jeninco

Final grand theory (France’s gift to me)

2010-12-24T15:41:00.004-07:00

What did I learn in France? The big take-away for me was the relative lack of shame. And I am surprised by how revolutionary this is to me. All the functionality and sense of entitlement shown by the French could very well come from what I see as a lack of desire to make people feel bad. Or, put another way, a great desire to shore people up, let them feel good, appreciate them for who they are, and protect them from humiliation.

And it could all be in my head—is probably a theory that says more about me than anything about “the French”—but I am enjoying the fantasy and finding it really helpful. (I chose not to watch French daytime TV just to keep it alive.)

In the US, and even more so in England (and perhaps in other northern European countries like Germany and Scandinavia), I find there is a real sense that when you do something wrong, people want you to feel bad about yourself. The correct response is to show that you feel bad, that you are humbled. Feeling remorse, putting yourself down, is the polite thing to do. Nothing is more infuriating in these cultures than a lack of shame. Pride goeth before a fall and all that.

And England has perfected the art of the put down. They do this brilliantly. They don’t just say, “Take your feet off the table.” They add some shame and say, “Who do you think you are? Have some common decency and respect for humanity. How could you even consider putting your feet on the table?” The idea is that a poor choice comes from a fundamentally flawed personality. Make a mistake and it reflects on your inner character.

In England (and America too, but most strongly in England, I think), there is a huge premium placed on not losing face. It seems that many of the news stories on public figures are about embarrassment, how they were shamed. Sometimes it seems that the whole purpose of public figures in England (and America) is to watch them be taken off their pedestal. It is so common to have someone try to “put you in your place” that one strategy is to simply do it for them, and put yourself down first. Make it a joke. Much of British and American comedy is self-deprecating and about humiliation.

I just don’t see this in France. There is not this strong shame/embarrassment/self-deprecating side to the culture. Sure, the French are seen as having big heads as a result, but do they care? French politicians and public figures are rarely embarrassed. They make mistakes like everyone else, but there is very little “outing” or shaming. Soccer phenomenon Zinedine Zidane’s head-butt at the end of his career would have ruined him if he had been English. In France, he is still a popular and respected figure.

Imagine a place where no one wants you to feel fundamentally bad about yourself! This is the most foreign thing to me yet. Sure, they might get irritated, want you to change your behavior, but they don’t want you to be humiliated. Putting someone down is not a habitual reflex.

In France, if I wear the biggest size in a store and something doesn’t fit, it is not that I am somehow the wrong shape or size, it is simply that the right clothes haven’t been designed yet. Wow.

And people in France are willing to go out of their way to protect you from humiliation. In fact, if you act humiliated or embarrassed when you make a mistake, I think it’s more your embarrassment than the initial mistake that irritates them. The cover up is worse than the crime. They are infuriated by humility.

I love this. If you let it in, stop taking criticism to heart, you might just find a whole culture set up to defend your basic feeling of goodness. It’s a pretty fundamentally different way of seeing things for me, not something that I am used to at all. Imagine a place where you don’t need to be defensive. Where instead of people looking for a chink in your armor, the hole in your façade, you feel the people all around you wanting to build you up, enjoying the artifice you’ve created. They want to appreciate the persona that is you, they don’t want to tear it down.

And this sort of inner confidence is very appealing. Could it be why the French seem to have an inner glow, why they are so attractive? It’s not just the food or something in the water (or wine).

Perhaps this lack of a burden of shame is what gives them the confidence to glide over ice and seemingly effortlessly avoid collisions, how they can walk all day in high heels, feel they deserve leisurely two-hour lunches. It might explain why it is no problem to undress if front of a doctor---there is nothing to hide. And this is perhaps why the burka is so infuriating---it’s wearing humility and shame on your sleeve (or whole body, really).

Imagine there being no original sin, instead just a fundamental feeling of rightness, a whole culture set up to defend a basic feeling of goodness inside. This could even explain the “French paradox” of how they smoke, drink, eat high fat foods and have one of the longest life expectancies in Europe.

Maybe I only see this idealized side of French culture because I’m peeking through the fence and only taking in what I choose to take in, but I still think it’s possible…and what a gift that is.

Words that suddenly sound weird

2010-12-23T07:04:00.003-07:00

For examples of my habitual train of thought about language and how my brain is slowly able to put the pieces together, over a couple of days, I kept track of words that stood out for me.

At a café, a sign saying service is only at the “comptoir.” Comptoir, a word I associated with banks and accounting. A compte is an account. So why at a restaurant? And then, of course, the “counter.” Same deal: account, counter. Just the same in English. Only it doesn’t sound weird to me at all in English because I never made that connection.

Stores here have rayons or departments (rayon not a type of fabric). Then I get to thinking about the word Department Store. I guess it comes from when stores used to specialize in one sort of thing, and a bigger store, with many different sections, was a department store. It is not a place that sells departments.

Searching the fabric stores in Paris I realize what I am interested in is the beads and the buttons, or what I discover is called “mercier.” In the US, it would be called “notions.” Try explaining that one.

After ordering two French textbooks for Rees, I realize that “commander” does not mean to abruptly tell someone what to do. It simply means “to order.” It’s the same! But “command” sounds so much harsher than “order.” And then how to explain ordering a room. It’s all connected, but tricky. You need to know the connotations.

And there is quartier, or section. In English "quarter" can be housing, a fourth part of something, or a coin.

A journal is a daily paper. Day/jour, that's where it comes from. Duh!

And this thing in yoga class that sounds like "onches" is actually "hanches," or hips, those things that you might sit on when you are being lazy out in the old west. I think we actually add a "u" and make it "haunches."

A store I visited that had a whole aisle of the little shop signs with changeable clocks for opening and closing times and the perfect red jewelry boxes for my necklaces, did not, I found out, sell to “particuliers.” Particulers? Turns out that’s me. Darn. It means an individual, the opposite of a collective or a wholesaler.

An early noun I came across was an “avoir.” From the verb “to have.” The context was a store giving me an “avoir.” And there seemed to be very few synonyms for this noun about having. It turns out it means store credit, like a gift card.

And homework is called “devoir” or duty, from the verb “to have to.”

I saw a transcription of "Friends" (the TV series, no it is not called "Amis" it is called "Friends") and they were always talking about whether two people would “sorti ensemble.” Exit together. No, wait, “go out together.” What a funny expression, but it’s exactly the same!

We live on the fourth floor. Now that is easy for me to say, but I think that –th fl- combo would trip up a lot of non English speakers.

