs moving around in clumps) didn't dampen my enthusiasm last night. Quiet screaming by me, my husband and friend Pierre was the best we could allow ourselves since Estelle was asleep right next door in her room.
Just like last year during the World Cup, the streets were howling last night - the difference is that it is not the sweltering heat of July, and i am not 9 months pregnant.
This was one of the best games of ANYTHING I have ever seen. A nail-biter right down to the end. The underdog doing the impossible and coming back to beat the mighty foe. Thomas went from a state of almost tears to jubilation, dancing out of the balcony, you know, the usual, singing that damn Marseillaise (which is a bloody song, by the way, have you ever listened to the words?)
Frenchmen and women up and down the street, out on their balconies, hollering and hooting to each other.
What national team in America do we get this excited about? Maybe that infamous hockey game at the Olympics in the 80's against the Soviet Union?
Well, moving on - as a certain niece of mine who has just moved to England for the year & was quick to shoot off an email to me last night said, on to the next fight: Semi-final match, next Saturday, vs. England, who also pulled off an impressive victory yesterday in another quarter-final head-to-head against the other superpower, Australia. Now the All Blacks and Australia go back to their Hemisphere with their tail between their legs, eliminated in the quarter-finals both of them, a surprise to everyone.
And so, the age-old enemies meet once again - the French and the English. A very even match - could go either way. "We crushed them in.....(insert some year here)", my husband repeated several times last night, in the dark, falling asleep.
God save the Queen.

Par la Barbichette!

"Je te tiens, Tu me tiens
Par la barbichette
Le premier de nous deux
qui rira
aura une tapette."

This little children's rhyme/game is a favorite. It involves grabbing onto the other person's chin (their "barbichette" = goatee) and the first person who laughs or giggles gets spanked.
So, here is a little video of the basics of raising your baby in France: grab onto that barbichette for dear life. And beyond that, photos of my bangs and Estelle and Thomas robbing my wallet.

She Shoots, She Scores!

After breaking out in a one-day rash and looking like a creature from Star Trek, being diagnosed with "roseola", and having a slight urine infection treated with antibiotics, Estelle is back in business. Since Papa is off with some (roller) hockey this evening, it seems she got into the act.
Dear Readers: Enough clamouring for photos of the bangs! That requires someone to take pictures of me, something we have yet to manage as we come out of the fever/star trek/roseola/antibiotics fog. Patience. Suffice to say I look better than Sebastien Chabal (see previous post).

Rugby

France marches on in the Rubgy World Cup.
Does that guy scare you? He is the hero of France. His name is Sebastien Chabal, and he is absolutely TERRIFYING on the field. I literally had this man appear in my dream the other night. In fact he is very sweet and soft spoken, as I have heard him interviewed. Quite intelligent.
Next "les petites" (this is how the French rugby team is referred to, some kind of little national joke, harty har) are playing the scary "All Blacks" New Zealand team. This team, always dressed in black, and full of indigenous Mauri players, does a little tribal war dance on the field before each match to intimidate their adversary. It is poignant and hilarious. I encourage everyone to check it out sometime on the net if you haven't ever seen it.
More importantly, I speak to those of us born in New England, home to lacrosse, soccer and the NFL in the autumn: has anyone ever WATCHED this game? They throw the ball backwards. That's right, backwards. In a little chain of men. Sometimes they get together in a little group and throw one man up in the air so he can bat away the ball. Whoop! Up he goes, like one of those clown puppets that pops up out of its hiding place down in an inversed cone. Or they get in a big group bent over at the waist, and they butt heads, like rams all locked together, staring at the ground, pushing against the other team, and the whole clump moves all around in different directions like the thing you put your fingers onto on a Ouiga board. All you see is flats backs and lots of legs, moving moving moving. The referees circle and circle the clump, dancing out of the way when suddenly the ameoba gets a burst of energy and takes off in their own direction. They have their whistle at the ready (for what, I have no idea...) It's visually quite comic in fact.

