911

Hard to believe it's been 7 years.
Wondering how all those families, all those fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers and sons and daughters of all those people are holding up today.
Interestingly, so far, at 2 p.m. I have neither seen nor heard any mention of the anniversary over here in France, neither on the news or in emails or anything. Certainly must not be the case in America today.
I can almost feel the recycled cardboard ring around my Starbucks cup in my hand that I was holding in DC when I walked thru the glass doors at the office and my friend at work said "Look at this hoax photo on CNN of some plane hitting one of the twin towers".
On last year's blog I talked about what I did the night before the attacks - how I, like everyone, was having a casual Monday night, totally unaware of what some others had planned for the rest of the world just a few hours later.
When I was 22 years old in 1993 and living in New York, I worked in the World Trade Center in one of the towers as a temp. I worked on the 102nd floor for about 3 weeks for a company called Cantor Fitzgerald. I think I had to take 3 different elevators to get to work - I can barely remember. But I do recall the rush of energy when I would come up out of the 1 and the 9 subway from the Village, so many men in business suits and briefcases, long before the age of cell phones, hustling along, juggling their blue cups of deli take-out coffee. I was totally taken with it all and loved every second of my stint there. I was the one of two other women in this huge office of men on phones and staring at screens, hollering and bickering all day. Such a vibe I have rarely seen. It was, for that young Vermont girl, impressive. The take-out lunches and chopsticks and the reubens and pastrami sandwiches they would all eat at their desks. Totally enthralling, all of it. And all of it crashed down in a matter of seconds on this day.
Still shocking, 7 years later, and still sad.

Last Days of Summer

Here's a few shots of a trip to the beach last Sunday morning, Plage Passable, St. Jean Cap Ferrat....

Note the gigantic cruise ship in the bay behind Estelle and Thomas.


And a few from another beach trip a few weeks back in Villefranche...




This little boy in blue that we met at the beach, Samuel, took to Estelle's toys. He was 14 months old, his mother was 7 1/2 months pregnant. Yowza. Now that's just about Irish twins. Though she wasn't Irish, she was English. We had a nice chat.

One leftover shot from Estelle's birthday at Villefranche with Ines...

What does she do when she's not at the beach?

Get blue stuff on her face. Or, as illustrated below, dishevel the sofa. Note Winnie the Pooh and Mr. Potato Head are both victims of "The Couch Cushion Fort Gone Wrong"

Invite Ines over for a crackerjack play date:


When all else fails, there's always Daddy and Duplos....

The Yellow Cover

Two Christmases ago my sister Joan and I both submitted stories we had written to a competition for a Burlington Vermont blackbox theater's performance - "Winter Tales". They were both selected, along with 4 or 5 other "amateur" stories.

Mine was about sliding. Joan's was about a dream my mother had once. In the 50's, my Dad made her buy a $6.50 subscription to Nat'l Geographic, despite her insisting that the kids (around 5 or 7 were born at the time) needed new shoes, not literature. She had subsequently had a dream one night of her children clad in the Nat'l Geo yellow magazine covers instead of shoes, trodding thru the Vermont winter. While my story had been about snow, danger, ice, my brothers, speed, competition, and all-out thrill, Joan's story was about vision, hope, priorities, compromises, dreams in the night and dreams of what can be. She mentions in her story how, years later in the 70's, she herself happened to be quoted in a particular issue of National Geographic in which Vermont featured as one of the main pieces. There's much more to her story, but that is for another blog, perhaps.

I was not in VT 2 years ago for the performances that holiday season, but reports were favorable.

Just 3 days ago, I ran across the script from that performance here in my apt in Nice and re-read both our stories, being inspired to re-evaluate my "work" as I'm in the middle of reading Eudora Welty's "One Writer's Beginnings".

This morning I was pushing Estelle in her stroller doing errands when I saw a well-dressed and impeccably groomed older woman parading into the local thrift store carrying a box of toys. On the top, carefully nestled, I could spot a Lego Bucket. I followed her in. She handed the donation over to the lady running the shop. The shop owner clearly knew her, and greeted her graciously. I could see everything was in top condition. She clicked on her heels and left.