I was hopeless with vowels, double letters, and spelling before. Sucess here, success there, sujet, subject, centre, center. Now I am forever confused.

My brain hurts from thinking like this…but it does keep the neurons abuzzing…

Big fat black pen revisited

2010-12-22T04:51:00.003-07:00

I had one more trip back to the Mairie to pay Kadin’s school lunch bill. I had recently received the bill for September and October, but needed to pay for November and December as well. They would normally bill me for this in March, but we’d have no French bank (banque) account then. So I went to visit Mrs. Black Pen.

Maybe I had been too harsh on her before. She really had done nothing wrong. She was not rude, she got the job done, she was just a bit abrupt.

So, with a new “voila!” attitude, I arrived right when they opened. This time I was second in line and there was even free coffee, tea, and juice available. It really was a nice looking place.

When it was my turn, I explained that I needed to pay for November and December at the school cafeteria. She looked at the bill and immediately said that was not her, I needed to pay elsewhere. “Ce n’est pas moi.” Yes, I understand, but could she give me the bill for November and December? I am leaving Grenoble permanently on Monday. On Monday? On Monday.

So she said yes, I could pay for November and December and she would print out my bill. Okay, so I was in the right place. See. No passing the buck.

She had this air of entitlement and efficiency. The entitlement part is normal here. The efficiency, not so much, but it caused her to speak (unconsciously) very quickly in a clipped way that I couldn’t readily understand. She was the opposite of deliberate and patient. Not inclined to repeat herself. Once she saw I didn’t understand, she wasn't going waste any time trying to explain.

Finally, after many a mouse click, she prints out my bill. I have a cheque book and ask her if she can help me write the cheque (French cheques are different and you have to spell out the words for the numbers correctly and always cross your 7s, etc.).

She, of course, took the opportunity to write the cheque for me in her lovely script. Which was fine and actually very helpful. And then she even offered to write the cheque for the other place for September and October for me too. All fine.

But still, it was weird and strangely degrading. She was helpful, yes, but very patronizing. I felt like a child. I was sitting there thinking, “I am a competent person.” And she was treating my like an imbecile. Kindly, but not with any respect. She held the power.

At one point I almost tried to make a joke, and that might have lightened things up considerably, but it was a risky maneuver since it could also easily fall flat and confirm the divide between us, so I didn’t in the end.

I really did feel misunderstood on a fundamental level. I got a small taste of what it would be like to be colonized, I thought, to have another culture and another system come with their mysterious ways and confidently impose them on you as THE ONLY WAY. Of course you write the day first in a date, of course you cross your 7s, isn't that obvious? I was not treated meanly, not rudely, but paternally. It was bizarre.

Still, I left feeling triumphant, amazed at how much you can get done and how you can achieve relatively complicated explanations and transactions with very few words. I stuck to my few prepared phrases, my voila! attitude, and it worked. Phenomenal. Bye bye big fat black pen!

Two classes

2010-12-20T04:58:00.002-07:00

Had my last French class on Thursday and my last yoga class on Friday. These 5.5 hours of classes each week were my biggest chance at speaking French. Invaluable because French was the only common language and we were forced to use it. Awkward/comical as it was at times, there was communication going on!

First I have to quickly tell about the back-to-school night for Kadin’s French-as-a-Second-Language class to illustrate how hard it can be to find a situation where you are really forced to speak French. The teacher introduced herself and said she wanted to start by going around and having the parents introduce themselves. We should say our name, where we were from, and who our student was.

I had just re-learned all this introduction stuff in my French class, so I was excited to say “My name is Jenny, I am from the United States,” etc. in French. But the first couple to go asked if they could speak English, they were from Ethiopia. The next couple also spoke English, they were from India. Then the next couple was from Korea, they also spoke English. So did the woman from Poland and the family from Malta etc. etc.

Wow, a veritable United Nations and what is the common language? English. By the time they got to me, I just went ahead and spoke English too.

But this was not the case in my French class. While a few of the students spoke English, most did not. I was the only American and by far the oldest person. The others were mostly Chinese women in their late teens or early 20s, the one male was a young engineering student from Brazil, and the class was rounded out by a Lithuanian woman doing post doctoral research in Grenoble.

When we introduced ourselves, we found out the Chinese women were all only children. I told the Chinese students that I had been to China when I was 10, in 1976. They looked a little shocked and replied, “You were? Well, I wasn’t.” They hadn’t been born yet and there has been so much change in the intervening decades, it was probably ancient history to them.

The Lithuanian woman seemed the closest to my age, so when we were learning the past tense, she was saying “I was born in 19…” and this is a good phrase because you would use être instead of avoir to form the past tense with the verb “to be born,” and then she hesitated, so I chimed in with “soixsante” the start of 60 and 70, thinking that would give her a good 2-decade range in which to be born, but no. She was born in 1980. So that was the person closest to my age. She was 6 when I last took a French class!

And so it went. I was definitely the most willing to make a fool of myself in the class. Also perhaps the one who knew the least French, but I was glad to be a little beyond my ability since I was only here 4 months. I needed to step on the accelerator!

In one class we were learning the different ways to describe periods of time using words like “since” or “during.” We were supposed to answer questions like, “How long have you lived on your own?” “How long have you been drinking alcohol?” “When did you start driving?” “How long have you been voting?” “How long have you been married?” I actually got to answer these questions with the years, as was the plan, but almost everyone else had to reply, “I have never….” Finally, some age and experience pays off!

I loved the class and I will miss it. It often gave me a headache, but my old and ossified brain has stretched a tiny bit.

Yoga class was also an ideal French immersion experience. Iyengar is a topic I know well and the teacher spoke clearly and slowly all about the parts of the body and where to put them. This was great.

The first class, I wasn’t sure what a cerveau was, I thought maybe it was a deer? So I just channeled my inner deer and imagined antlers growing out of my head while lying on the floor. And I learned the word for floor, sol, which is a perfect homophone for a different English word, and the word for ceiling, plafond, which is quite a nice sounding word that you can easily admire.

In this class, I was the youngest. Once again, nobody spoke much English. Each week I would try to carry on a simple conversation with the teacher about Iyengar in France or if she had been to India. Others in the class would engage me briefly before or after and were very kind and patient with my French. I even managed to make a few jokes during class that people seemed to understand.

The biggest difficulty came in Eagle pose when we were supposed to put one arm au dessus and the other arm au dessous and one leg au dessus and the other leg au dessous. Still can’t distinguish between those antonyms and it’s so easy to get tangled up!