For the love of my husband, I feign intent concentration during dramatic moments. He jumps up and shouts out things like "Fault! FAULT! That was a fault! The ball must LIVE and be free!" No joke that is EXACTLY what he often shouts. At first I was touched, I fell in love with him all over again, as I thought he was being so poetic and lyrical about this very brutal game. Come to find out it's the damn rule. The ball must "live" and "be free". Otherwise it is a "fault". So much for poetry.

New Throne

Was it I on Tuesday who said Estelle escaped the virus? Wrong.
104 degree fever and many frantic moments and days later, we have all lived to tell the tale. Barely, as I myself had a relapse on Thurs/Fri, just to spice things up!
In the midst of all this, Thomas' friend gives us a little armchair all for Estelle's very own.
Here is a photo and video of her enjoying her new throne.
The family that plays together, stays together. Or rather, that recovers from illness together by lying about on the floor on Saturday morning.

Derrière, The Sequel

Norman Rockwell knew where it was at when he painted that cover for the Saturday Evening Post. I thought of him this weekend. Curious? Read on.

Off we went to Paris, new bangs and cute baby in tow. A 4-day celebration of Thomas' 30th birthday in the City of Light and love. Our flight up Friday morning was uneventful, then a fast taxi into the heart of the city, the 11th arrondissement to our apartment, waiting for us with the keys was Thomas' best man Guillaume. A spacious one bedroom, a good-sized terrace with the Eiffel Tower in the distance, a pack-n-play bed ready for Estelle. Best of all, and most incredible, indian summer in Paris, lovely warmth and sunshine in a city mostly grey lately.

Lots of strolling about the quartiers, ice creams and metro rides. France winning their World Cup Rubgy match against Ireland, all the nearby buildings full of Frenchmen watching and hollering out the Marseillaise waking up Estelle (damn those French!). Lots of champagne on the terrace with a wonderful group of Thomas' very good friends from middle school, high school and college who now all live in Paris. Dejeuner at a bistro auvergnant in the 15eme with Auntie Agnes, tea with their Cousine Cathy, a big dinner party in an Argentinian restaurant housed in a former butcher shop - all very retro and cutting edge.

Sunday walking thru Père Lachaise, Paris' stunning and incredibly vast cemetery housing so many varied and famous individuals. Followed by a rendez-vous with friends-- a parc picnic, quiches, Italian ham and baguettes and succulent cheeses, grapes, red wine and chocolate cakes.

Heaven, all heaven under a blue sky. Our coats and warm clothes sat in our suitcases. Then, returning to the apt Sunday late afternoon, my stomach began to speak another language. Suffice to say that it all became very ugly and violent, an emergency doctor was called in that evening when Thomas saw this was more than just indigestion (literally one calls "SOS Medecin") and, for the 2nd time in 5 days, I was bearing my bum to an unknown French man. "Madame, please lower your trousers, I am going to give you a shot in your buttocks". Let it be known that my state of agony was such that I was ready to do anything this man suggested. "Are you like Doctor Baker? He made house calls too...." Thomas took pity on me and told me he wasn't sure the Doctor was familiar with Little House on the Prairie.

Things got worse for me before they got better, but after 2 hours I could breathe and lay still. Then at 1:30 am, it hit Thomas. Estelle like an angel slept thru the whole thing. Thomas started taking my medecine from Dr. Baker, and Monday's program of meeting up with Estelle's best friend Maxence, who lives in Paris now, got replaced by lying on the couch, waiting for help.

We barely packed up and got out, Guillaume coming over to see us off for our 4 pm takeoff. A taxi back (in the pouring rain, of course, the pouring rain began Monday morning), and we suffered thru a flight that seemed an eternity, keenly aware of our stomachs' status, paper bags in the seat-back pocket at the ready. Estelle meanwhile entertained everyone in the vicinity by babbling and grinning at whoever was in sight; climbing up and over whoever and whatever. Other passengers probably thought we were very unenthusiastic parents, little did they know they were witnessing the walking dead.
We collapsed at home. Poor Estelle who had done so well all weekend and has miraculously escaped this virus (which we discovered Agnes and cousin Cathy's son also had!) hit the wall and took 2 hours to go down but finally all 3 of us were fast asleep by 9:30 last night. Only this morning we were able to eat--Thomas and I have collectively lost a minimum of 4 kilos. Today weak as kittens with some lovely and terrifying memories of our weekend in Paris!

