Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Home again...almost.

Well, it has been nearly a week since we left Paris.  Irony of ironies, we found ourselves leaving rue des ecoles exactly one year to the day of when we found our home away from home.  It was a bittersweet day in that I bid adieu to my new, dear friend Gabrielle.  Each of us looking at the other, asking,"Do you have a cold?" and each of us grasping onto that excuse to explain the glassy eyes and sniffling. 

I looked at the apartment, devoid of our belongings, those things that added our character to the place and I knew I was ready to go home.

After a whirlwind month of last minute guests and friends who had long ago planned an autumn in Paris and in addition to the myriad of visits from transportation and transition assistants, I was packed and ready to go.  I had visited the Louvre, the Luxembourg, and Normandy.  We revisited a few old favorite restaurants and packed in quite a few from our must visit list into the waning days and nights of our sojourn.  It was a bit of sensory overload at times and in the midst of it all, there were the farewells to new friends and places that were forming my Paris network.  I cried a little; actually a lot less than I thought I would.  I guess the remaining weeks with a few friends, scoping out the markets, favored walkways and benches afforded me the best way to say good-bye.  It hurt a little, but I was glad to be going home.

The French did there best to give us a good bye and a bad bye...of course, it is so French to do this.  The people who became a part of my day to day life were sad to hear we were leaving.  Even the folks at the salon welled up a little as I said good bye.  The guys at our favorite pizza place on Rue Cluny were surprised that we were leaving so soon and I snuck a quick hug from one of the guys who every day would say Bonjour and Buon giorno to Reilly and me as we passed by on one of our regular excursions down to the river.  And in almost every case, our voisins wanted to know if we would miss Paris....do we love Paris....and remember the good things about Parisians....yes, of course and we'll try!

But October brought strikes and trash and impatience.  Parisians were not always at their best, and yet for the most part, they persevered.  Just when you thought people would come together because of the increased terror threats and the unending protests, sometimes our Parisian neighbors would get a little cranky and roll their eyes if our French was flawed or if you dared to ask for un caraf d'eau instead of buying bottled water....uh oh!  We found ourselves giving lots of tips, even though gratutities are built into the tab...whether it was our parting gift or a token to soothe ruffled feathers...we always left a little something more.

I can proudly claim that in the 10+ plus months I spent in Paris, going back to last October on our expeditionary tour, I did not step in any merde!  This is truly un exploit incroyable!  As my husband says,"It is good to have goals and to make them."  I am pleased. For sure, I am happy to leave that part of Paris behind us.

So coming home has been interesting.  I am glad to be back with Reilly and Gracie, our cat.  Paris was not the same without my little walking buddy and boy was she and will she be missed by all the folks who made her acquaintance.  But my little snuggle bunny was so happy to see me and I her...when  she jumped up into my arms, I felt at home.

We have been advised that repatriating can be as difficult as moving abroad.  I thought, heck, it was just under a year we were away and we are coming back to our hearth and home in Groton.  How hard can it be?  Well, it is a wee bit difficult.  I feel like I am stuck in a transitional vacuum.  I have no rhyme or rhythm to my days yet.  I do go out onto the deck and drink in the sights, sounds and scents.  But I feel a bit like a rudderless ship.  I have been home  for a few days now and giving a nod to the fact that I have been a bit under the weather and a little jet lagged, I am surprised that I have yet to see anyone...Groton carried on without me (duh) and here I am...empty nesting it again...and feeling like someone pushed the pause button in my life, but the rest of the feature continues on.  Bill is up to his eyeballs, gleefully, with work and people and meetings. So far, I have had a couple of phone calls with family and the refrigerator repair people.  So the struggle for purpose driven life strikes again!

I feel a little like I have arrived too late to a race and I am standing at the starting line, but there is no starter...I can see my friends so far ahead of me in this little race of life and I am frozen, wondering how am I ever going to catch up.  Surprisingly too, I am a bit afraid.  I am afraid that because people moved on without me, they don't need me.  I am afraid that some of the changes I have made in my life and style may not be well received here at home...well with the exception of Champagne Thursdays...my friends are liking that idea.

And speaking of Champagne Thursday, this lovely little tradition I am bringing back alive and well from Paris, it is my first effort at reconnecting with the good folks at home.  I have had a few acceptances and a few regrets sent my way...and I am looking forward to hosting une bonne fete in a couple of weeks.  I guess I have to be patient and decide if  I am going to dive back into a new life or enter one toe at a time.  I wasn't expecting a ticker tape parade upon our return, but I wasn't expecting to feel so alone in my own backyard.  I own this by the way...that fear thing has a grip on me.  I need to spark that idea that will get me out there, challenging myself once again.  I have to make my own music and create a new rhythm for my life.  Will it be a march, a waltz, a tango?  Hmm.

I am not feeling sorry for myself.  I am not disappointed in my friends and family.  I just didn't know what to expect.  I think I experienced a temporary reprieve from empty-nest syndrome, Parisian style.  I shed one skin, grew a new one and now I have to think about how well this new one will fit back in the good old USA, in good old Groton, but in a completely unscripted future.  I am a very late 40 something-ish woman who had plans to do something new and challenging...and I went to Paris and there I did something extraordinary.  Now I am back.  I can't find my plans...I have to look deep for them I guess.  I look back to where I was over a year ago and that me is sooo far away I can barely see her.  There is such a great divide behind me and all the bridges seem to have crumbled away.  There is another greater divide before me and I don't see any bridges.  I guess I have to look around for the resources to build some.  Anyone out there have a hammer?

I hope to keep writing.  I like it. I just need to think up a new topic for the next blog. 

So here is a tip of my beret to what Frank Sinatra once so aptly sang...the best is yet to come...I hope you will join me.   I am at my house...come home.

Monday, October 4, 2010

Transitions American Style

I can hardly believe that it is almost time to return to Paris for the last time as "ex-pats".  It has been a strange passage of time during this extended home visit. For the most part, I have been a guest in my own home.  My niece and her husband, who graciously agreed to stay in the house while we were abroad have infused themselves happily into our house...this is a good thing...we wanted them to be at home here.  These past few weeks have found us engaged in a strange dance around the living spaces...his kitchen/her kitchen...the passing of the remote...oh no, its okay, we can watch this.  Did you feed the cat...cats...dog?  I'll mow the lawn...okay, well you can do it since you have a system.  We are managing thus far without stepping on toes but it is an awkward dance and the steps change every day.

It is quite strange, I have no real sense of time.  I am often surprised that the day has come and gone...and even more so that nearly a month has come and gone.  The biggest clue about time has been my hair...I am in desperate need of a haircut.  I am lookng forward to my rendez-vous at the end of next week, but I am sad it will be my last "coiffure".  Ironically, the day we leave Paris will be exactly one year to the day that we found our apartment on rue des ecoles.  Funny.

I have been peaceful in Groton.  I have rested.  I must say that there is nothing like a good night's sleep which has been ushered in gently by cool breezes blowing in opened windows.  Nightime, as dark as a pocket, quiets the mind.  And the soft country noises are one of the most beautiful lullabies of my lifetime.

I have been driving my new car...a blessing and a curse.  Living in the country means driving for necessity.  I walk for pleasure, but the weather as of late has not been very condusive for the most part. I was a bit spoiled in Paris.  Everything I needed was in walking distance.  Monoprix, the grocery store was down the block and across the street.  The boulangerie (bakery) was a half a block up the street in the other direction...fresh bread every day!  Just a half a block further was my florist...yep, I had a florist whom I visited 2 or 3 times a month for fresh flowers.  Reilly and I walked four or five times a day for her needs and my exercise.  Walking saved me in Paris.  I am going to have to figure out a comparatively vigourous and beneficial way to walk back here at home.  My waistband is telling me subtly that I am becoming American again...French women aren't fat (wink, wink).

I am in love with the subtle autumnal changes.Nowhere on earth is there more beauty than right here and right now.  Saturday, I stood on the front stoop and raised my face to the sun as it dappled through the trees toward me.  I enjoyed its warmth and I thought I could feel the colors of the trees on my skin.  I stood there like that for a long time.  I was truly happy.

I have a week to go before returning to Paris.  We have friends coming for a last visit.  I am glad they will be joining us even though the remainder of our time will be a bit frantic.  Showing Paris to Barbara and Joe will help me say good-bye to my home away from home.  We'll go to our favorite restaurants and cafes.  We'll walk along the river or through the gardens.  I plan on taking tons of pictures; not of the touristy things, but of the people, places and objects that became familiar.  From the gargoyle the greeted me every day outside my living room window to the walrus mustachioed waiter at the Cafe Sorbonne...I want these pictures for my home in Groton as a reminder of where I was and also of who I was for the past year.

I have been warned that it is not easy to come back to the US after an extended period of time.  Phase One of Operation Homecoming has definitely proved this to be true.  I am hoping that once back into a routine and with the holidays to look forward to, I will regain my sense of place and time.  Until then, I will enjoy this visit and in 24 days I will leave Paris again, but I will never let go.  It is cliche yet true, I will always have Paris.