I am sad that class has ended too. My body really liked it and my cerveau did too.

The stale end of the day

2010-12-18T14:50:00.002-07:00

This phrase from Greg’s sci-fi novel “the stale end of the day” sticks with me all the time. French bread is really only good for one day. You have a stale end, everyday.

(I am also not a night person, so the end of the day often does feel stale to me as well.)

And things here are fresh, used quickly and discarded when old. Everything is smaller: toilet paper, portions, refrigerators. They are always ready for change.

Yet waste is reviled. The pigeons thrive on this. They are part of the whole ecosystem. People reuse and recycle. Pigeons pick up the pieces.

It makes me think the USA has a proportion problem----maybe because it was largely settled by people who had big dreams, who were not satisfied elsewhere, so left?

And that brings to mind my morning in Paris at the Puces or the flea markets. These are amazing places that have created something from nothing.

According to the brochure I read, the “rag and bone men” were kicked out of the city proper (in like 1870) and so made their living at the margins. Every Sunday they would lay out their wares on the ground for sale. By 1920, there were more organized collections of market stalls at the gates around the city. The gypsies and their manouche jazz became associated with this flea market tradition. So where once there were outcasts, there was now music and food and things for sale. Crowds would gather.

And the markets kept evolving so that today at the center you can find a lovely mixture of pseudo established stalls/stores selling vintage clothing and antiques, second hand furniture and industrial signs, buttons and jewelry, books and prints, and pretty much any kind of bric-a-brac you can imagine. Prices in these well-established stalls seemed high to me, but it was like eye candy to look.

I loved how each stall had its own style and its own specialty. It was all sort of ad hoc and organic with winding alleys where it was easy to get disoriented and turned around. I had been warned not to carry much money as this was also a haven for pickpockets (another part of the ecosystem that thrives on crowds).

The stall keepers all know each other and have their own thriving community. At lunchtime, a neighbor or family member brings a hot lunch, and they lay it out on their antique tables and dine. They seemed incredibly gracious with customers and loved to gab and chat.

One common technique is to take something that would normally be discarded, an old key for example, collect lots of these together, organize them, display them in an interesting way, and then sell them for a couple of euros each. Trash to treasure, just like that. It was beautiful.

Then, around these now-established market stalls, there are other less permanent stalls selling wares from Africa and Asia and usually run by more recent immigrants, and then, on the edges of those stalls, are streets where men just put a blanket on the ground at their feet and sell whatever they can find to sell. It is the same old tradition.

On the fringes there were even the proverbial guys selling watches from the inside of their trench coats. Okay, so maybe not watches and maybe not a trench coat, but more like something they had just lifted from a store. It was seedy and fascinating and incredibly lively, especially on a Sunday morning when other shops are closed.

An aside: later in the day I went to the huge Galleries Lafayette department store in the center of Paris, thinking surely it, of all places, would be open. There were thousands of people there thronging around the building looking at the Christmas window displays, but it was closed. I have to wonder what kind of forces are at work to keep such a capitalist enterprise closed when thousands of people wanted a chance to get inside. Fascinating!

The rag and bone men don’t have that luxury. Their niche is at the edges before something becomes established. They fill in when the other shops are closed. They take what is discarded or underappreciated and turn it into art. Where some see a problem, they see an opportunity.

À Paris

2010-12-18T09:44:00.003-07:00

I would like to thank all the service people who are on the front lines: all the clerks, waiters, and other professionals who have borne with my mangled French and helped me to improve it. Now that I know a little bit more, I see how tough your job is and how much further I need to go! Thank you for your courtesy and patience while I learn.

I did finally make a spontaneous, last minute trip to Paris for a day. It was great. I hunted beads and ate at a wonderful gluten-free restaurant.

I was struck by how much English there was all around me in Paris. There is much less in Grenoble. And also struck, surprisingly, by how polite and helpful the Parisiens were.

From my kind of in-between state, I can see how easily misunderstandings and resentments can develop.

Case #1: I’m in line at an urban grocery store buying a pear and some almonds. Behind me are two older American gentlemen buying a bottle of wine. They are clearly on vacation, talking about how good the bread is and what their wives are doing back at the hotel. They are well dressed and look like the golf-club type, relaxed and in tourist mode. In front of me is a local and a regular. She is buying a huge amount of groceries---probably her weekly Saturday morning shop. She is chatting with the clerk and the two guys who are packing her stuff in crates for free delivery (a common service in the city if you buy a huge amount). It is taking a while. But we are all waiting patiently.

After a few minutes, the clerk calls out to someone and then tells me to go to another line as it is about to open. It takes me a little while (as usual) to realize she is talking to me and to understand what her plan is. But it makes sense. There should be an express lane. So I go to the new line and wait for the new clerk.

The first clerk is now trying to get the attention of the men who were behind me. She is telling them to get into the new line. They have no idea she is talking to them. By about the fifth repetition, once she is yelling, they finally realize this woman is saying something to them.

From their point of view, the first they are aware of it, someone is yelling at them. They have no idea what she wants, just that she is yelling. So I tell them to come over to this line, it will be opening shortly.

“Huh? Why?”

I forget what the express lane is called in English, so say something about a “Rapid check out.” They shrug, and move over, a bit jarred, their peace and tranquility upset. They just want a bottle of wine to share with their wives, they don’t want to be yelled at and moved about. The clerk, for the life of her, can’t understand how anyone can be that dense.

Case #2: I’m in a small vendor’s stall at the puces, a conglomeration of antique vendors on the outskirts of the city. There is an American guy buying 8 of some small, funky French antique. He is happy with his find, but also seems slightly nervous, like he might be getting ripped off.

From my perspective, he does everything wrong. He doesn’t start with politeness, he is sarcastic, talks loudly, he is not good with the numbers thing as the numbers thing is always a problem, his French is minimal, his accent terrible. He’ll repeat the numbers the older female proprietor says and say, “Oh, you mean huit.” Acting like he is correcting her.

The saleswoman, meanwhile, is happy to make the sale, is being very polite, and is muttering to herself in French while she packages up his items, “oh, this is a pretty one, and [[crash!!]] don’t worry, it’s not serious, there are lots of things in this shop, things fall, it’s not a problem, I’ll just find a bag,” etc. etc. He understands none of this, is not sure what is going on.