A beautiful interior courtyard street near our apartment.

Estelle's first Parisien metro ride with "uncle" Guillaume!

Sunset on our terrace. You can see the lights on the top of the Eiffel Tower to the right of the big tree, and the Tour de Montparnesse and the Parthenon on the left.

Think of those massive Mobil stations in the states, and then check this out: where you can get your gas in Paris. One pump, on the sidewalk. Simple as that.

Thomas huffing it on the cobblestones of Père Lachaise Sunday morning.
One of the hundreds of paths in Père Lachaise.
Thomas and Estelle up on the bridge of the Parc de Reuilly
I was forced to intervene as Estelle went after this little boy who was 5 months older than her but the same height! She chased that poor kid around for 30 mins.
Playing cards after the picnic. Note the mother in the group to the left of the frame, fast asleep, little does she know what horrors await her that very evening. 8 1/2 months pregnant Melanie, friend of Thomas, had the right idea - lots of pillows. I had to make do with the diaper bag.
Estelle wakes up from her nap and gets in on the bidding.

Walton's Mountain

In May of '92 I graduated from college. The week leading up to the ceremony is known as "senior week" at St. Mike's where I had the good fortune to spend 4 years. During senior week, people sit around 24/7 crying over their beers about the fabulous time they've had, how life will never be the same out in the real world. Which is true. My reaction to all that hype was to make a rash, rash move - 5 days before graduation, I not only cut, but layered and then PERMED my very long, all one length hair.

It was a bold move. Walking into the salon, I felt alive, vibrant, about to tackle "Life after Undergrad" with my new white-girl-Pointer-Sisters-hairdo which I expected to have.

Let's just say that the result was alarming, provoked many, many tears, and when I showed up at my sister's that night, she literally gave me a grocery bag to put on my head. 3 days later, when I finally had come to terms with it, my roommate said "So, let me get this straight, that is the look you were GOING for?" This comment brought on a set-back in my healing process.

I became known that week as Coralee Godsey, from the Walton's. It was a bit scarring.

15 years later, and 2 days ago, in preparation for our jet-set long weekend in Paris, and the celebration of my husband's 30th birthday, I again had my adrenaline running and walked into my salon. "Bangs", I declared to the hairstylist.

3 days later I am still jumping each time I pass a mirror. The nanny gasped when I walked in "My god you look so young!" (we are the same age and she has 3 children the youngest of whom is 8, which puts me in the class of "teenager" compared to her). "Whoa!" said my husband, who continued with "Cool." "Julia Roberts!" said my gay friend. (yeah right). "You needed that" said my Romanian cleaning girl, followed by "now you need blond highlights." (get on with the cleaning, wise-girl). "Can I have another one of your cookies?" said my 16 year old male student, who had nothing to say about my hair. "Oh my god, bangs!" shouted my 18 year old female student before she got across the threshold. But Francois, and the other guys in the bike shop, who saw me 3 times in the morning PRIOR to the cut, and then twice after on the same day, never said anything, as they were too busy laughing at the blow-out in my pants (see previous posting).

Sorry, no photos of the new 'do. Instead, a very short bad quality video, shot thru the fringe of my bangs, thus the poor quality, and I forgot to push a button, hence the infamous clicking. Sorry!

Derrière

You know that scene in Bringing up Baby where Cary Grant steps on the back of Kathryn Hepburn's gown, tearing it off, and he has to get right up behind her and lead her across the dance floor.... could have used Cary today.