Thursday, September 16, 2010

Top Ten List: What I Won't Miss About Paris

With the sudden change in our living abroad experience and the recurrent question of, "So what are you going to miss when you leave Paris?" being asked at every turn, I have been reflecting on our past year and "pense" about my French immersion.  So far it has been easier to recognize what I won't be missing...so with a tip of the chapeau to David Letterman, here is My Top Ten List of Things I will NOT be missing (subject to further review and amending)

10)  Andouillette Sausage (it is made from stomach and intestines...bwerk!)
9)  Parisians who,with noses firmly planted in books, newspapers or on their mobile, plow into me on the sidewalk even though I have been zigging and zagging in anticipation of their meandering collision course, only to look at me with disdain, as if it were my fault they walked into me.
8)  Cigarette butts everywhere!
7)  Pigeon poo on park benches
6)  Dog poop on the sidewalks and the people who refuse to pick up after their dogs.
5)  The car alarm that goes off every night at 11pm, 2am and 4:30 am.
4)  All the other alarms, sirens, bells and whistles that assault one's ears all day long
      By the way, the dinging of the 63, 86 or 89 busses which stop outside our apartment is so much a part of my psyche that on my first night home in Groton (we are here for a quick home visit), I dreamt that I could still hear them ding-ding-dinging!
3)  People who pee in public
2)  Second hand smoke
and the number one thing I will not miss in Paris
1)  Those God forsaken whiny motorbikes...just thinking about that noise sets my teeth on edge!

Monday, August 30, 2010

And so her story goes...

When last we saw our heroine, she was enjoying a lovely summer's afternoon in Les éditeurs cafe, sipping Rose’ wine and making plans to purchase window boxes for a fall, floral extravaganza of riotous colors, textures and scents, now that the looming scaffolding that darkened her windows and ate up precious growing space was deconstructed from the front of rue des écoles. Poised over pasta salad and pondering the miniature garden design, she patiently awaited the return of her beloved as he courted his mistress...the Blackberry. The CEO called and even though it was our vacation, Bill had to take the call.

Upon his return, he broached a question... “Do you want to talk about it here or back at the apartment?”

Well dear readers, one year later almost to the day, we are faced with another major life change and another move. The following corporate announcement provides the details that were lacking as of the last blog post.


We are pleased to announce the promotion of Bill Barbo to the position of Corporate Senior Vice President, Global Sales & Marketing. In this role, Bill will report directly to the Chairman, President & CEO, and will be responsible for overseeing the global sales and marketing function in support of all of company businesses. Over the past year, Bill played an integral role within the new sales organization in the European-based position as Corporate Vice President, Global Strategic Accounts and European Specialist Sales, strengthening existing client relationships and helping to forge new relationships with large European customers. In his new role, Bill will be based in Wilmington and will be relocating from France in the coming weeks.

We are coming home! Thanksgiving in Groton...black bear sightings...fresh air...wild birds...my deck and peace and quiet!

Now, I have whined a lot about Paris...perhaps unfairly. The kvetching says more about me at this point in my life than it does about the city. Paris is unique. It offers beauty, history, culture and challenges...all of which we encountered, enjoyed or endured. Do I regret my time here? Not at all...would I do things differently, absolutely! But, we chalk this up as a lesson learned; a new piece added to our patchwork quilt of a life.

I will miss Paris...the City of Lights. I’ll miss the history, architecture, art and yes, the quirky characters I encountered each and every day. I already miss the visits of friends and family that never occurred because our time here was cut shorter than planned. But, I am so happy to be going home, to my house, my stuff, and my friends. But, to be honest, I have trepidations.


When last in Groton, I was poised at a crossroads of life...an empty nest, fast approaching another decade of my life and the big question of now that my daughters are grown (although I keep reminding them I am their mom), what will be the purpose that drives my life, faces me once again.

In Paris, I found a voice of sorts...I am a storyteller. Thank you to all who have read this blog, shared your comments, offered love, advice and support. I have been happy to share this short chapter in my life. I hope to keep sharing stories...I am an historian, through my formal education and as a result of a calling from bygone days. I plan on telling “her-story” for a while. I think I will continue to explore the relationships of food, wine and traditions...they are a part of her-story too.

There are a couple of business models banging around my head too...but I may need to go back to school to find the right way to implement those visions.

I am going home. I think I may need six months though to shed this new skin...to find my pace...my place after being gone for a while. So forgive me if I say Oui instead of yes...or Bonjour instead of Hi ya. It will take me some time to find some pieces to pick up...to find the clear page for the next chapter of my life... It is unfair and unreal to expect that I can and will pick up where I left off. I am not the same person who left Groton last year. I have grown, changed and have a whole host of experiences not recorded on these pages that have shaped me. Perhaps I will write them down in time...along with some new stories too.

By the way, I have a beret...I didn’t get a chance to toss it at the Jardin yet...there is still some time left for that...but I think my beret will look great in Groton.

So, why the heck did my husband drag me to Paris and why is he dragging me back to Groton? ...because my home is where he is.

I love you all... see you soon.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Cliffhanger

It was one year ago this month that our lifes took a major left turn on the highway of life.  Bill came home and said, "So, how would you like to live in Paris?"  We mulled the idea for about two seconds and said to ourselves, "Heck, yeah, we can do anything for three years...it is just three years right?"

At that time, Bill was in the midst of his summer vacation and together we dreamed (there were a couple of nightmares too), stressed, planned and started to get our minds around this phenomenal opportunity.  In the blink of an eye, we were in Paris looking for a place to call home.  Blinking again, we were packed and on a plane, arriving in Paris on New Year's Eve...may old acquaintance be forgot...

I promised myself and I asked Bill too...give me six months...I need six months to shed my old skin and grow.  I need time for Paris to get under and into my skin. That was about right...it took time for me to evolve, to find my path, my pace...to "get my groove back"...not in that Stella sort of way however!  I still bleed red, white and blue, but on occasion I spill some blue, white and red too.

Over the course of these months, I started to figure a few things out...I like to write and some folks like how and what I write.  I am a pretty inventive chef and have the ability to recreate recipes.  My wine palate is refining nicely.  And to get along anywhere, you need friends, near and far.  I have both.

So it is one year later and Bill is on vacation.  We were sitting in very nice cafe in the Carrefour Odeon having a late lunch and some wine.  The cell phone rings and Bill takes the call.  I sit playing with the orechietta in my summer vegetable and pasta salad.  I drain the last drops of a lovely Cotes du Provence Rose from the glass.  I wait.

"So that was the office...do you want to guess?  Do you want to talk about it here or at home? I think I should stop taking phone calls while on my summer vacation." 

"L'addition s'il vous plait." 

The turn signal is on again....

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Giverny

Saturday was one of those spectacular days for the ages. The sun was bright and warm in a sky so beautifully blue that no photo could do it justice. The temperature was in the low 80’s but a perfectly delicate breeze kept us comfortably caressed.

Our friends Peter and Jannine, other US ex-pats, have opted to have a car in Paris...they are brave souls. Peter is the bravest as he just completed his driving lessons and is now the proud owner of a junior operator’s license. No matter how old you are or how much driving experience you may have elsewhere in the world, everyone in France starts off with a junior operator’s license for a period of three years. And good old Peter has to display a great big letter A on a window of any vehicle he’s driving...enough about that. Peter is a great driver and he and Jannine invited us out for his maiden French voyage in their car, destination: Giverny.

Giverny is the country home of Claude Monet. It is the inspiration for many of his Impressionist works, including The Water Lily Pond: Harmony in Green. In 1883, Monet moved his family, his mistress and eight children to the retreat west of Paris. In preparation for his country life, Monet designed and had constructed the amazing gardens and water features with their Japanese inspired bridges.

The gardens are truly a treat and retreat. We entered the gardens and before us were manicured beds, trellises, topiaries and espaliers of fruit trees. Each section was a blaze of complimentary colors...from fiery yellow, orange, reds and russets to cooler shade gardens soothing the eyes with an array of blue, green and white. There were lilies, orchids, sunflowers, zinnias, cosmos, dahlias, salvia, marigolds, asters, nasturtiums....so many flowers that reminded my of my Groton garden...hydrangeas, hibiscus, rudibeckia, bleeding hearts, lantana...it was an oasis of sights and scents. Of course, it was quiet too.

We continued our stroll from the structured beds into the softer, more elegant water gardens. Several small arched bridges intersected the meandering paths beneath the Weeping Willows. Stunning water lilies of white, pink and red dotted the ponds as perch, carp and catfish darted beneath in search of water gliders and minnows. All around the garden, flowers were arranged by complimentary and contrasting colors and textures. Where the sun kissed the shore, there were groupings of flowers in bursts of pinks, reds, oranges and yellows. As we passed into the shady areas, the colors cooled to blues, silvers, purples, white and an array of variegated greens...leaves silvery on top and chocolaty brown on the underside...Hostas, Coleus and Artemisia added subdued, softness yet richness with their colors and textures.

After absorbing the gardens, refueled and rested at the same time, we ventured into the quaint, pink stucco family home. The house contains lovely antiques of a less complicated era and hundreds of Japanese ink-block prints, a favored art form for the old master. I was struck by the difference of Monet’s collection of art epitomized by its primary colors, clean, structured lines and precise imprints as it contrasted so greatly with the Father of Impressionism’s use of pastels and primary colors, the dappling of paint and considered strokes that form the “impression” of what is being painted; its form (or lack thereof) and the light reflecting...the artist and the collector, one mind and very different perceptions of beauty. I found that fascinating.

The house held a quiet energy of the people who lived there about one hundred years ago. The wood on the stairs and railings was soft and smooth with wear. The family photos in every room offered a “bonjour” from the past. The views from the bedrooms made me envious and admiring of the sleepy heads who were blessed with such beauty upon waking. But my favorite room...surprise, surprise...was the kitchen. The huge space, decked out with an assortment of blue and white tiles begged for family meals and creative culinary arts to be crafted, inspired by the fruits and vegetables from the gardens; their flavors, colors and textures. There had to be 50 copper pots hanging along one wall, each with a purpose, each poised to impress its wares upon the palate...The stove was a marvel of form and function...it was an early 20th century masterpiece!