I said to the man working there who was starting to unpack the box "Could I see those Legos please?" I knew I had a bit of money on me and that was all since I was in fact on my way to the bank.

The counter lady sized up the bucket as I laid it in front of her and proclaimed "2 euros". Estelle started hollering "Legos!" for all concerned parties in the near vicinity. I balanced my bag on my thigh and dug for my change purse (because of course, 2 euros are coins, not bills). Something caught my eye below my leg. The oh-so-familiar yellow covers and spines of the National Geographic. "LEGOS" insisted Estelle. I pulled out my 2 coin piece. My eye went back to the yellow covers, haphazardly piled, spilling like dominos next to old handbags and eyeglass cases and clip-on earrings in the section next to the counter that is a bit of no-man's land. At this second glance, I could see they were all in English - surprising. And not glossy or recent.

I crouched down. Immediately the dates on all those spines jumped out at me - all early 70's. Before I even got my hand reached out to the issue on the top, I could see the spine on the one just below it, and the second word listing the issue's topics on the spine jumped out at me "VERMONT". July, 1974. I snatched it out from under and straightened myself up in one movement, like I had been shot out of a cannon. Some kind of sound came out of me, a sort of gasp, a cry, something, I wish I had a video. Estelle ceased clamouring for the Legos and stared at me. The ladies behind the counter followed suit. She who was still in the process of storing away my 2-euro coin looked at me. I know my mouth was open and I must have just raised my eyebrows or something. "Oh those little booklets are free with any purchase" she nodded at my prize. "Free?" I stammered. "Why yes, no one will pay for those. And they're not French."
I had recovered myself by then. "My sister is quoted in this!" I hollered to the store in general. "This is my state! My state Vermont, where I am from in America, see?" And I thrust the cover under her nose, jabbing at the headline for the article on the cover.

What they said or thought in response I'll never know because I didn't even stay to hear it. I was giddy, touched by the hand of fate, and turned clutching the magazine and my Lego Bucket to my breast. Out the door we went, and on the sidewalk I opened up the lightly musty pages, flipping thru until I landed on a photo that just said home. I didn't even need to look at the words. Like any true Yankee, I recognize home when I see it. There it was, pages and pages of home, 35 years ago home. Green, and white steeples, peaked roofs, cows, the steam of sugarhouses, and fiery opinions.

Soon I was on the phone to Joan, calling her at dawn to discuss. Like me, she believes our father drops in now and again when he sees fit. I'm quite sure I've seen him more than once in the form of a moose (laugh if you will, but until you're staring down a moose in your own driveway for several minutes, you may not comment). One time in fact she was with me. When I recounted her my events of this morning, she said with a matter-of-fact lilt "Well, THAT'S Dad." She said it to no one in particular over that phone line I suppose, because of course I already knew.

Now of course I wonder, where did they come from? Who is somewhere near this little shop, off the beaten tourism track, in Nice, France, that had a stock of early 1970's National Geographics in English? I would love to know.

No matter. I've had a spring in my step all day, grateful for whoever that brought home a little closer to me in such a delightful and clever fashion.

A Musical Strain in the Family

Though I have not been blessed with the same amazing musical talents as many of my siblings (i.e. you know who you are, me with lessons for 7 years and not much to show for it and you do nothing and you're like George Winston, you bum!), I can hold my own.
Here's my daughter, showing she too likes a good tune.

Singing a traditional French children's rhyming marvel, entitled "Twirl around, Peanut" = Piroutte Cacahouette.....

Here are the words in French, and my translation in parentheses....
You see that Estelle, all by herself, is getting the gist of the first 3 verses!