So he tries some small talk. It is unusually cold out, so he chimes in with what he thinks is the old standard weather-related conversation starter: "C'est froid." Just like her, he gets no response. The correct construction is “Il fait froid.” What he said doesn’t make sense. It might sound to her like something about liver or faith, but not the temperature. So she ignores his odd non-sequitor.

Both are trying, but neither is being understood by the other. He is coming across as rude and she is coming across as shifty.

Overall, I came away extremely impressed by how the Parisians actually manage to be polite 99% of the time, given how exhausting it must be to constantly not be understood and to constantly hear your language mangled. I think they have the patience of Job.

And then I noticed the deferential/pseudo shy/apologetic demeanor of Americans trying to be polite---I do this all the time myself. At the gluten-free restaurant I could tell the nationality of who was coming in the door by whether they entered with confidence (French) or sort of apologetically: “I’m sorry, but do you have a table? You wouldn’t happen to have a table, would you?” That would be the Anglophone way. Seeing it with fresh eyes, I think it comes across as cloying. I could see how that too could get tiring.

And during my Sunday lunch at the restaurant, I witnessed an amazing thing. An American couple came in, in that sort of hesitant, American way. By this time, the restaurant was full. I felt bad for the couple because (1) it was freezing out and (2) this was the only gluten-free restaurant in Paris and if you need to be gluten free, it is very difficult to just eat anywhere.

The hostess kindly tells them it is full. They tip their heads to one side and look sort of distressed and pathetic. Full? Yes, full. Their eyes narrow, their mouths hang open with their bottom teeth showing. Then the two women next to me say they are just leaving. The Americans sort of bow and look down and thank them, awkwardly standing to the side as the women leave.

Soon a Canadian couple comes in. The hostess again informs them the restaurant is full. They sigh and leave.

Then, a French family walks in: a mother, father, and three young children. They too are told it is full. The mother, a very stylish, happy blond smiles and explains they have no other options as they need to eat gluten free. The hostess again repeats that they are full.

I’m not sure what all happened next and what the exchange was, but the mother never apologized, never complained, never whined, just held her ground, confidently smiled and made some suggestions and before I knew it, the furniture was being rearranged, a table was being rolled out, and the family of 5 was being seated. A real voila! moment. Everyone was smiling then.

Vive la différence!

2010-12-17T14:48:00.002-07:00

In Germany, they capitalize almost everything
In France, almost nothing

In Switzerland, they eat outside at every opportunity
In France, anything but a leisurly hot lunch is considered barbaric

In England they wait in neat lines, expect you to defer to others, and are concerned about what others think
In france they are not shy about forming clumps, expect you to have a sense of entitlement, and could care less what others think

France has a dire overabundance of vowels while eastern Europe has an abject scarcity

Defined by difference

If you give it up, you cease to exist!

Mesa Messenger from afar

2010-12-17T07:28:00.005-07:00

While reading the most recent online newsletter from Kadin’s elementary school in Boulder I was struck by how the principle chose to emphasize two programs: first, their “positive behavior support” program where students are rewarded for good behavior (instead of just being punished for bad behavior), and second, the focus on developing a student’s “voice” or personal style in their writing, something they will be evaluated on. Both of these things—the only two items on his agenda—are totally and utterly foreign to the system in France!

Teachers in the kid’s schools here seem to be on the look out only for bad behavior. Kadin came home the other day and said his class was “bavarding” so much that the teacher threatened to call the police. Wow. And in the states, his teachers think raising their voice is going too far... From what I gather, yelling is pretty much the norm here. I too once thought yelling was inevitable until I saw more skilled classroom management in action. It's pretty amazing, and pretty effective.

And I went to a parent teacher conference at Rees’s school the other day. We were walking down a corridor mostly reserved for teachers. Rees was nervous, but I told him it was okay because he was with me. Then we got lost, couldn’t find the room, and walked down that corridor several more times. On about the third time through, for some reason, Rees—who must have been pretty bored at that point—got it into his head that it would be fun to slide on his back on his fleece hoodie on the polished floor. I asked him what he was doing and told him that the floor was dirty, it was where people put their feet (and we all know those feet were on the sidewalk and we also know what is on the sidewalk in abundance here in France…), but he didn’t seem to care about that, so I just ignored him (didn’t think it was so bad, just gross) and walked a few steps ahead, knowing the moment would pass (as soon as we hit the carpet).

Just then, a teacher came out into the corridor, saw Rees, and immediately marched over with a loud, accusing, “Ce qu'il se passe ici?!” In faltering French I reply something like, “C’est mon fils,” “That is my son.” And she accepted that and the matter was dropped. I got the feeling this “Ce qu'il se passe!” is the first order of business around here. Accusations first, explanations later. It's the kind of environment where everyone is focused on the bad and aberrant, where no one would be caught being good.

Still don’t know what inspired Rees’s strange behavior—there was a high, four-story sky-lit ceiling he could look up at when he was on his back—but he said I was like his armor. I did kind of sense he was pushing at the limits he felt all around him. Still, it was not my proudest moment to admit to that teacher he was my son! But we love him.

And in French school, it is hard to imagine a standard evaluation based on “voice” or personal expression. Ha! The criteria are much more structured and the value is placed on fitting in. Even using “I” in an essay is discouraged. And in handwriting too, there is no idea that everyone might develop a personal style. The emphasis instead is on one proper form to strive to achieve. And there is no acknowledgement of differences in learning style or ways of learning. It really is sink or swim (we won’t even talk about the swimming classes I've heard stories of where this is literally true…but at least the state funds swimming lessons for all…).

So I was overjoyed to learn that the child in Kadin’s class who is the “problem” kid, the one always being disciplined, was the one who excelled at the “cross” (inter-school track meet) and won the whole thing for his class. First place in the whole city for running. Gosh, could there be a connection???

Then Carina told me about an email thread/discussion she received via the parent organization at the elementary school. Apparently, in the German section of the school, a girl was assaulted by a teacher who lost her temper and pulled the girl’s hair. The parent (who I believe was German) asked the parent association what she could do. The advice from the other parents? Keep quiet because if she complains about the assault, the teacher could file a civil suit against her. The parent then asked what she could do to protect her child. The answer: not much.

Looks like another case of worker’s rights gone too far! Since I had heard this story third hand, I asked the head of the American School (Rees’s school) about it and she confirmed that this could well be the case. Unfortunately, there truly was a chance of the parent being sued by the teacher if the parent complained about the assault.

So we’re gaining some good perspective and won’t be taking the positive programs for discipline and creative expression in the Boulder schools for granted!