I was at my local bike shop 5 different times for some work they're doing on my vélo. This last time Estelle was with me, in her stroller. At one point I bent over to give her a toy and rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip. The entire butt seam of my capris (relatively new and NOT cheap) ripped open. This posed a problem. As it was almost 90 degrees here today, I was without ANYTHING to cover myself. By a stroke of luck, all the biker-heads were so engaged in their biker-talk, standing around in their clip shoes, that no one heard the tearing - which is incredible since the shop is the size of a pantry. Estelle stared, as she heard the sound, but of course associated it with her toy. In 8 seconds I ran thru every quick fix I could think of. No way to get back the 2 blocks to the apt - have to push the stroller, leaving the behind exposed. Rummaged in the diaper bag, nada, Estelle's sleeveless onesie ain't gonna cut it to cover that expanse, no sir.

As usual, I was the ONLY woman in the shop, as I have always, always been the only woman in there. Biking is a very male-dominated sport around here. Finally, I leaned over the counter and gestured to my man, Francois. In the best composed French I could muster, I said: "I'm going to tell you something, and it will seem ridiculous, but just find me a solution. My pants have ripped up the backside. You have to help me. Give me something with long sleeves, anything, I'll bring it back." I've seen a lot of looks from my bike guys, like when they chastise me for not caring for my bike the way I should, or I bring them a wheel that I think must need true-ing and really the problem lies in the tirewall, etc. But the look of sheer glee on Francois' face at that moment was a sight to behold. He dipped into the alcove where the other 2 guys were tinkering on a bike. There was some whispering. A loud "She WHAT?" rang out. The other biker-head clients looked up briefly, then went back to their discussion.

In the end, a black men's long-sleeved sweater was produced from rubble, and round my waist it went. Estelle and I returned to our building, discovered the elevator out of order, and abandoned the stroller in the ground-floor entryway to gracefully slink up 5 flights of stairs, me carrying a baby on one hip and a baguette on the other, tugging at the back of that sweater and hugging the wall each time I encountered one of the French grammies that lives in the building, standing out on the landing bemoaning the broken elevator. (bear in mind one of them has already had my thongs on her terrace - yikes).

I brought the guys back their sweater. They now grin whenever I walk by the shop.

Bear with us

Unless you are one of Estelle's grandmothers, who of course want to see anything and everything, this is boring. But this blog must serve many purposes, notably to show she can walk!
Today when I picked her up after 3 hours at daycare, the nanny said "she hasn't stopped walking all morning!". When I got her home, I fed her, went to change her diaper and she fell asleep on the changing table in front of me- sign of a tired walker.

Fin de la Semaine

The word "weekend" is, if it isn't obvious, an English word. Yet here in France, for many a moon, it has become the French word too for Saturday and Sunday. 25 years ago in French One I even learned how to say "week END", with my rising inflection on the 2nd word, so as to sound more French. The irony is that the Quebecois, so mocked by the French for their accent, have in many ways a language which is more representative of "true" French. Thus in Quebec they still say "Fin de la semaine" - literally end of the week. I can vouch for this from when I lived in Quebec 9 years ago and was tickled to find all the Quebecois around me saying it. They do not say "faire du shopping" like in France, but rather, "magasiner" - to go to the stores. The list goes on.
That said, we had a great "weekend", our first Saturday and Sunday with no trips, no visitors, and no working in Monaco for Thomas, since early June. It felt luxurious, decadent, endless, delightful.
Here are some highlights:
To celebrate Thomas' first Saturday morning sleeping in (faisant la grasse matinée - this means literally having a "fat" morning, or, as the brits would say "to have a lie in"), Estelle and I slinked downstairs to the bakery in our bldg in our pyjamas, and Estelle had her first mini-croissant, hot off the press.
One great thing about living in a city is that you're a 10 minute walk away when the circus comes to town. This morning a famous circus troup offered 2 euro admission to watch them rehearsing, and then you could visit the animals. Estelle was speechless and very attentive of the tigers and ponies and their tricks.

yep, that is an ostrich. Why the pacifer, you may ask? It is not a fear of the animals. Poor Estelle has a molar the size of Mount Helen erupting in her right cheek, thus making her prone to the need for anything to soothe her, the poor thing.