Our last stop at the manse was the chicken coop where we saw the proudest rooster. He strut his stuff, his feathers a mélange of brown, white, gold and russet. He owned that yard. There were many varieties of chickens in the yard...unusual feathers and varying sizes. It was an interesting demonstration of impressionism...no still life here....everything was very much alive!

With stomachs grumbling and whistles in need of wetting, we hit the back roads of Giverny and Vernon looking for a lunch spot. We toddled into a small village, complete with its own castle overlooking the Seine. Finding a little café that featured cold rose’, salads and pizza, we plunked down at the outdoor terrace and continued to unwind. The sky, amazingly blue and crystal clear offered the perfect stage for a ballet of six or seven gliders, catching the unseen thermals and turning and spiraling silent in their aerial choreography. The show lasted for the duration of our meal. Dinner and a show...perfect.

Alas it was time to return to the city. We talked of “le rentrer”, Paris’ version of back to school/back to work after a summer off. We made plans to play cards and visit some new restaurants, once they reopened after their “vacances”. Then we just sat in silence for the last bit of the trip...the only voice being the cheeky lady guiding us via the car’s nav system. It was good to be quiet...to remember the flowers...to be immersed in the rest...soon enough it would be back to Paris...city of lights...busy, busy, busy.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

NOTHING is easy

August 4
Yesterday was a tough day on a number of levels. The first and worst was that Emily returned to the US to enjoy the remaining days of her summer vacation at home and in preparation for returning to University. She was my exploring and shopping buddy and sadly for me, I’ll be on my own again for the most part.

Our day started off pulling the remainder of her stuff from about the apartment and packing and repacking the two suitcases she’d need to get home. She didn’t really need two to get her things home, but she needed to bring our “big-ass” red suitcase home so she could truck her stuff from Boston to Baltimore next month. Big Red will make it back to Paris when Carrie comes for a quick visit in September. Note to self: ask Carrie to stock up on Soft Scrub for me!

After a last sweep of the flat, we grabbed our train tickets and hit the pavement for the RER station around the corner. We were in luck, the next train to Charles de Gaulle (CDG) Airport was due in six minutes and woo woo...it was an express line. We could be at CDG in 35 minutes.

The train pulled into the station on time...you have to hand this one to the French...their mass transit system runs on time (when they aren’t on strike that is). We boarded and settled into three seats together, with the luggage strategically positioned between Bill and Em so they could move it if folks needed to pass from our car to the next. Everything seemed to be cruising right along up through Gare du Nord, but upon leaving that station, we seemed to be traveling a bit more slowly. Not bad though...so we were going to be on the 40 minute side of the trip but still not bad. We’d have time for un café before Emily went through security at the airport.

As we left zone one of the transit system, things seemed normal. Departing zone two found us slowing down a bit...and once we hit zone three or the outer ring of Paris, we were crawling...what the heck? This is an express line! Then, we STOPPED at Bourget. Wait a minute, there is no stopping on an express train. We sat at Bourget for about 8 or 9 minutes....more than enough time for the “deaf” woman from another car to come in and place on every open seat a couple of cheap trinkets and a bi-lingual card, which explained she was deaf (alternate translation don’t bother trying to talk to her) and she would really appreciate it if you would buy one of her little tourist “tchaztchies” for 2 or 3 Euros or give her a gift certificate to a restaurant as she was hungry. Right...first of all, she must have had fifty or more gee-gaws in her backpack, which she laid out about the train car...she had to have paid at least 8 euros for her ticket (so 2 euros x 50 things + 8 euro = 108 euros more or less...stop buying junk and go get some food!!)...and yeah, I always carry restaurant gift certificates on me...pardon me for seeming cold-hearted, but I have been witness to at least 4 different deaf people on the trains since arriving in Paris seven months ago...this is a scam, or France’s socialized health system is sorely lacking when it comes to deaf people.

Well, after a garbled announcement over the PA, which we could only assume reassured us that once on our way, we would head directly to CDG terminals 1and 2, we were moving again. And for the first time in my 10 years of infrequent European train travel, a passel of 6 ticket takers entered the cabin and began checking and stamping tickets. This was really unusual. The trains are pretty much self service...you buy a ticket from a machine...run the ticket through a scanner...enter the station and upon arriving at your destination, you run your ticket through another scanner to get out of the station...and most people are good about this as the train system is at 8 euros comparatively cheap considering it can cost around 60 euros to take a cab from the center of Paris out to the airport (and it takes roughly the same amount of time too). After punching tickets in our car, half of the ticket takers moved on and three took seats in the middle of the car...riding with us all the way to CDG...3 or 6 ticket takers was a bit of over kill. The train was not overly full and our car had maybe a dozen people in it. Hmm...curiouser and curiouser.

Finally, we arrived at CDG 2, the Air France International Terminal and with no time for coffee headed on up the escalators to....a huge crowd of people waiting at the bottom of stairs and outside the elevators. At the top of the stairs were several armed soldiers, never a good sight when you need to check in. A few intrepid travelers ventured forth to ask the stern looking soldats what the 411 was and in as few words as possible and only in French said there was a bomb threat in 2E. The bomb squad was called in to investigate an abandoned piece of luggage...damn.

On the bright side, we left Paris with the goal of arriving 3 hours before Em‘s flight and even with the less than express train ride, we still had plenty of time to check her in. After about 10 minutes, a whistle blew and we along with a couple hundred other evacuees dashed for the baggage check-in...you didn’t forget Big Red did you? Being seasoned travelers, we looked at the departure board and saw that Boston bound passengers were to check-in at Section 5 of Air France Airlines. We dodged and dashed our way through the confusion and hit the queue in a matter of minutes. Granted, it was a LOOONG line, but hey we were good...boarding for the Boston flight was still 2 ½ hours away. Emily had already checked-in on-line, got her boarding pass and we just needed to drop off the bags.

Standing on line in Europe is completely different that standing on line in the US. From the time we were knee high to a grasshopper in grade school, Americans learned to stand in line one in front of the other. Not so in Europe and the French have perfected queuing en masse to an aggravating art form. Before we learned a thing or two in the old days, Bill and I would line up, quietly and politely waiting our turn to move forward and often found ourselves not moving forward and actually losing ground in line without having taken a step. So armed with experience and knowledge and elbows out...we kept pressing forward. We did meet a couple of master line jumpers though...a couple of women with luggage carts that would make Paris Hilton proud, I mean on these carts contained enough luggage, boxes and bags (including a 32” flat screen TV) with which had to be valued at least 50% of their country’s GDP, pretended to be with someone further in the line and they deftly unhooked the belts that served as line guides and pushed their way about half way through the crowd. They struck up a conversation with people around them and then a few folks figuring out they had been duped tried to get an Air France Official to help...right...not gonna happen. So we waited and then it happened...a shrill whistle blew and our check-in area was being evacuated for another bomb scare. A suspicious package was found right outside the terminal doors, not 50 feet from the Section 5 check-in. Police and soldiers waved at us to evacuate the area...but no one was giving instructions...just a lot of whistle blowing and waving. Finally someone...I couldn’t say who instructed us in French to move to Section 3 and we could continue to check-in there. There were already hundreds of people there and they were not moving...as in they were not going to let those of us whose child had a flight at 1:35...boarding at 1:05pm move forward to make an expedited baggage drop...not that nor were they moving...period. The baggage belts had stopped, computers were off-line and no one seemed to know what was what.

At this point, a very patient Air France representative (a rarity btw) came to the entrance of the queuing area and attempted to direct people to other check-in areas and or escort people with boarding passes for flights within the hour forward. Enter the tour group bound for Bejing...their flight was scheduled to depart at 1:45...and it had been delayed on the big board by thirty minutes, but being in the mass of confusion called a line, were unaware of the change. The tour leader muscled her way through the waiting ticket holders and proceeded to holler in English at the Air France lady. It wasn’t pleasant, lots of pointing, poking and arm flailing and after trying to get Madam Mao to calm down, the Air France lady had to call the police over...and he brought machine gun toting soldiers with him! With a nod and pointing the gun to a holding area for tour groups, the Chinese were quickly and quietly escorted to a time out. There they would wait for another hour! I know because we watched as we snaked our way toward check-in. The nice AF lady looked at Em’s boarding pass and told us to stay in our line and I thanked her and said “Bon courage”...meaning to imply, you know good work and keep the faith sistah...whereupon, she grabbed my arm, smiled at me and tapped her forehead on my shoulder as though the momentary gesture would sustain her for the ensuing rounds with angered passengers... the power of kind words.

Well we resumed standing on line and each time I looked at my watch, the time seemed interminably slow and unceasingly fast. With less than an hour before boarding, we were still two hours from checking those bags. We talked about just chalking this one up and heading back to the city...but Emily wanted to give it a go and at least make her case for as close to a guaranteed seat on a flight later in the day or the next. Bill left us in line in pursuit of information and just as he returned with news that Emily’s flight was delayed for 30 minutes, an Air France official announced that all flights scheduled for between 1pm and 2:30pm were being delayed and that they were working hard to help everyone make their flights. At last, information and we were only three people away from the check-in...at 1:15pm.

The lines were still a mess and the AF people were getting edgier. Further down the check-in counter, a frustrated passenger was told that she and her family had been standing in the wrong line and the AF rep would not be able to help her. As they say in the Gen Y alphabetic lexicon...OMG! Talk about a nutty! The customer, who for circumstances way beyond her control, found herself in an untenable situation only to have a customer service person tell her “I cannot help you”, did what any hot blooded French woman would do...she threatened to beat the AF representative...climb over the counter and beat the ever-living “merde” out of her. (I learned a whole new vocabulary in those moments!!) The police were summoned and lo and behold, after some screaming, baton waving and crying a miracle occurred...the AF counter person amazingly was able to check the family in and the police escorted the now time crunched passengers to security for an expedited run to the gate.