Il était un petit homme (There was a little man)
Pirouette cacahuète
Il était un petit homme
Qui avait une drôle de maison (2x) (Who had a funny little house)

La maison est en carton (His house was made of cardboard)
Pirouette cacahuète
La maison est en carton
Les escaliers sont en papier (2x) (And the steps were made of paper)

Le facteur y est monté (The mailman went up them)
Pirouette cacahuète
Le facteur y est monté
Il s'est cassé le bout du nez (2x) (And he broke the end of his nose)

On lui a raccommodé (But we put him back together)
Pirouette cacahuète
On lui a raccommodé
Avec du joli fil doré (2x) (With some pretty golden string)

Le beau fil, il s'est cassé (The pretty string, it broke)
Pirouette cacahuète
Le beau fil, il s'est cassé
Le bout du nez s'est envolé (2x) (And the end of his nose went flying)

Un avion à réaction (An jet airplane)
Pirouette cacahuète
Un avion à réaction
A rattrapé le bout du nez (2x) (Caught the end of his nose)

Mon histoire est terminée (Now my story is finished)
Pirouette cacahuète
Mon histoire est terminée
Messieurs, mesdames applaudissez (2x) (Ladies and gentlemen, clap for me)

And here's some dance moves to an English cd of kids singing that I found in the library:

Birthday bash

Everyone is turning 2.
Yesterday we went to a national park in a town called "Villeneuve-Loubet", between Nice and Antibes, for the birthday party of Thomas, member of our little clan.
There were lots of cakes and drinks, a long boules tournament for the four papas, and a long afternoon of chasing kids around the playground for the four mamas.
Here are a few photos.
You'll recognize Elliot, still blonder and tanner than usual after 3 weeks in Brazil with his parents, the birthday boy wearing a cap, and another little girl with curly hair named Manon.

That's Elliot's dad Arnaud crouching down next to him, and Celine, mother to the birthday boy sitting in between him and Estelle.

Laurence, Manon's mom, poses in front of a heart-shaped "chocolat fondant" she made. To die for. For you champagne buffs, the flutes hold something called "Cremat". A special division of champagne or something like that.


Couldn't catch these kids!

Lots of exciting climbing/sliding/fall-down-and-terrify-your-mother structures all over this big fenced-in playground. Needless to say Elliot, even wearing flip-flops, could master it all with very little assistance needed. So of course Estelle tried to follow him.

This is Fransiska "showing" Elliot how to climb a climbing-ramp. He didn't need any help. He just walked up the thing, at an angle!

Estelle discovers swings. Anyone who knows me from my childhood knows I have a thing for swings. My dad built me a natural set of swings, complete with a tire swing, in our meadow hanging from two huge maple trees for my 7th birthday. I have very very fond memories. This wasn't quite the same idea, but it's a start.

Every single toy or truck with wheels that belonged to anyone in this playground got a test drive by Elliot at some point in the afternoon. Literally, you can't catch this kid!

Estelle discovers a paddle-ball.

We got home LATE! 8:30! And all 3 of us were filthy so no question of skipping the bath. Suffice to say it is 9 a.m. Sunday morning and he is still fast asleep! So much for an early morning trip to the beach as we had planned! Oh well, it was worth it.

Le Monument des Morts

Built into the side of the chateau hill is Nice's War Monument. I remember the first time I stumbled onto it my first year here - stopped me in my tracks. It's around the corner from the "bay" side of the city, and the extension of the famous Promenade des Anglais (Nice's celebrated seaside walk) from the bay to the Port (where we live) has brought much more recognition to this monument because people walk, run, ride or blade past now. Quite nestled and set back from the humming tourism that surrounds it - it is amazingly calm and solemn, and, as you can see, larger than life.
It has hommages to WWI, WWII, Indochina and all the branches of the military who fought, as well as the beloved Resistance.
One day in July we puttered around it with Estelle and I must admit it was a bit like being at the Vietnam Wall in DC. So many names.

Thomas took this photo of Estelle and I sitting down to try and give some perspective as to the size of this monument. He was not even "backed up" all the way to the Promenade when he took it.

If you look closely at these wide "steps", you will see something carved into the face of them in the center. It is the longhand wording for each year of World War One. Example "Mille Neuf Cent Quatorze" (for 1914), etc. Thus the steps were a choice, each step representing one year of the war, leading up to all the names of the lifes taken.
What looks like just the cut of the rocks is actually names. Look carefully at these photos and you'll see.

Some striking sculptures hovering over all those names.