TV and Radio

2010-12-13T14:01:00.003-07:00

I’m understanding more of the radio programs these days. Not just the sense or the feel (what I call the underlying language of gesture and intonation that seems to be pretty universal and is at least well shared by French and American cultures).

An aside: here’s a video of the facial expression part of this underlying shared language from an exhibit we saw yesterday at the Musée Dauphinois about machines trying to imitate humans. This is the language dogs have evolved to understand. This is the language key to my impressions of France!

And I am still finding everything fascinating, probably partly because it is like looking at something through slats in a fence: you only grasp bits and pieces and it makes it so much more enticing. If you see the whole, it might be boring, ordinary, or otherwise uninteresting. There is a thriving, blooming garden of a language and culture hidden behind a fence and I can only see parts of it. It’s rich, but just—out—of—reach.

The soap opera we watch every night, Plus Belle la Vie, would be totally uninteresting in English, I think. But for us, it is a real draw. We can understand the cheesy drama and the overacting, the music always lets us know whether it is meant to be comic or suspenseful. We can’t really comprehend its more mundane side. To us it is all new and mysterious, a puzzle, a mystery. We love it.

I tried to watch daytime TV one day, but it was too depressing. The shows were either dubbed soaps or those horrible talk shows where they have a conflict like “why Chantal hates Collette” and they have Chantal tell her part of the story in front of Collette, then it is Collette’s turn, and the host makes no attempt at resolution, everyone gets whipped into a frenzy, etc.

But that was not the most depressing part of French daytime TV to me. The thing that really bummed me out was the commercials. I was devastated to learn that “French women” according to the advertisers (the obvious target audience for daytime TV) are just as insecure and worried about what to feed their family for breakfast, wrinkles, how to get softer whiter laundry, etc. as “American women.” What a bummer! My illusions shattered! Tell me it isn’t true!

So I am not peeking through that part of the fence. Instead, I listen to “France Inter,” which I think is sort of like French public radio. There are interviews with artists and writers, political discussions, comedy shows, music, etc.

One show was about sex education for teenagers. First I was interested because the show was about jeunes gens (young people) and this is good for me because I find those two words difficult to distinguish. Thank goodness yellow (jaune) does not often come up in the same sentence or I’d be hopeless (Greg told me to think about saying “Jean Jen John” and that helps!).

Also, it was interesting because the conversation started out in such a much more practical and reasonable place than a similar conversation would in America. In America, sex education wouldn’t even be the issue, it would be about privacy and states rights versus individual family values. It would be about religion, beliefs, respecting difference.

Here, they had a couple of teenagers and a couple of adult experts in the field who worked in the school system or in public health. The radio interviewer asked the teenagers if they had sex education in the school and they said yes. They asked the teenagers if they liked it. They said no, it was awkward and embarrassing. They asked the teenagers if they talked about such things with their parents. Of course not!

Meanwhile, the adults calmly pointed out that there were many streams of information informing the teenagers about sexuality: the media, the internet, their friends, their families, etc. And it is a basic fact that not all these sources of information have an interest in being detailed and accurate.

Though uncomfortable for all, they conclude, it is important to society, a simple matter of public health, that correct information about preventing disease be put in the schools. (There are condom dispensers on the street corners here.) It was all so sensible! They really got to the key issue very quickly.

So on this topic I felt the French were in a much better place and addressing the real issue at its core. However, on the topic of race and immigration, I think America is more able to get to root of the problem and have a productive discourse. [Keep in mind this is the view from my very limited understanding!]

In America, the race conversation, while also controversial, starts out from a place of the idea of equal rights and respect for difference (on NPR at least). In France, it seems to be all about “them” becoming “us.” There is ONE right way to live and it is the French way. When I hear these discussions I always feel they are talking about the wrong things (just like I do in America when the topic of sex education comes up---it gets derailed by other deeply held beliefs).

I guess sometimes having one right way works, sometimes it doesn’t…

Limbic system

2010-12-09T07:28:00.004-07:00

My new theory is that they are more in touch with their limbic system here. It’s not an either/or kind of thing where either you are an animal acting on your base instincts OR you are civilized. They are civilized AND, at the same time, in touch with their base animal instincts. Actually, thriving on the two together.

Every culture has to eat, sleep, work, love, communicate. It may not look like these things are getting done, like where is the PDA (public display of affection) in England and where is the work in France? But they are getting done because obviously the culture is functioning. It might look wrong and strange and illogical to the outsider, but somehow it works.

Even the language. It is amazing to me that people are able to communicate in this other language. How is it that they can be clear and unambiguous? Somehow a literal translation of the words is not enough, you have to know context, connotation, history. There just seem to be so many gaps when looking in from the outside. But the evidence that it works supremely well is all around.

There is so much more to learn!

There is a whole industry built up around what I see as the odd school hours---moms who share lunch duties or set up private lunchtime kids cafés, businesses that offer childcare on Wednesdays, Wednesday camps, before care, after care. So in the end it is actually pretty much the same. And the strange shop hours seem to be only an annoyance for me. It works.

But back to our limbic system---the animal, instinctual part of the brain. In American schools, for example, there have been studies and there is a widespread belief that fear and learning do not go together. If you are in fight or flight mode, the theory goes, the blood in your body is not going to your brain but instead is going to your muscles via an adrenaline response. Hence, learning is compromised. Here, that does not seem to be a problem.

And on the streets, there is just a different sense of timing in the traffic of cars, bicycles, and pedestrians. There is no hesitation or deference, you pretty much just go and stop at a much later second than I feel is safe. My “safer” cultural rhythm is about one beat behind and seems to muck everything up. If I defer and don’t take what they see as my entitlement, that is the only time when I see hands suddenly grasp for handlebars, graceful walkers falter, cars screech. People expect you to just go, they time their passage minutely to sweep in just behind you. It is very graceful until you hesitate and mess everyone up. There is a rhythm and a flow that seems much faster and scarier and more dangerous, but it works.

Walking home the other night in a fresh heavy snowfall on icy sidewalks, I saw a woman riding her bicycle (that alone seemed impossible to me given how slippery it was, I was finding walking in boots difficult) with ONE HAND because she had AN UMBRELLA in the other. Madness! But she was calm, cool, and collected and was doing fine. She was in touch with her limbic system.

And then there is the PDA thing. In America, passion is hidden. It’s seen as a bit of a crazy state where you aren’t in your right mind, something a bit out of control that you should hide because it might compromise your everyday functioning. Yet here, PDA is very common, accepted, an important part of life. No problem with people---mostly young people but also middle-aged people---being passionate with significant others on the streets, on the buses, everywhere. Again, a very civilized country that sees no conflict between intimate emotions and public functioning. The underlying instincts brought to the surface.