Well, more than one person noticed that scowling seemed more effective than smiling and rumbling and grumbling rolled through the ranks. An increased AF representative presence among the rank and file became evident and contrary to common sense, rather than trying to nip skirmishes in the bud by problem solving, the representatives challenged people to just try something and they too would be met by immediate police action...huh?

At last, we made it to the counter...the nice man (again, a rarity at this point) smiled at us and checked Emily’s bags, as we smiled at him. We chatted about living in Paris and he tested my French a little. He looked at Big Red and told us that normally economy class passengers could check one bag for free and that we’d be charged for the larger bag, but because of all the confusion and our apparent lack of animosity, he wouldn’t charge her the $25. Wow. He handed Emily her boarding pass and baggage claim and wished her a bon voyage. He assured her that even though her flight was boarding in 10 minutes, they would wait for her. I offered my hand and a “bon courage” and in return received a hearty handshake and a smile filled merci beaucoup.

We checked the pass for the gate number and compared it to the board...not the same...Emily showed her pass to a security agent and he put her in the “yellow” line. Because her boarding pass listed gate 41, he thought she was on the later flight to Boston. We told Emily we would stay at the airport until she texted us she was on the plane. She should have gone in the orange line for gate 37, but it was too late.

She arrived at gate 41 and no one was there...the board listed the 7pm flight but not hers. She called us and we told her to run to gate 37...that was where her plane was. She asked the agents at gate 41 to call down to 37 and let them know she was on the run...surprisingly they did it...and with literally 2 minutes to spare, Emily’s butt hit her seat...she was going home.

In the meantime, Bill and I made our way out of the craziness and away from all the gun toting security toward the Sheraton...we were going to camp out there until Emily was in-flight. With a couple of glasses of champagne to calm the nerves and the good news text, we toasted our baby and the end of the crazy.

My dad use to say to us, “Nothing is easy” and he also taught us to reply to said statement with, “Nobody ever said it would be.”

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Under the Harvest Moon

It is vacation time in Europe. Parisians who like many of their French and European Union counterparts take advantage of a portion of their mandated 5 weeks (minimum) paid vacation sometime between July 14th and August 20th. There is a frequently circulated cartoon about Parisians and their summer vacation habits: in panel one labeled July 15 you see crowds of Parisians shoulder to shoulder marching along the sidewalks of Paris; panel two labeled July 17, one observes same said Parisians bumper to bumper on the highways out of Paris and in panel three, labeled July 18 there on the beaches of France you see thousands of Parisians on every available square inch of sand, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying “their” vacation. Très drôle, oui?


This past weekend, we didn’t hit the beaches but we did opt to get away from the crowds of tourists and the incessant city noise, in favor of the peace and quiet of a friend’s family home outside of Lyon. The famille Barbo, little dog included, boarded the TGV (high speed train) and a little more than 2 hours later, we were on our way to the bucolic countryside.

Our friend picked us up at the train station, tossed our overnight bags in the back of his car and off we went...passing fields of corn, sunflowers, rapeseed (canola) flowers and rows upon rows of lavender. Just gorgeous.

We pulled into the driveway of his 200+ year old farmhouse and longingly gazed at the pool in the side yard. I brought two books to read for the two day respite. I scoped out the lounge chair that would soon have an extended affair with my backside! But first, we put our stuff away in the guest rooms and took Reilly for a walk outside the fenced yard in an area just yards away from acres of wheat, waiting for harvest.

As we waited for the rest of our host’s family to return from the market, Cyril opened a bottle of wine and we sat around a large stone table in the courtyard next to the house. We relished the quiet. No busses, no sirens, no hollering...just quiet. We toasted the day and settled in to catching up since our last visit in March.

I cannot tell you how quickly the tension melted from my neck, shoulders and back. I hadn’t realized that I had been “carrying” the stress of city life there. I think I actually restored an inch to my height in those moments, letting the tension go and releasing the muscles in my upper body which for months have been clenched in some sort of protective, defensive posture against city life!

As we gazed into the bright, blue sky over the Rhone valley, a small, aircraft buzzed through the sky and for a brief moment, I was transported to my Groton backyard, hearing the drone of the small craft engine as it performed aerial acrobatics over our home...it was great.

Within the hour, the rest of the family returned from a trip to town and the boulangerie. Kisses, first one cheek and then the other were offered and our hosts’ two young boys scrounged through Reilly’s bag and found her tennis balls...from that moment on, she would not stop until it was time for us to go to bed. The boys took turns chucking the ball as hard as they could and laughed as they watched our dog speed along the grass to fetch the balls.

It was a wonderfully relaxing, family time and exactly what I needed to feel whole again.
We played games and Bill taught the boys card tricks. We ate and drank great wine. We sat by the pool and I read. On Sunday, we hiked through the vineyards where Cote du Rôti is grown. We climbed up hills to a medieval castle and from our perch we gazed down upon a small cruise ship as it sailed down the Rhone. It was a beautiful day.


We returned to the house for Sunday dinner...an all afternoon affair and then retired to poolside to talk and relax. As the late afternoon evolved into early evening, we decided to hop in the car for a casual tour through the historic streets and alleys of Vienne. After seeing the ancient Roman amphitheater, temple, aqueduct and churches, we headed back to the house for some more wine and quiet conversation...Reilly and the boys were thoroughly exhausted and were ready for bed until...

we pulled into the gravel driveway at the farmhouse and there to our left was a HUGE thresher machine preparing to harvest the field of wheat next to the house.

It was about 8pm, and the sun was setting amidst some building clouds. The farmer who leased the land feared that rain was on the way and would (pardon the pun) dampen his chances of getting the wheat harvested if he put it off until Monday morning. Needless to say, upon seeing the pick up trucks and thresher in fields, the boys got their second wind. They bounced from one fence to another, watching as the $250,000 piece of equipment set off to work. Cyril went over to talk to the farmer who was overseeing the project and a dream come true was about to be born. Being the third harvest at which they resided in the house, it was the first time the boys had actually witnessed the process. Last year, again with the threat of rain, the harvest actually took place in the middle of the night, ending as the boys awoke...so to be able to see this was quite exciting.


As the sun set, a full harvest moon arose over the fields...and a negotiation was in the works. After a few strategic passes to assess the grain and layout a harvest grid, the thresher returned to the driveway side of the old farmhouse. Papa had arranged for his boys to ride in the thresher until the grain hold was full and together with the driver, the boys would be able to dump their cargo into awaiting containers, which would be hauled away by big trucks the next morning. If gravity can be defied, it was at that moment, when the driver opened the cab door and the boys, as if lifted by enthusiasm alone, flew into the cab. Waving furiously at us, they plunked down for the ride of their lives. For the 15 minutes or so they were in the cab, they asked questions about farming et al, non-stop. The driver was most impressed with the boys and after their stint in the thresher, told them he looked forward to seeing them again next year...and once again gravity was defied as the little boys walked on a cloud of delirium over to us. Cyril reached up to thank the driver, shaking his hand and before we knew it, he too was climbing into the cab for a turn in the behemoth machine. I ran into the farmhouse to fetch his wife, informing her that her “third child” was getting a ride too...she shook her head and laughed as we went out to wait and watch over the boys was they waited and watched for Papa.

Full Moon Rising
By now, the thresher had turned on its giant headlights and the full moon hung low in the sky, peeking out from the encroaching clouds. Cyril returned, as excited as the 6 and 9 year olds he had left behind for a short while. Together and I mean all at once, they told us about their observations and feelings...but their smiles told the story better than any words could.



As the boys prepared for bed, they each had decided what they would be when they grew up...one a farmer who would harvest the wheat (earlier her said her wanted to be a pizza maker) and the other still wanted to be a great baker, but now, the grain would come from his brother’s own harvests.

We all slept like logs that night. The boys dreaming of big machines and wide open spaces... I dreamt of the train ride back to the city and losing my doggie along the way...ugh.

Monday morning, we’re back in Paris...all of us...safe and sound and set to pick up the pace once again.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

I Took Them For Granted

I have been in Paris for over 7 and 1/2 months now.  I have slipped into a new routine and found some adventures around corners hither and yon.

But, the other day it was so hot, there was no such thing as routine and forget hither and yonning.  I just sat with the fan blowing on me...reading a book and finding my mind wandering to the little things we left back in the US...comfort things...practical things and well, things.  On days like these, we lament leaving the central air conditioning of not only our home, but of all the other civilized places one finds oneself on a hot day...we miss our lovely garden and pool and even driving in an air conditioned car...here we hoof it because riding the Metro on a hot day is just too much for one nose to take.

High on my 'Missed' list is crushed ice.  Lemonade, diet cola and a really good shaken cocktail need crushed ice.  We have an ice cube tray.  It is 3 inches by 4 inches and makes 12 of the cutest, tiniest cubes...which melt almost instantly.  No crunching of ice...I know it is bad for your teeth, but crunching ice can be oh so satisfying on a really hot day.   My fridge back home has an automatice ice maker...more than enough ice for the perfect martini; chilled vodka, chilled shaker, chilled glass...aah.

Of the foodstuffs I miss, you will find bagels, corn on the cob, baked potatoes, a juicy New Jersey peach, granola, oatmeal and Christy's Greek salad dressing on the short list.  Oh yeah and prepared broths and stocks...I have returned to making my own...not hard, just not always as convenient as popping open a carton of Wolfgang Puck's low sodium chicken stock.  And now that it is summer, I miss Maine lobster...oh and ice cream from Kimball's and Johnson's.  Amorino Gelato is an excellent substitute however.  They are masters of design at Amorino, making each cone or cup look like a beautiful flower, bursting with color...and yummy too.