"Outremer" is the French word for "overseas". As France has/had colonies all over the world, these are now referred to as "Les DOM-TOMS". This means "Departement Outre-Mer and Territoire Outre-Mer". I think this means places like La Reunion, Martinique, Guadeloupe, etc. I could go on and on listing them because the tentacles of France are/were long and tenacious!

This is the view towards the sea, looking out from the monument.

One section dedicated to the Resistance. It says "The time of Oppression came, and Freedom found here on our soil, men and women who, so that she (=Freedom) could live, would accept torture and death"

All a bit humbling on a Sunday afternoon. I did think of all the families of all those dead men, and wondered how they all made it through their grief. The French thankfully are not dying in Iraq, like my own unfortunate countrymen and the countless others.

Film Shorts

A few short films to keep you occupied:
Estelle and Ines:

Estelle's shoe fetish:

Calvinet soccer tournie day

Visits from Friends

In between Estelle's birthday and now, we've had quite a few visitors. Some for several nights, some just for an afternoon.
Here's photos of visits from friends:
July 23-28 Annual visit from Simon. Simon is one of my best friends from my very first year in Nice, long before I ever imagined meeting Thomas and staying here! (People who came to the French wedding remember meeting him there.) We struggled thru that first year of teaching together. He lives in London. Simon comes every year for a visit. Usually he comes with Amy, another London friend from the Fulbright year. But Ames couldn't make it this year, so Si came with Hamza, another friend from the same year but who was teaching in Salon de Provence, not Nice. Hamza's name, and I mean his real name, like on his passport, is Hamza Hamza. He was born in Syria and lived in Kuwait until his parents moved him and his 3 brothers to London at age 9. He says he's heard every joke there is about his name. Si and I tried to come up with some new ones during their stay but to no avail. I really enjoyed getting to know him better and learning LOTS and LOTS of things I didn't know about Syria, Kuwait, the Middle East in general, and being Muslim. I only forgot and tried to serve him pork one time - he says that is pretty good considering I am American! ha ha After that I went to the Hallal butcher for the remainder of their stay to make sure not to screw up again - for anyone who might not be familiar, Hallal for the Muslims is like Kosher for the Jewish.
Anyways, they of course got sunburned (how does a Syrian get sunburned?), which we expect from Simon every year, despite me being more vigilant about his sunscreen application than I even am about Estelle's!

Estelle loved having them around. And I loved having 2 people speaking the Queen's English around Estelle for 6 days. We did Eze, Villefranche, Antibes, and lots of strolls in Nice with lots of memories of the old days....
Here we are buying cookies for Hamza in the old town. Hamza has something called Addison's disease, which means he can't drink a drop of alcohol. He compensates with sweets.
I brushed up on all my English expressions, like "right mate", trousers instead of pants, lift for elevator, and fun expressions such as: "quality" and "ledge" (Ledge is short for "Legend", which is what the boys said when I made them pancakes. It's a one word expression the Brits use to mean 'This is the stuff of legend". I felt quite international.)

3 days later, the night before we left for our Auvergne/Cantal vacation, we had a nice visit from Thomas' old hockey friend from Angers, Francois and his GF Valerie. Francois and Thomas were on skates together at age 3.

After returning from vacation, Estelle had a play date with Ines, whom readers have seen in a previous post. She is 5 months older than Estelle. They met at the municipal day care where Estelle goes a few afternoons. Sadly Ines is moving to a different kind of day care nearby where the kids can go all day long = ours is technically something called a "halte-garderie" - which closes between 12 and 2 p.m. You know the French, they like their lunch hour! At any rate, Ines lives down the block, and they really enjoy each other's company.



When I was pregnant with Estelle, teaching friends from the University threw a fun shower for me and gave me a fantastic old wooden high chair with decoupage on it. That was all orchestrated by my good friend Larissa, who is from Toronto. My last year teaching at the Uni was her first year, and she and I were "twins" - had the same schedule. We had stayed in touch and she is back in France for the first time since she left, just after Estelle's birth. Her BF, Laurent, is from Cogolin, near St. Tropez. He has moved to Toronto, and he too just recently got his breakthrough papers for Canada - similar to what just happenned to me here. He got his working visa. Larissa is a 3rd and 4th grade looping teacher in a French immersion private school in Toronto. It's so interesting to hear about the school program.
We got to see Laurent for one evening and then Larissa came back and stayed with us for 3 days. I only have one photo? How is that possible? I think because she took all the pictures!