Or the whole smells thing, but I can't even start on that...too much to go into here...

So it looks miraculous to me but French parents ride bikes over icy street with 8-year-olds sitting on the back bracket, clinging to the seat. French shoppers calmly go back to the produce department to weigh their produce without a thought to holding everyone else up. They believe in love at first sight and make time for romance. Women walk all day in 6 inch heels, and thrive! They smoke, drink, eat high fat food, and are thin and healthy. They believe they can and they do. It works. Where I see an accident waiting to happen or playing with fire, they confidently and competently achieve.

OFII not that awful

2010-12-04T10:48:00.002-07:00

So this week I jumped through my final bureaucratic [woohoo! starting to be able to spell that!] hoop by going to the OFII office to register for my long stay visa.

I won’t go into all the complex details, but basically, to stay longer than 3 months you need to register, have an interview, a medical exam, and a chest x-ray. Since I am also the spouse of a French national, this was couched in the context of permanent citizenship and life in France. There was a 340 euro fee, but in return I would be offered free French classes, counseling for employment, etc.

Eleanor Beardsley, an NPR reporter in Paris, recently did a piece about how she had to go through a similar process. Her take on it was really pretty positive: "Despite the recent uproar over the treatment of Roma, France remains a beacon for immigrants and a nation built on immigration. France accepts the highest number of asylum-seekers after the U.S., and a quarter of French citizens have a foreign-born parent or grandparent, just like President Sarkozy." I was happy to read her positive spin on this bureaucracy. The benefits I would be offered would be nice if I were [that’s the subjunctive, I think!] planning to stay. But I didn’t want to spend 340 euros just for the next three weeks that we are here. But I also didn’t want to mess up any opportunity I might have of becoming a French citizen down the road either.

My original appointment had been scheduled for October, but coincidentally it was during our one “holiday” here, so I called to change it, and it was rescheduled for December. I thought of postponing it one more time, just leave it hanging…but didn’t.

So, there is this medical exam part to the immigration process. And I guess that makes some sense. For me it is not a big hurdle, but it still felt very strange.

For example, in France, they have different rules of decorum and at the doctor’s office they don’t see any reason to leave the room while you undress. Fair enough (and luckily I had been forewarned about this, so it wasn’t as awkward as it could have been, like the first few times you encounter the French cheek kiss…). But I don’t know about you, I kind of have to psych myself up to maintain dignity when undressing in front of strangers. Does the saying "give someone a dressing down" exist in French? I don’t think this is an issue for them at all.

Thank goodness I am not from an even more restrictive culture. For many women this could be a very traumatic, even violating experience. You’re being inspected. And since this was about immigration, it was easy to feel that the main requirement for getting to stay in France was a test that involved being able to take off your clothes in front of strangers. Odd but true. It comes across as yet another example of the French enforcing their code of immodesty (other examples in this vein include: you can’t wear a Burka, middle school boys have to wear speedos…etc.). And when you’re not clothed, it creates a situation ripe for feelings of helplessness and vulnerability, especially when these strangers (who are clothed) speak a language you don’t understand and vice versa.

I would say 5 out of the 6 officials I interacted with were very kind and considerate. The one nurse who weighed and measured me seemed to have a bit of a sadistic streak---for her I only had to take off my shoes, but boy did she bark at me about that---but overall, everyone was very courteous and professional.

And, after all that, in the end, it was unnecessary. When I'd made it through the medical evaluation, I finally had my interview and the chance to explain that I would be leaving in a few weeks. The woman interviewing me agreed that it would be silly to pay the fee and sign the contract for citizenship, take French classes, etc. If and when I returned to France for a longer stay, I could complete that part of the process. They really did listen. I was not just pigeon holed and rubber stamped.

So I left feeling somewhat poked and prodded, but also triumphant, with a free check up, a clean bill of health ("Remplit les conditions sanitaires pour être autorisée à résider en France"), and a souvenir chest X-ray.

She got a "Ce n'est pas grave"!

2010-12-01T09:12:00.004-07:00

When you don't speak the language you miss a lot of cues and can encounter baffling surprises.

Like at the grocery store the first time we bought produce. Even though there are large signs all over saying "Weigh First!" and helpful, cheery announcements from the store loudspeaker saying things like, "[bing, bing, bing] Customers, please be so kind as to weigh your produce before proceeding to the register [bong, bong, bong]," you can still easily get to the register with unweighed produce.

Thank goodness Greg was with me the first time and actually understood that "peser" meant to weigh.

So when that happens you (or "one," or actually, "I") go and quickly weigh it and sheepishly return and feel like you are from Mars (but you prefer to pronounce it America).

And of course you are desolated to have deranged everyone.

So you become a little wary.

And if someone says something to you, you get that doe-in-headlights look and pray you somehow manage to understand them.

So I was a little uneasy when the older woman in front of me kept sort of checking me out and staring at what I was doing. Was I doing something wrong? Was I in the express? The cash only? The no carts? What?

No, I doubled checked everything and it was all in order, nothing I hadn't done before.

When it was her turn, she asked the clerk something about an item and a coupon and then decided not to buy that item. Then the clerk held up her bananas. Unweighed. She didn't understand. The clerk says it again. Being very familiar with this drill, I blurt out, in English, "you need to weigh them." And it turns out the woman is also American and didn't grasp all the instructions.

So she was watching me carefully to see what I was doing RIGHT, not what I was doing wrong...

She looked kind of catatonic at the idea of weighing her bananas, and since I had been in her position many a time, I simply took her bananas to the produce aisle and weighed them myself. The clerk, a little surprised, thanked me and of course so did the woman.

And today, again the same experience, but with what I think is a French twist. Maybe the difference was the nice, fresh clerk or maybe it was a good time of day, but I think there's more to it. The attitude is key.

This time the woman in front of me was French. She doesn't have a fidelity card and she didn't weigh her tangerines. But she understood and, no matter, she elegantly and easily, no hurry in her steps, takes them back to weigh them. When she returns (while we've been waiting) she presents her tangerines (now sporting a fresh pink sticker) with a lovely, enthusiastic "Voila!" as if she is actually doing US a favor.

And what does the clerk say? That she should be embarrassed for being so thoughtless and clueless and she should be desolated to have deranged us? That would be the American (and even more so, English) response.