I miss the GPL...I am going through books at a pretty good clip now...not unusual as it is summertime...but I am buying most of my books at English book stores.  I have not tried to resell them at the one of a gazillion second hand bookstores in the area...still working up the courage to part with my books.  But I love libraries...the books, the space, the time, the freedom, the quiet companionship.  Public libraries are a great resource for so many things and probably one of the greatest human institutions ever conceived! There are libraries here too...the big American library and of course the free French libraries, but the former is extremely busy and not terribly conveninet and the latter lacks books in English...I have some books written in French and I muddle through them but summertime requires quick reads and Jules Verne's Paris au XXe Seicle...is going to take me a while.

Who would have thought Soft Scrub, baking soda and a gallon of white vinegar would be missed?  But they were staple household cleaners.  Soft Scrub is no where to be found and Arm and Hammer type baking soda can only be found in a few specialty stores.  I can get Bicarbonate of Soda here, but the texture is different and it doesn't seem to clean the same.  Large quantities of white vinegar, or anything for that matter are a real oddity and luxury here.  First of all, storage space is at a premium, so big bottles, cartons, boxes don't make sense in the city...and if you have to run out to the store every other day to buy milk, cream and vinegar to clean the hard water build up on your appliances and bathroom...you spend more.  I guess that is one way to keep the economy moving.  But please note that I am paying the same for a liter of milk as I would for a half gallon at home. $$$$

Speaking of bigger, I miss my appliances at home.  I wrote earlier about my crazy French washer/dryer and how it takes days to do laundry here...but how about vacuuming?  My central vacuum cleaner, affectionately known as Rod was so convenient and efficient.  The little Hoover canister vac I have here sucks...and not in a good way.  I have to empty the little canister after cleaning two rooms and the filters need to be washed and dryed after every 5 rooms...and you can only vacuum one room at a time as you must let the little engine that almost could cool down.  I don't expect that Hoover will last the year.  I may try a Dyson next.

Then there are the comforts of my home...my things.  I would say about 90% of the stuff in our furnished flat isn't mine.  We have our clothes, books, office/computer things and a few knick-knacks we brought from home.  We have made a few key purchases here as well...an espresso machine, a hand held mixer, chopper, food processor gadget, a lovely crystal pitcher and a new copper pot for my infusions.  But I left the majority of my cookware, utensils, good knives and beaucoup des cookbooks in my recently renovated gourmet kitchen...I miss that six burner range and my three ovens!!   I miss my specialty wine glasses...I just started collecting them as my love and understanding of wine developed...the type of glass really does matter.  My husband misses glasses that hold more than 6 ounces.  As I alluded to earlier...sizes are different here.  One buys beverages by the cl, ml and liter.  A bottle of beer holds 25 or 33 cl...same with a bottle of Coke...and that is about 8 ounces or  2/3 or 1/2  of what we are used to at home. 

Of the other things I miss, here are a few...the sound of "American" sirens although not a favorite sound... the haw-hee, haw-hee nerve shattering, all day long pealing of French sirens is merciless and annoying.  I miss Splenda.  Italian subs.  Driving.  Mowing the lawn.  Gardening.  Cooking on the gas grill.  Birdwatching. Sitting on the grass.  Talking to friends on the phone.  Jack Williams and the 6pm news.  I really, really miss the Red Sox. Local politics and lively discussion about said politics.  I miss our cat, Gracie.  I worry she will forget me.

I miss being able to just do stuff...here everything requires a plan and preparation.  How do you get there?  What will we say?  What happens if we or they don't understand?  How do we get it back to the apartment?  Do they have it? What is the procedure....and so on. It is funny...odd funny...none of us (Emily is here for the summer), like to do anything alone.  From walking the dog to going over to the Boulangerie to buy bread...we always ask each other...do you wanna come along?  I guess we still feel there is safety in numbers.  I miss just hopping in the car and hitting the Pheasant Lane Mall...better still...going on the internet to order stuff...it was all so easy at home.  Here not so much...language barriers, taxes, special delivery instructions...ugh.


Aside from all my dear friends and family, I think I miss my deck most of all.  I miss turning on the outdoor sound system, listening to some classical music or jazz and plunking down in my outdoor living room snuggling into my favorite rocking chair...alone, with the day's copy of the Boston Globe, a copy of Wine Spectator or tbe Dean and Deluca catalogue, a tall glass of iced tea and nobody but the dog and the birds of the backyard to keep me company.  There is a difference in being alone and being lonely.  I was never lonely in the backyard. 

And last but not least, I miss who I was planning on becoming...I think she will show up...a little later than expected and perhaps with a new flair, air or savoir faire but I miss all the things at home that steered me in a purpose driven way.  Now sans GPS, my tools, resources and stuff that I spent years acquiring so I could BE me...I have to sweat it out and do without...not a bad thing, just different...we'll see. 

Friday, July 9, 2010

Old Glory

In our apartment, I spend time every day in a small alcove off the living room .  We call this area the Bubble...as it is rounded and bubbles out of the apartment's boundaries and perches out over a terrace and the the rue Sommerad below.  From this spot I write...my blog, recipes, posts on Facebook wall and letters to loved ones.

It is from this vantage point that I look down the street to the Best Western La Tour Notre Dame and watch two American Flags, yet wave, to me, connecting me to the land of the free and the home of the brave.  It is hard to put into words the connection, the feelings I have when I look at those flags, but it is important that I see them.

A couple of days ago, I was putting the finishing touches on a blog and I glanced  down the street.  The wind was blowing a slightly more than gentle breeze and the US flags, along with their French and EU partners danced.  But something wasn't right.  I stopped writing and I stared at the flags.  One of the US flags was obscured by a French flag.  Its orientation was wrong.  At first I thought the flag must have been tangled on its angled pole.  I then realized that the flag was hanging incorrectly.  The field of blue with white stars was on the bottom left corner of the flag.  I looked and looked to see if my eyes were playing tricks on me.  I hoped a good gust of wind would fix the optical illusion.  No wind would fix this.  The flag had been hung upside down.  Being a military brat, I panicked a little.  A US flag hung upside down is a sign of distress.  And if not a call for help, then it can also be a message of disrespect.  I told Bill about it and he thought like me that the flag must be caught up on itself and we could check it out after dinner when we walked the dog. 
Well one thing led to another and the wind brought in the rain and we never made it over to the hotel that evening.  But all night long it bothered me.  Was there a problem at the hotel?  Was somebody intentionally disrespecting my flag and country.  In my head, I practiced how to say in French that the US flag was hanging incorrectly and ask that it please be fixed.  I was also stealing my nerve to go confront French people about my Patriotic angst.  I kept asking myself, "Why is this bothering you so much...why are you worried...what are you prepared to do?"

The next morning, the very first thing I did was to check to see if the flag had been properly display.  It had not.  I pointed this out to Bill and after fetching Emily at the airport and depositing her at home, we walked over to the hotel to ask why our flag was being displayed this way.

As stated before, this is a Best Western Hotel...and American franchise, owned and operated by someone here in Paris...but connected enough to the US to display American flags.   Of course they would be interested in knowing that one of the flags was hanging incorrectly, right...I kept talking to myself, assuring myself and practicing what I would say if the staff did not speak English. 

As we approached the main doors, we both looked up and confirmed that indeed Old Glory was still upside down.  We entered and there were three staff members watching us and looking at us in a bemused way.  I inquired, "Parlez-vous Anglais?" to which the young woman behind the reception desk said yes.  Okay.  I proceeded to ask if they knew if and why the US flag was improperly displayed.  She responded that she did not know why, but for a couple of days now, Americans had reported the situation to the hotel and the maintenance man had been informed but had not fixed it. I politely asked that she please ask that the flag be properly and respectfully displayed.  She smiled and said they would let maintenance know.  I thanked her and started to walk away.  But something, or more likely someone in the guise of my dad, the retired Coast Guard Captain, sitting on my shoulder, made me turn back and tell the staff members there assembled that the US flag as displayed was a warning signal...it indicates that there is distress or something is wrong at the hotel.  At least this is what I thought I said.  Bill told me later that he heard me say there is something wrong WITH the hotel.  I don't think I said that but maybe that is what people heard.

I watched and waited all day for the flag to be fixed.  Nothing doing.  At 10pm, I found a Best Western customer service e-mail address and sent of a quick note detailing my concern and the mini-adventure above.  I went to bed wondering if I should contact the US Embassy! 

The good news is that when I checked first thing this morning, the Star Spangled Banner was flying correctly.  I was happy again.  I don't know why it happened but I can let that go.

We are blessed to live in a country that proudly shows its colors.  White signifies purity and innocence; red, valor and hardiness and blue, vigilance, perserverance and justice.  For me, it is not just a flag, not just a symbol.  To me, our flag is home.

"A thoughtful mind when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag, but the nation itself. And whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the flag, the government, the principles, the truths, the history that belongs to the nation that sets it forth. The American flag has been a symbol of Liberty and men rejoiced in it.


"The stars upon it were like the bright morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light. As at early dawn the stars shine forth even while it grows light, and then as the sun advances that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and intense white striving together, and ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so, on the American flag, stars and beams of many-colored light shine out together . . . ."   Henry Ward Beecher


"There is no place like home."  Dorothy

I love our flag.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

A Variation on Musical Chairs

I love music.