August 15th - Assumption. This is a national holiday is France - yet another Catholic holiday that means everything is closed but my own husband is incapable of telling me why August 15th is a holdiay - couldn't even identify Assumption. Gotta love the French.
Who cares - the important thing is it is the day our little friend Maxence was born here in Nice, in the same clinic as Angelina Jolie/Brad Pitt's twins. She was down from Paris with her parents and we went to her birthday party in Grasse, perfume capital of France, past Cannes but not on the coast.
Here's Melanie with Maxence and Estelle


The little girl, Ambre (in the middle) was another Parisian friend at the festivities. She is 3 1/2 and a cracker!


On Sunday we went with Larissa to the well-known Plage Paloma in St. Jean which you saw photos of Thomas & Estelle on from the previous post. While walking there from the car, we discovered benches shaped like whales' tails. This was REALLY interesing for Estelle.

Yesterday Estelle and I took the train for 30 mins to Biot, which is right next to Antibes. We went to visit my friend Chantal. How I came to meet Chantal is pretty crazy. Read or don't read this story, your choice:
In 1999, when I was doing my master's at AU in DC, I had to do a short 40-hour observation practicum in a middle school as part of my program. I wound up doing this in Bethesda, Maryland, near to where I worked for Michael (everyone who knows me know who I mean when I say Michael). The teacher, Marie-Claude, was a French woman from Amiens, France - this is a nice city in the northern part of the country, about 2 hours northwest of Paris - WWI and WWII country.
Anyways, a year and a half after I did the observation period, the teacher asked me to chaperone an exchange trip with her students to Amiens. Free trip to France? Count me in - when I said yes I was still in the Fulbright application process. In June of 2001, we got on the plane. I almost cancelled because it was just weeks after we lost my Dad. But in the end I went. One the last night of the trip, the private school we exchanged with hosted a little banquet for us with all the students involved. A woman came up to me and said "Someone tells me you have 10 brothers and sisters, is that true?" It was Chantal, who, like me, is one of 11 children. She was the school nurse at that private school in Amiens, and attended the banquet that night because she has always enjoyed cultural exchange and Marie-Claude was an old friend of hers. At that point I knew I had the Fulbright and was coming to Nice. She gave me her phone number and address and said "I have an apt near Antibes where I go in the summer and on most of my school vacations. We could get together when I am down there and you have arrived in Nice."
That was 7 years ago. I have seen Chantal countless, countless times. She came to my wedding and to Estelle's baptism. She introduced me to lots of things my first year here when I didn't know I'd be coming back for so long! I've met all her children and grandchildren. One time she saw me on a date with a French guy my first year and after she said "That guy's an idiot. Get rid of him!" I did. We've gone to the Citrus festival together, the beach, the Carnival, and had more than one chat about being from a family of 11. We are different in personality and age, for sure, but on a very primal level, she gets me, and I get her. It's a big family thing.
Here's Estelle living it up on the train. This was a big deal for her!

Here is Estelle having the time of her life with Chantal's grandsons, Pierre and Paul. She really enjoyed eating an adult-sized pain au chocolat with Paul. This was really fun!


Thomas came to join us after work and take a dip in Chantal's pool. Then we went into their apt for champagne to celebrate Chantal's retirement - 30+ years of nursing!
Estelle enjoyed her escorts of Paul (left) and Pierre on her right, plus on the far right 2 other little boys at the pool in Chantal's "residence" - this means like a private gated apartment complex. The boys were fascinated by this little girl who could understand her Mommy speaking to her in English and yet talked to everybody in French.

In this photo you see Chantal's daughter, Nathalie (mother to P & P), who works at the CDG airport, and Michel, Chantal's husband.

Lots of Friends! Lots of fun!

True Love

Sometimes just a little piece of paper can make all the difference.