No, the clerk smiles and says, "Ce n'est pas grave" which sounds like "it's not the end of the world" or something, but when calibrated correctly in French seems to mean "it's no big deal." (It's music to my ears when people say this to me because it means I'm off the hook! And I've found people here love to let you off the hook if you give them half a chance.) And it really is what you make it. This woman with her poise and grace just conjured up a "Ce n'est pas grave"! I want a "Ce n'est pas grave"!

I am going to have to cultivate a little more of this "Voila!" stuff.

L'Ensérune

2010-11-17T02:41:00.006-07:00

We hiked up the hill from the parking lot to the site of an oppidum—Oppidum D’Esérune—a hilltop settlement from the ancient Mediterranean world. It was a nice spot, at one time inhabited by more than 10,000 people c. 300 B.C. We were moving up from the Neolithic.

I'm sure the whole South of France and Mediterranean coast is littered with such sites, many of them now cities and villages (and even small countries!), many of them unexcavated. This one had walls and foundations unearthed and a nice museum of the Gallo/Roman artifacts they'd found. One of my favorite French words is quotidien(ne)(s), and there was lots of that, along with more fancy stuff too. And I love how wherever you walk, if you look down, there are all sorts of pot shards under your feet.

Okay, so they are open every day and it was the off season, or low season, and I don’t think this is the case during the summer, but when we got there at about 11am they pointed to a sign of "closing times" which said: 12:00am and 5:00pm. Now this was not the usual, less ambiguous, French 24 hr clock and Greg and I got caught up in the 12am thing. Did not compute. So they only close? At midnight? Then I noticed another sign with "opening times" so apparently they open too.

What they were trying to tell us is that we only had about an hour until the first closing time, which turned out to be noon, not midnight. And then the next opening time was 2pm. Okay, we went ahead and bought our tickets and enjoyed the sites and museum.

At the gift shop, Kadin bought a new Asterix book, and near the end of our visit, while we were looking at the rooms and walls of the old artisans buildings outside, he sat down to read his book. We moved on about 10 meters to look at an old road with the ruts from the chariot wheels still visible, took our time, read the sign, then we moved on another 10 or 20 meters to see grain storage silos and houses, etc. We went over a little rise, heading out farther towards the cemetery, at which point we encountered some donkeys and thought it was time we turn back, retrieve Kadin, and head out.

A man was walking very quickly towards us with a walkie talkie. It was still about 15 minutes before the first closing time, but maybe they were clearing out the back part of the site first?

He approached us and asked us something about our daughter being lost. Our daughter? Lost? There was no daughter, there was no lost. Once again: did not compute. Did he mean our son who had chosen to stay about 100 meters behind and read his book? We were not looking like the brightest bulbs on the planet.

So we returned with the man and found his female colleague with another walkie talkie and Kadin. Not sure how distressed Kadin had been. The French word “criée” was used, but this can also mean to call out. He seemed happy enough now. We left the park and as we slowly ambled down the winding road towards our car, another car with the three employees passed us as they went out for their two hour lunch.

And to us this was strange. In America, the employees would just bring a sandwich and take turns managing the gate. But here, anything less than a hot, two-hour lunch is considered barbaric. Perhaps once you get used to it, it’s a tradition that is hard to give up. I mean, you wouldn’t want to be associated with these clueless outsiders who can’t read simple times on signs and loose their children at the drop of a hat.

We eventually head down and look for a picnic spot along the Canal du Midi, a beautiful canal that runs from Toulouse to Sète and is now high on my list of places to boat and/or bike along. You can’t go far around here (Languedoc) without hitting a great site, great food, great wine….languid? Yes!

Score one for Control...or maybe not?

2010-11-15T11:01:00.003-07:00

Coming home today on the bus I was sitting next to a teenager who was pretty much in a teen coma, listening to his iPod, zoning out as one is wont to do on a long bus ride. He even smelled like a teenager. I was on until almost to the end of the line and was wondering if and how he would signal me when he wanted to get off.

Suddenly, a couple stops before my stop, there was stirring next to me. His bus card was out. He was hesitating, then moving awkwardly, he wanted out. I let him out and he quickly validated his card at the machine and sat right back down again. Huh?

When the bus doors opened, the rationale behind his actions was revealed: the doors were blockaded by controllers. Every single person getting off had their cards checked. The controllers were organized this time, systematic, no one escaped their oversight as they swept methodically through the bus.

The guy next to me was a-okay. He was so on it. I was impressed. Another guy a few rows behind was not so lucky. By the time the controllers got to him he was studiously zoning out, paying them no mind at all. The controller waved in his face to get his attention. I don’t think he had a valid ticket. Unfortunately (?) my stop came up before I could see what happened.

But what does this mean? Why wait to validate? Maybe there is a way to recharge your card for 30 rides or something and the guy next to me didn’t want to use up a ride unless he had to? He was working it and it was working for him. The mysteries of the honor system continue…

Opening times

2010-11-14T08:26:00.002-07:00

Still haven't figured this out. Some stores are open in the morning (like food stores and markets) while other stores are open in the afternoon (like more specialized shops like the magic shop or the healthfood store). Big stores---like the hypermarchés---are not open on Sundays (or if they are, only in the morning) while smaller shops may or may not be. Many small shops are closed on Mondays. Some places are only open at lunchtime (like restaurants) and others are closed at lunchtimes. Some are “non-stop” or open all day, but not open every day. Others open only in the evening. Some places are open more on Wednesdays when the schools are out, others are not open on Wednesdays, etc.

So I am trying to figure out if there is ONE BEST TIME to run errands. I'll have a plan for a circuit I need to get done (post office, bead store, shoe store, grocery store, butcher, healthfood store) and I’ll either hurry to go out early or wait to go out later, but half the stores will be closed and open at the other half of the day. Do people go out twice? How does a working person do it? I don't get the sense that other people find this frustrating, though, it just seems to be a fact of life. I’ll have to ask.

When traveling, we’ve learned, the thing to do at noon is to find a restaurant and sit down for 2 hours. Somehow, though, when we're on vacation or out for a day of exploring, I always feel like we are just getting started about noon and not ready to sit for two hours when there is so much still out there to see. And how can we start out earlier in the day if we are up late for dinner? There is an internal rhythm here that I am not getting.

I'm sure there is a logic to it (well, not exactly sure about the "logic" part, but it doesn’t seem to be a hassle for others), so I need someone to just spell it out for me. I have been unable to get the feel for it.