I miss my Bose radio/cd player and am on a mission to find a suitable replacement for the flat. But until my mission is accomplished, I am happy to say that Paris provides daily doses of music. From the lovely soprano who serenades diners at Aux Trois Mailletz to the Sunday concerts at Luxembourg, Paris resonates with les chansons d’amour.

Musicians perform in the Metro, on street corners and in plazas all over the city. There is the teenager who leans against the wall of the lycée (in which he should be seated) on Blvd St. Michel, playing an accordion for tips...he only knows one song, The Anniversary Waltz, but he plays it with gusto. My “friend” from NYC, plays selections from Handel’s Water Music and The Godfather on the steel drums on the bridges near Notre Dame. There are roving bands that pop up all over the place, like the brass and drum ensemble of a dozen 20-somethings who play everything from Louis Armstrong and Edith Piaf to Zydeco! I saw them over by the Louvre one day and in front of the Luxembourg the next! One of my favorites are the guys who wheel a piano out of their apartment to a bridge over on Ile de St. Louis, and with a bass, saxophone and sometimes drums, play so many golden oldie jazz favorites. Bill and I snag chairs at one of the cafes near the bridge, sip something cool while listening to something smooth.

The city is alive with the sound of music...ah...ah...ah...ah...

Recently, I have been so immersed in music that I was close to auditory overload...but I survived! My daughter Emily and I were pleasantly surprised and then a bit overwhelmed on the eve of the summer solstice when, as we strode outside for Reilly’s evening walk, only to find every street corner, restaurant and any open space available was occupied by musical ensembles. There were school kids with their electric guitars and drum sets banging out the latest Justin Bieber teeny-bopper be bop, hard core rock bands making LOUD music to hordes of head banging Gen Y/Gen Me/Gen Why Me-ers and we listened to soloists singing operatic arias, hushing the spectators, enticing them to listen to the delicate yet complex compostions. We came upon an Indonesian group playing La Vie En Rose, on bamboo thumb instruments...kind of like a hand held harp or xylophone, music made by striking a various sized tines sticking out of bamboo tubes...très cool. We were joined by hundreds of thousands of people moving from one street performance to another...our normally 45 minute routine with Reilly stretched to nearly 2 hours...I brought the dog in and Emily came in to change her clothes and head back out into the musical melee. I was a bit nervous for her, but, with the assurance that she had her cell phone and a promise she would stay out in the main street areas, Emily dove in! She lasted about another hour and then came in to join me in my boudoir perch above the Café...we had a dueling band concert right outside our window which lasted until 2am! Hopefully Bill will be back in Paris for next year’s fete du musique on the eve of the summer solstice!

A little over a week ago, Emily, my HS friend Alison, who now resides in Bretagne, and I went to see Les Miserables, Victor Hugo’s story of France, politics, love and redemption. The Andrew Lloyd Webber musical was presented in English (whew for me and Em) and with French subtitles on large screens around the stage for our fellow French theater goers. The performance was wonderful. It was here that we first noticed the French version of musical chairs.

We arrived at the theater Chatelet about 30 minutes before the scheduled start of the musical. Having not attended the theater in Paris before, we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to stand in line and or find our seats. Visitors’ tip...many of the tourist attractions in Paris have on-line ticket purchasing. You may pay a bit more for the ticket, but not having to stand in line for a long time is worth the small investment. We had purchased our seats on-line and were able to jump the queue and go right on in to find our seats. Our ticket price would have been the same for the show if we waited in line for the box office, so we really lucked out. Back to musical chairs, part un.

We found our seats and admired the old theater. It reminded us of the Colonial Theater in Boston. We chatted for a while and Alison spotted a young man from her town a few rows away from us. This fall, he is going to be performing in the same production of Les Mis as her son and daughter...so off she went to say hello. About 5 minutes before the start of the play, a loud bell rang. Emily and I thought it was either a fire alarm or someone was stuck in an elevator. The patrons seated around us didn’t seem alarmed and the ushers kept ushering people to their seats. We did notice that small groups of people entered the balcony where we were seated and milled about the doors and around empty seats. We saw a few sit in an empty seat and the pop over a seat or two to another empty chair...curious. Alison returned and explained that the bell served as a notice that the play would start in 5 minutes...why the darned thing had to ring for the entire 5 minutes is beyond me...give me the gentle flicker of lights in our Boston theaters, any day.

An elderly couple arrived during the cacophony and sat two rows back from the hand carved balcony rail...atop which was a thin iron safety rail that sadly fell right in the line of sight of the old folks. Scooching up and down wasn’t going to cut it, so the old woman hopped out of her seat and took an empty seat in the first row. As the lights started to dim, a young woman was escorted to the front row by the usher and the old bird got bumped back to her seat. And the milling crowds, strategically scoping out open seats pounced on any available vacancies. No one bothered to check tickets...and well into the first ten minutes of the play, people were still shifting about the balcony and even on the floor below.



After a long first act...almost 90 minutes, it was time for intermission. People got up to stretch legs and get some refreshments. Because of the length of the acts, intermission was shortened and round two of musical chairs began. The people who were seated next to us returned with an extra person. The couple in front of us had empty seats on either side of them during the first act. When a couple of would-be seat usurpers asked them if they would mind moving down so they could take two seats together, the young woman told the encroaching gentleman that the seats were taken. Interesting tactic! Off to our right, a group of 6-8 students/tourists/budding actors filled in a whole section of now vacant seats. I can only assume that the previous occupants upgraded their seats in the seat swapping shuffle. The annoying bell rang for only 4 minutes this time...the scramble settled down as the lights lowered and the second act opened. After an engaging performance, the audience rose to their feet and offered a standing ovation. And then it was over. A lovely musical experience and bit of cultural quirkiness and then the exit...I am accustomed to people allowing the rows in front of them exit first and then you follow, safely, orderly, and politely. Well, as Emily and I were seated at the end of the third row from the front of the balcony, we politely waited for the folks below to exit, but the people next to us were having none of that...the man next to me started pushing us out into the aisle. I turned to look at him and ask him to wait ...remember the elderly couple with the safety rail obscured sightline?...they were on their way by us...but Mr. “I have to rush into the crush of humanity on the stairs only to stop right outside the exit in order to light up my cigarette” kept pushing. I held my ground, so he climbed over the seat. By the time his fait acompli was complete, Emily and I exited the row, followed by his seat mates and we made him wait. I could barely contain my snarky grin.

Musical Chairs, part deux: Summer is the season of the open air concerts in Paris. We are in the midst of the Paris Jazz festival, the Celebration of Latin America and the Caribbean, as well as the 200th anniversary of Chopin’s birth. Each weekend, several ensembles and soloists descend upon le Jardin du Luxembourg and from a large gazebo, enthrall hundreds of concert goers with superb musical interpretations. We have had the pleasure of listening to high school and collegiate bands, professional musicians and the occasional Next Nouvelle Star (French version of American Idol) wannabe...all gratis by the way. Here’s where we got to play in the next round of Paris Musical Chairs. A couple of Sundays ago, we decided to make a day of it up at Luxembourg. We packed up a few provisions and a towel for Reilly and headed up the street for a quiet afternoon of catching up on the English-language newspapers Bill brought back from recent travels and to finish up a book I was reading. We walked to the part of the gardens where dogs are allowed and looked for a premium spot to listen to the concert later in the day and maximize the shade for the afternoon, as it was too hot to sit in the sun. We found a lovely shade tree and Bill set off to find a couple of the famous Luxembourg chairs. Many of the large parks and gardens in Paris provide heavy metal lawn chairs for people to use whilst in the environs. There are straight back side chairs, arm chairs and the much prized slant backed lounge style...all painted a pale green and as heavy as the dickens and stamped with “Senat”for the Luxembourg chairs, Tulleries for the Tulleries chairs and JdP for Jardin du Plantes..the rightful locations for said chairs. I doubt it would be easy to steal one of these heavy things, but if found outside the garden, they could readily be returned. I suppose you would have some explaining to do if you knicked one of them. They are a precious resource in places where picnic tables are non-existent and benches are usually covered in pigeon poop.

So Reilly and I guarded our spot while Bill sought out 2 chairs. We observed that many a lone person had two chairs...one upon which to sit, another used as a footstool or side table. This type of hoarding of chairs is only tolerated for so long. We watched one woman sleep in her makeshift lounge for nearly 3 hours. The moment she awoke, someone came over to her and asked her for the chair being used as a footstool. She begrudgingly agreed, and remained in her chair for a long time after. Speaking of a long time, Bill made it back with two chairs and we settled in, ready to read and people watch. We developed a little game...Will the seat of this chair get cold? We counted the seconds from the time someone vacated a chair to the time the next person snagged it...the longest time was for 2 chairs not far from us...9 seconds...the shortest, 3 seconds!


As the afternoon wore on and the time for the concert grew near, Musical Chairs ramped up in intensity. People marched all over the gardens in search of chairs and carried the heavy prizes, sometimes dragging them, raising a gritty dusty cloud, toward the gazebo not 50 yards from where we sat, calm, cool and collected in the shade of our chestnut tree. At this point too, the tolerance level for one person using two chairs was nil and saving a chair was a big no-no. We witnessed a woman sitting with her children get up to chase an errant child only to return to her spot sans chaise...someone walked over and snatched it away while she was on her child hunt.

Reilly had her towel on the ground...dogs are not allowed on the grass...and people are restricted to a special grassy area, far from the gazebo. Seeing Reilly spread out on her little oasis amidst the grit, dust and detritus seemed puzzling and amusing to most passers-by...many an odd expression or comment were directed our way. But, more often than not, people smiled at the spoiled little tail-wagger and many a person stopped to scratch her behind the ears. A couple of children made their way over during the course of the day too, stealing a corner of the towel and patting the snoozing starlet.