It was a weekend of cooking and baking. I have, miraculously after 6 years of searching, found something resembling Crisco. My baking prayers are answered. I made chocolate chip cookies for a birthday party of a little boy we went to, and they were ALMOST like normal. I attribute the differences to: having to chop up bars of chocolate because I couldn't find any chocolate chips in the stores (do you HEAR my pain over here? I mean, the BASICS, chocolate chips for the love of pete), and no light brown sugar - only dark. Having said that, I also forked out All-Bran muffins, my mother's fave, and a bacon prune loaf (sounds gross, but man was it tasty), Here is Thomas' contribution: leek and goat cheese quiche:

Another perk of where we live is the Port - boats, boats and more boats. Great chance to get your sea legs on today with the municipality sponsoring a regatta of antique large-size sailboats, dating from the end of the 1800's to the 1920's. This was all part of "Jour de la Patrimoine", which is the annual National Heritage Day. This means free entry into historical buildings, many of which are not open to the public normally, stuff like that. So today in Nice, for this regatta, there were free boat rides out into the sea to see all the sailboats in the competition. Off we went, after the post-circus nap. The sun was blazing, and the city had the kindness to hand out hilarious bright red hats to everyone. Here are photos from that hour-long excursion out on this passenger tour boat.





It's all fun and games until now, as we await the next rugby game in the Rugby World Cup, France is playing Nambia, let's hope they win.....

Another Humdrum Video

I believe I have eliminated the annoying background clicks. As a result, we are left with silence while examining the inner workings of the belly button.

Post-Bath

As juxtapostion to yesterday's sad tone, here is nothing special from after the bath last night. Forgive the quality, I am going to get better at this.

911

My Dad used to talk about where he was on Dec 7, 1941, when he first heard about Pearl Harbor. Radio was the means of transmitting the news. For my older siblings, TV brought Kennedy's assasination into startling focus. The internet and a cell phone starting the unfolding of the most surreal day to date in my life, 6 years ago while living in DC. I often think of all those families who lost all those people in such a public fashion, and wonder where they all are in their grief, six years later. For that matter, where is America? Bin Laden is still at large, and four and a half years later, Americans, and countless Iraqis, civilians and otherwise, are still dying in Iraq. 4 1/2 years - it is almost as incredible a figure as the lives lost on 911.
A perhaps equally surreal memory is the fact that I frequently think of what I did on the evening of Sept 10th. It was a Monday night, my nephew Wayne had just been born 2 days prior up in Vermont, and I was to fly up there and see him just a few days later, before moving to France on the Fulbright for a 9-month stay. I was seeing as many people as I could before my move, and I sat out on the well-known and mildly glamourous rooftop terrace of the Hotel Washington, looking out over the White House and all the national monuments. With 3 good friends who had all lived in Manhattan at the same time as me, I savored a number of delightful dirty martinis over appetizers, thrilled at the size of the olives on the little swords, and appreciative of the stunning sunset view. We howled over old stories and told new ones. Too late we all took cabs home and slumped our way to work the next morning on the metro. By 9 am, the world was on fire. I have yet to go back to that rooftop terrace, as I prefer that last happy memory intact, before madness struck us all.

Weekend Fun

Birthday parties, Pancakes, Walks (or assisted walks!) in the Parc....
What weekends are all about.

This is Estelle with her old boyfriend Alessandro, who unfortunately moved away. But he was back for a birthday party on the beach, and so they enjoyed opening and playing with the gifts of the birthday boy, who was more interested in sucking his thumb than any of his toys! No photos of that sorry.
Sunday morning, Estelle has her first pancake with Uncle Wesley and Uncle Cedric's syrup.
2.5 hours later, time to harass Daddy during HIS pancake breakfast to have seconds.

Fueled with pancakes, we explored a regional park up in the high hills on Nice. What you see in this photo is the peninsula called Cap Ferrat, the bay on the right is called Beaulieu/Villefrance, the bay on the left, St. Jean. This is a tres elite area between Nice and Monaco. I remind readers to click on the photos to see them larger....

Walking with each parent taking a turn, since suddennly walking all alone is no more fun like it was in the video from Friday night. We don't know what happenned. She's taking a breather, I guess!