This is the "ticket" from the Prefecture of Nice that was put into my hand this morning. With this ticket (numbers started at 500) I was able to meet with an immigration agent and, after 20 mins, get handed my temporary 10 YEAR visa. This is an amazing thing. Not many people can appreciate the level of trauma that non-Europeans experience in the French admin and the Nice Prefect in particular - so it's ok if faithful readers have a lukewarm reaction. I don't mind. Suffice to say that today is a monumental day in my life. It means I have at least 10 years before I have to go thru the humbling and humiliating experience again that I have sadly had to submit myself to about a dozen times over the past 7 years. Many tears and many sleepless nights and stomach upsets have been provoked by these experiences. So, as Mammy says to Rhett, "Today shoe iz a happy day."

Who made it possible? This charming man below:


This man, my husband, got up at 5:30 and drove to the Prefecture (on the other side of the city) to start waiting in line for me at 6:15 a.m. At 7:45 our bbsitter arrived and I took the bus out to meet him, a 50 minute ride. He was 3rd in line.
I then had to try to get to him - impossible to "cut in" as the whole place in barricaded. Only one thing to do - try to get to the front of the line from the back of the line. We are talking a couple hundred people.
I just stepped up to the end and started hollering (in French) "PLEASE LET ME THRU. I AM NOT CUTTING THE LINE. MY HUSBAND IS AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE. PLEASE LET ME THRU. THANK YOU. I AM JOINING MY HUSBAND AT THE FRONT OF THE LINE. HE IS ALREADY IN LINE. PLEASE. THANK YOU." I repeated this, politely but loudly, and as I was dressed all in white, started to feel a bit like Moses. Little by little people let me thru, and eventually I saw Thomas, waving to me and hollering out "IT'S OKAY. IT'S MY WIFE." One smart aleck guy said to me "Yeah, my husband's at the front of the line too." But nobody tried to attack me so I can handle a few mean jokes.

We waited together about 20 mins, they opened this 2nd set of doors, the security guards let you in 10 at a time. They scream at you "DON'T RUN. NO RUNNING."
Then you get to the 3rd barrier, a large metal overheard door, which opens like a garage door. Some people try to crawl under and cut the line, but they got barked back by some Algerians and Moroccans. Then you wait behind a red line until the Ticket Man motions you forward. For 6 years it has been the same Ticket Lady. She must have retired because there was a young guy today. Or probably she is on vacation and this is a substitute. He didn't ask me any questions, just gave me my ticket. Which Thomas and I both found odd. Normally Ticket Lady won't give you your ticket until she sees that you have all your documents and photos and copies. But Today's Ticket Man just gave me my number, 502. Incidentally, he is now protected behind a huge fiberglass partition. That's new from last year too.

The big LCD screen beeped "502", "502, Station 6". It's loud. Makes people jump. and we went to meet our maker. One would say they're not exactly a friendly lot, these civil servants. All business, no pleasantries, little eye contact. I thank god had every single thing she asked me for. Passport, Visa, 3 pay stubs, 3 months of bank statements with my name, 3 months of bank statements with both our names, various things with both our names: gas bill, electricity bill, landline phone bill, lease, marriage "livret" (kind of the French version of the family bible), Thomas' passport, 3 passport photos, my original form that I rec'd with my national health insurance card 7 years ago. All of these things she wanted to see the original and you have to bring your own copies. Then Thomas has to go to a different line and pay 70 euros (like 100 dollars) for a special stamp (looks just like a postage stamp). He comes back with this dinky stamp, and she slaps it on the whole file. We sign in 200 places and then she gives me a temporary piece of paper and says in about 6 weeks I'll get a notice in the mail (let's hope the mail theives don't strike that day) to come back and pick up the real deal. This does not require the crazy line-staking out nonsense, hallelujah.

Thomas heads off to work, and I get back on the bus into town.

If that's not love, what is? The man stood in line for me for 3 hours.

As Prince says, I would die for you!


And he doesn't just do nice things for me...here he is with Estelle Sunday morning on the beach at St. Jean Cap Ferrat, peninsula sticking out into the sea - this famous beach, Plage Paloma, faces northward back towards the mainland. These photos are looking east, to the cliffs next to Monaco.