At 5pm, the Chopin piano concert began. It was extraordinary. Much like the musical chairs at Les Mis, for the first 10 minutes or so of the concert, people moved chairs about to get a better view. If a chair closer to the piano opened up, there would be a quick darting of people to sit there. Only one would be victorious and such monkey-business would only be allowed for a short while. Free concert or not, this was a concert and etiquette must be observed. We witnessed two young women snipe a couple of chairs on the periphery of the concert area and one proceeded to make a phone call on her cell. The music grew louder and so did her voice and quite quickly, she was shushed by the folks around her. Her friend thought this was laughable...and laughed loudly at her friend...only to be quieted into submission herself, not by shushing, but by a multitude of angry French glares. It was most effective. The girls were met by some boys and they left the concert quietly. 3 seconds and the seats were filled.

After an hour of wonderful piano music, the concert ended and people applauded. Then they got up and walked away from the once precious chairs...precious enough to drag from one end of the garden to the gazebo...but not a soul returned the chairs to whence they had come. In the rhythm of this game of musical chairs, people would come from other parts of the park and drag a chair or two to a spot in the waning sunlight or to join a group ready to discuss a book or hot topic...the music stopped, but the chairs keep on moving.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Ardie's Excellent Adventure in Paris

May and June have been busy with visitors here in Paris. Business colleagues as well as my daughter and her friends have stayed with us and I have enjoyed the company. I love to entertain, but our recent visitors weren’t necessarily here to see me.


A few weeks back, my friend, GDAY co-member and fellow mom, sent me a Facebook message asking if she could pop over to Paris during a 2 week mission to London...Bien sur!

After coordinating schedules and travel arrangements, Ardie was on her way. We met up with her at the airport and like any good girl friend, she told me I looked great and noticed that I’ve lost about 20 lbs since leaving the States. And instead of the cheeky kissing, one cheek and then the other, I got a hug...an honest to goodness Groton-Dunstable black bear hug! Plus...she brought me maple syrup. Yum.

We hopped onto the RER and talked mom talk for nearly 45 minute...its a good thing my husband has a crackberry addiction as he had nothing nor the desire to contribute to our conversation.

After checking in with her chums back in London and chatting over foie gras du canard avec canard fume and Cremant du Loire Sparkling Rose’, we dined on my creation of veal smothered in a wine and onion reduction, roasted carrots and potatoes and enjoyed a really good red wine. Next, we headed off into the dusk to enjoy a cool evening stroll. We walked through the Latin Quarter, over to Notre Dame, down onto the Quai and through the back streets of Paris. We admired the architecture in the twilight and we continued to talk about the really important things; graduations, teenaged growing pains, hearth and home.

We continued our promenade late into the cool-ish evening, touring our “neighborhood” around the Pantheon, Sorbonne and Luxembourg. We talked of other sights worth seeing, but Ardie continued to say, “I’m not here to see Paris. I am here to see you.” Insert Smiley Face here!

Returning back to the flat, we settled in for more discussion about our kids and then after and hour or so, we turned in. Morning plan was to get up, take Reilly for a walk and hit the Café Luxembourg for le petit dejeuner. Despite our best intentions of an early rising, we all slept in. It was great...no disaster...no disappointment that we didn’t make use of every available moment to SEE something...it was just fine to BE with someone special.

We dressed and strolled up the street to the gardens, window shopping along the way. We strolled among the Saturday morning crowds; tourists, dog walkers and kids playing soccer, pretending to be their World Cup heroes. We admired the statues and beautiful beds of flowers...things I had been looking at for months looked fresh again as I shared them with my friend.

Ardie often found time to ask me how I was and how this aspect of life or that in Paris was affecting me...I appreciated the chance to say out loud to someone who has known me for a few years now how I was feeling and I never needed to qualify my words...she gets it.

After our morning in the garden, we went to the café. We explained the various preparations of coffee and ordered café crème...my family and I ordered the petit dejeuner Français and Ardie ordered just coffee. I ordered a croissant for her...we had a full afternoon of walking and souvenir shopping planned and if Napoleon taught us anything, it is an army marches on a full stomach! Besides, how can you come to Paris and NOT have a croissant for breakfast. She was pretty happy despite the carbs.

We headed back to the apartment for a bit so Ardie could finish up a few details on a presentation and this gave us a chance to regroup and plan out our afternoon sight-seeing routes. We decided to head over to the Louvre and Tulleries and then stroll down Rue de Rivoli. We passed the sidewalk vendors with their stalls filled with trinkets, posters, and books. There were artists, cranking out watercolor paintings of the local sights. And there were the tourists. I decided then and there we were not tourists...we are resident travelers, indoctrinating a fellow traveler. Ardie truly enjoyed looking at the structure of Paris...noting the passage of time on the buildings and artifices. She was struck by the enormity of the Musee de Louvre and took time to have me read any and all signs/placards/inscriptions, enlightening us to some great fact.



We took a turn through the Tulleries, the sculpted gardens across from the Louvre. I explained what Tullerie-toe is...the beige dust coating on one’s shoes from the sandy pathways created by years of people walking on and crushing pebbles and shells. We walked down to Place de la Concorde and then over to the head of Rue de Rivoli. We peeked into designer shops, elegant hotels and restaurants. We gawked at the kitschy gee-gaws in the souvenirs shops. After a time, we popped into a sidewalk café for a mid-afternoon snack...Quiche Lorraine for Ardie and me, a ham and cheese crepe with a side of frites for Emily and Bill. We watched some World Cup on the big screen TV...a unique phenomenon during Coupe de Mondial...all the cafes have mounted a TV on some wall or propped them up on tables so patrons/fans can keep tabs of their favorite teams...makes Super Bowl Sunday seem so small!

After lunch, we found some sweatshirts for her kids and headed back to the flat to rest and freshen up for the piece de resistance of our day...dinner at Le Timbre...our favorite restaurant in Paris.

We dressed for dinner and headed out the door. Arm in arm, Ardie and I talked about home and what I missed. But most of all we just enjoyed walking through the gardens and looking at this amazing oasis in the center of Paris. It started to rain just as we turned the corner toward the restaurant...thus saving Ardie’s pretty silk blouse from spotting. We entered the humble little store front that houses one of the best culinary experiences of my lifetime.

Le Timbre is a diamond in the rough. Chef Chris Wright does amazing things with quality ingredients...in my estimation, his success lies in the fact that her respects the ingredients...the duck tastes like duck should. What he does with les pruneaux is almost too good to be true. This charming little spot seats 24 people at each of the evening’s two seatings...reservations are a must. We settled into to our places, elbow to elbow with fellow diners...but one doesn’t feel cramped, just comfortably intimate with strangers brought together but the common desire to enjoy creative and delicious cuisine.

We started our dinner with some champagne and toasted our good fortune to be visiting with our dear friend. We perused the daily menu as written on the chalkboard...brought to us and the folks next to us...by our very cute (said affectionately) and hard working waitress. She and Chef Chris are solely responsible for the food service from soup to nuts! We chatted a little with the folks next to us about wine selection and amongst ourselves about the French culinary delights. I ordered a 2007 Crozes Hermitage, a lovely, well balanced red that made each of our selections sing. Entrees included such delectable choices as my terrine du maison...an upscale meatloaf with a confit of onions, Ardie’s white asparagus with a sublime butter sauce and I forget what Bill got! Emily had an extraordinary terrine of pork, prunes, bread and apples prepared with a wine reduction...oh, the prunes!

For the “plats” we stuck with the duck...Bill and I had perfectly cooked duck breast and Ardie and Emily enjoyed the duck confit...extraordinary...there was plenty of yummy noises and eye-rolling over the choice fare.

Dessert was included in the fixed price menu and I had the evening’s winner...prunes steeped in a white wine reduction spiced with star anise and cinnamon stick...so simple but so sumptuous...quite sensual actually...the texture and taste brought a tear (or two) to my eye. It was great. And it was equally great to see a fellow foodie I care about enjoy this outstanding meal. She complimented the chef who came out to the tables to say thanks to the patrons. The walk home was leisurely and we basked in the afterglow of great food, wine and company. Twilight...at 10:40pm!!

Sunday morning/Father’s day came quickly and we noshed on local patisseries with our morning coffee. We had a few hours before Ardie had to head to CDG for the return flight to London. We hopped on the #69 bus and headed over to the Eiffel Tower...snapped some photos and finished our whirlwind morning in the Latin Quarter in search of an elusive size 58 driving cap for Ardie’s husband...but we prevailed.

With minutes to spare, we rounded up Ardie’s things and took her down to the RER station that would bring her to the airport...she graciously let us off the hook for the 45 minute train ride each way to and from CDG...but it wasn’t the ride or time involved...it was the saying good-bye. I knew if I got on that train and took her to the airport, I would cry. But racing down to the B line, just as the next train arrived gave us just enough time to smile, say good bye and bear hug one last time; and then she was on board with the warning signal blaring and the train pulling away...it was kinda like ripping a band-aid off...it hurt for a minute but was over....quick...until the blog anyway...smiles and tears as I recount a wonderful visit...and my excellent adventure too.

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

We got Trouble my friends in the City by the River

Trouble, starts with “T” and that rhymes with “P” and that stands for ....well, pee.


The warm weather has arrived in glorious fashion in Paris. With the warm weather come the happy groups of tourists snapping photos of the churches and monuments. The locals who pack picnic bags filled with bread and wine and cheese perch on the granite berms, steps and benches along the quai, drinking in the view along with their wine ...quite the picture, oui? Well, turn around and there along the stone wall along the Quai Montebello one sees another summer phenomenon, the other “side” of the picture...rather you smell it first...pee. In all my days, I have never been so accosted by Peeing Toms...and as the day warms, the offense grows... human urine reeks. This appears to be a uniquely male aberration and violation of social code. I am not saying that women have never peed in public, but it is a highly unlikely occurrence...modesty, practicality, and the good sense to find a toilet drive women to behave.

This “oh, la wee, I gotta pee” assault began about a month ago. My youngest daughter Emily and her friend Olivia arrived from Boston in mid-May. To help them tackle jet lag, we thought a nice morning stroll over to Notre Dame and the quai along the Seine might be beneficial...and it started out that way. As we passed the lovely little garden next to the rue Galande, we saw a bum...or more precisely a bum’s bum poking our way as the person in question “watered” the roses through the wrought iron fence. I no longer stop and smell flowers in public gardens...ew. Not five feet down the sidewalk, we saw something rustling a huge shrub in same said garden...think Donna Reed in It’s A Wonderful Life...oh, that it were...but no, another homeless guy with a need to irrigate sprinkled away...and the combination BO and PO was gross.

Bill and I hurried the girls along, hoping that being bleary-eyed, they might have missed that little episode and we crossed over to the quai. Down the massive granite steps, the sun warming us and the summer breeze brushing loose hairs across our faces, we pointed out the sights and spoke of the history of the storied, lively Latin Quarter. We passed a couple of houseboats and floating restaurants. As we approached one of the 30 (or so) bridges spanning the Seine, there in the shadows loomed an ominous sight...facing the wall. Yup...Peeing Tom. We hustled on by...what else were we to do, watch? As we exited the arch of the bridge, we walked into a wall of stink...Urinetown!! To our right was an enclosure for the riverboat restaurants’ dumpsters...but the smell was not of garbage; it was gut wrenching, stinging, stinky, urine. Apparently we had walked by the surrogate public toilet for the late night party crowd that descends upon the Seine around 11pm when the weather entices. This was the first time though that we had encountered such a stench. Normally, we would walk Reilly along the quai in the mid to late afternoon...well after the Sanitation crews had power washed the walls and walks. As we continued our march along the river, we saw the Green Clean Team (as I call them cuz they wear Kelly green jumpers topped with lime green crossing guard vests) blasting the stench and debris from the previous night’s partiers and denizens of the riverside, through openings in the river wall...and into the murky, churning waters below.

I had had enough and we were about to be super-soaked by the green guys, so I suggested we head up to street level and find a café. Caffeine and a pastry might give the girls the pick-me-up they needed. Rather than head back toward Notre Dame and the growing crowds of tourists, we headed down the smaller rues and alleys in the neighborhood. It is fun exploring these passages, finding secret gardens, quaint shops and interesting architectural details. Along the rue des Bernadins, we passed one of Paris’ SDF (sans domicile fixe) sitting in a lovely, little ivy-covered alcove, on a white marble bench and in a personally provided puddle. I just shivered at the recollection. I know the girls missed the details of that episode as they were dodging a huge pile of dog crap on the sidewalk...ah little blessings.

I can say with certainty and chagrin that since that day, I have been exposed to the exposed at least once daily. Every night the girls wanted to head over to the Latin Quarter for crepes and we usually have success with Reilly’s own “bathroom needs” down by the river. We bring a plastic bag for poop and we cover her pee spots with sand. But with exceptional weather, the nighttime crowds on the Seine were large, loud and drinking heavily. One night it got so ridiculous, as we waited for the dog to do her business, watching and counting the men lined up along a wall that was a part of the stone stairs going up to street level...hundreds of people passing above and below and there they were all lined up, sprinkling and tinkling like no one could see. At one point, there were seven guys peeing in the somewhat dark...street lights and sunset at 10pm cast them in a weird light...I think the human pong turned Reilly off the quai...she won’t do her business down there anymore.

From the little boy urged by his mom to pee on the statue of Charlemagne to the not so little boy with his extra large can of 1664 beer in tow, peeing on the shuttered door of my formerly favorite cheese shop, this past Monday night, it is obvious to me that either Paris or I have a problem. My suggestion to the pee-pertrators is take a hint from the Green Clean Team’s solution...pee directly in the river. It will save them some extra work, spare your shoes from splashing, save my nose and delicate constitution and heck, give the tourists on the Bateau-bus something else to post on YouTube.

If the Paris police ticketed everyone who pees in public (which is against the law here), I think they could solve the economic crisis in the Eurozone! And it could certainly help the public image of Paris...the first thing a friend said to me when I told him I was moving to Paris was...oh, Paris is a dirty place...it stinks. And ask any Parisian what Paris is like in the summer and to a word they all say, it stinks. Well, stop using this grand old city as your public toilet! Gee Whiz.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

It IS a small world after all

Recently, Reilly and I were walking back from the Jardin du Luxembourg as is our routine when Bill travels.  But, we deviated from our routine just slightly and I decided to window shop at the little parasol boutique on Blvd St. Michel.  As I admired all the frills and flourishes that adorn Parisian parapluies, Reilly was being her cute self...so much so that a lovely couple stopped to gush over her.  They asked en Francais if they could pet the dog and I replied en Francais, bien sur/of course.  Reilly very excitedly started to prance and paw so I encouraged her en Anglais, to be gentle and not to jump.  Lo and behold, her admirers spoke English...and not just English...American. 

Quickly and cordially, we switched to our native language and the puppy gushing and small talk ensued!!  I learned that Roger and Christine lived in the building that housed the cute little umbrella shop.  We talked about how cute the Rei-ster is and that she really is quite an effective ambassador for the USA.  Roger is from DC and my eldest daughter now lives and works in DC (Please start humming Disney's Its a Small World After All).  Christine is Swiss and works for the Swiss Embassy...and she is delightful, pretty, kind and loves to read!  More about Roger later as our world gets smaller..,ooh... foreshadowing!

Roger and Christine have returned to Paris after several soujourns about the world including but not limited to Switzerland, the Ivory Coast...and they find themselves 12 years and ten months later living in an apartment directly across the boulevard from their first Paris apartment! Hmm...it's a small world.

Roger is quite amiable and gregarious.  As we ended our howdy-do outside the little shop, he offered me his card and e-mail...and their kind friendship, which I took, quite readily.  We talked about their work, my newness to Paris, this blog and a few other niceties.   Those of you who've known me for a long time and know me well know must realize that this quite outside my norm.  I am a very cautious person....friendly yes, but I am not a huge risk taker.  Taking that card, exchanging names and handshakes was oddly empowering and a wee bit nerve wracking all at the same time! 

When Reilly and I got home, I wrote a self-serving blog entry and waited an appropriate amount of time before I sent off a quick message to our new acquaintances and smiled, proudly at myself for being so courageous. 

Before long a very cordial reply was recieved and Bill and I were invited to Roger and Christine's apartment the following Monday for a housewarming/birthday party for Roger.  All this in just a matter of hours and Bill was out of the country...I was on my game!

When Bill came home on Saturday, I shared with him my adventure and the news of an invitation.  Surprisingly, he was up for it and we sent our rsvp in the affirmative.  Please dear reader, I cannot stress enough how big this is in the scheme of our Parisian things...for me this was a major breakthrough. 

Monday, 18:30, arrived and we set on up the boulevard St. Michel and to our first non-work/Bill's connection related soiree.  We were there because I opened up. I took a risk.  I got really lucky to find such kind and gracious people during a really stressful period (see blog about my pity party).  With a fine bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers in tow, we entered a new place and phase in Paris...new friends.  We stayed for a couple of hours, talking with people from Paris, Switzerland and Germany...aside from Roger, we were the only Americans there...and with the exception of Roger and Christine's Parisian neighbor...everyone spoke English among their other languages.  Americans are spoiled and we really should make greater efforts to teach our students a second and third language...to the point of conversational comfort at least. All in all it was a lovely time.

As the month progressed, Emily and her friend arrived for a visit and we were off on a whirlwind of sightseeing and stuff.  I realized that I had not properly thanked our hosts for a grand time and I dashed off an e-mail with thanks and a request that we get together soon to continue getting to know each other better...and no this is not stalker-ish...just polite.

After an few e-mail exchanges and setting Olivia back on her way to the US, we agreed to have lunch and catch up.  Christine would not be able to join us, but Roger was available and we had lunch yesterday.  Roger brought a yummy dessert and I practiced my vegetarian cooking...with success; so much so that I now have a new entry in my on-going oeuvre of recipes for my cookbook.

So over tartines, salad and a lovely Rose, we talked about living in Paris and work and changes.  Roger is starting up a new art consulting business and I have made some inquiries for him among my artist friends in Groton.  We talked about agendas and social networking.  We talked about using Facebook for business and I related that my brother-in-law, a chef in Newport News has a fb page for his restaurant.  Come to find out, Roger grew up in the Port Warwick neighborhood of Newport News and he is quite familiar with Hilton Village, Chad and Karen's stomping  ground...it's a small, small world.  Roger was a military brat like me...and like me spent part of our respective childhoods in the Tidewater area at various miltiary bases.   I mentioned the Sand Pool (you should be hearing a crescendo of the Small World chorus now!) at Fort Eustis in Newport News and don't you know, we were both sunbathing on its sandy shores in the 1970's! Heck, it is entirely possible that we stood in line next to each other waiting to go up the ladder for the high dive!  I mean really...35 years and roughly 3000 miles later, we were sharing lunch and memories.

Lunch went by far too quickly, but the good news is they live right up the street.  Small world huh?