Nadir

2010-11-10T04:33:00.002-07:00

46˚ and raining

So we have just passed the halfway mark of our stay in Grenoble. And the kids have reached what I hope is the nadir of their stay. For me, we are not here long enough, for them, they can't get home soon enough. They are very down on school. Very down. Very homesick. Not that they don’t complain about school in Boulder too, but it does seem especially difficult here. One of the benefits is that they will likely appreciate their Boulder situation more when we return. One of the big problems with growing up in Boulder is that you think it is normal….

So, if nothing else, at least they’ll get some perspective, but I don’t want it to be all bad. At the moment, everything associated with France and French seems to be a turn off. I have never seen Rees so enthusiastic about things such as Dominos pizza and Kraft macaroni and cheese. We are in the land of lovely food, so what is up with that?

I am hoping that we are here long enough for things to turn around for them. But it could go either way, it’s kind of a coin toss.

While I have mostly heard good memories from adults of living abroad when they were young, this is not always the case. Greg has a colleague in Boulder whose wife has forbidden sabbaticals abroad because she was so scarred by her year in Switzerland as a child. (Meanwhile Switzerland has taken on godlike status with my kids because it is not France…)

And Rees has a friend who is here because his mom, who is French, is back to take care of her mom, who is ill. They don’t know anyone in Grenoble, but are living in the city because it is where the American school is. His mom didn’t want to put him straight into the French schools. She had a friend (also French) whose son (grew up in America) was in France for his 6th grade year. He was not used to the school system and, while he understood French, his writing and other academic skills did not match up to what was expected. In France, the students are all ranked from best to worst and he struggled all year and was at the bottom of the class. It crushed him, she said, and though he is now in his 20s and supposedly recovered, it was many years before he once again felt confident in school. Whoa!

And it does seem to take a thick skin here in school, something my kids are not versed in. Carina went to her back to school night and her son’s (3rd grade equivalent) teacher began her presentation by saying what a terrible bunch of students she had this year and how careless they were in missing their punctuation marks and how they had forgotten all their manners over the summer. She said she would give them each an X for a mistake and when they had 5 Xs the parents would be called in for a conference. Most of the students already had about 3 Xs so “expect a note from me soon.” And so on. She went on to say that in PE, though they should be doing swimming, it was just too much bother because she would have to wear a swimsuit and she couldn’t take the whole class in at once and didn’t know what to do with the rest of the class, so instead, they would be doing long distance running. This is one woman who loves her job! She seems to be thriving on her resentment of everything.

To be fair, that teacher seems to be exceptionally bad. At my back to school night (same school), Kadin’s teacher started out by saying what a great group of kids she had and how she was very impressed by their hard work and intelligence, so it is not all grim, but it’s not all touchy feely and cushy either. (Recall Kadin’s first phrases learned from her were “Ce n’est pas d'accord!” “Ce n’est pas amusent!” and “Silence!”)

When I took my placement test here I tried to tell the teacher what I thought was a funny story from my French studies in France the summer of 1986 (I took a one month intensive, the last time I studied French….). My 1986 teacher would do these long dictées where he would read something in French and we were supposed to write it down. I have already talked about all the homophones and silent letters in French, so as far as I am concerned, such an exercise is nearly impossible. He would give 30 points per dictée and take off 1 point for each error. Now, there were hundreds (thousands!) of letters in each dictée that I got in their correct, proper places. With accents! I was really excited when I would correctly decipher some phrase that I had never heard or seen before in my life. But the results were always the same: 0. Sure I might have only made 80 errors instead of 100, but there was no acknowledgement of my progress. At one point I even tried to ask him if he was proud of how much better I was doing, but he didn’t seem to understand the question…

The recount of this story fell flat too. I thought it might have been my poor ability to relate the story, it's outrageousness, but when I went to a potluck at the American School, I learned that what I thought was absurd was the norm, not the exception. French teachers routinely give dictées with a fixed number of points, 0s are common, and there is no acknowledgement of progress. A 0 is failing no matter how much improvement is underneath.

In my French class here now, I also got a taste of this more critical style. I like my teacher, she is young and knowledgeable, has lived in many places, and seems open minded and forward thinking, not a terrifying old school rap-you-with-a-ruler type at all. Not one to give dictées. But one class a few weeks ago, she came in in a foul mood. It was the only time I was slightly late and she was berating the students for not coming prepared with the homework (I always do the homework as I need to learn all I can!).

Then, a couple of students needed to leave early, they said because it was too cold to walk home later. Then my phone rang and it was one of the kids, who were home alone, so I had to take it. I apologized profusely, explained, and excused myself. (Of course it was just Rees asking where something was…arrrrrgh, but what’s a mom to do?) Then another student got a phone call, so the teacher started telling us we should not take calls in class, fair enough, but I felt justified (once I tell the kids to only call me if it is an emergency!).

Finally, near the end of class, she laid into one poor girl who seemed to be struggling, more due to extreme shyness I felt than lack of ability. In front of everyone the teacher asked this student (in French of course) if she understood what was being taught and if she didn’t think that perhaps she was in too high of a level, that she was overwhelmed, that perhaps she should go down to an easier level. The teacher asked her what level her assessment test had put her in and wondered if there hadn’t been some mistake. She kept asking questions in rapid fire French and kept asking the student if she understood. Whoa! That just seemed so inappropriate and counter productive to me.

But maybe that is a taste of the traditional French way. Luckily, that night seems to have been the exception, so I am inclined to think the teacher was just set off for some other reason. I’m thinking it was a remnant of a style that is on its way out. I’ve heard that the EU is going to have a more standardized curriculum across the board, so that will be an impetus for change. Still, it does seem that part of the French training is in getting a thick skin. You either thrive or are scarred for life. And if everyone who runs the system successfully develops a thick skin and succeeds, change will be slow. But you do have to admire anyone who has been through the French school system and survived.

A tale of two books

2010-11-09T10:37:00.010-07:00

On one of our “incidental journeys,” we came across a book sale at a school in Meylan. The price was right, so Greg and I each looked for a book we’d enjoy reading in French. Nothing too difficult, but something we could try to sink our (baby) teeth into. We chose carefully and have learned unexpected things from the books we chose.

Greg’s choice: Blanche Neige et les Lance-Missiles: Quand les dieux buvaient – I by Catherine Dufour (a prize-winning French sci-fi novelist)

My choice: La Saison Des Bals a novel by Geneviève Bon (a romance novelist)

Here is the first page of Greg’s novel:

Les Uckler formaient un peuple industrieux, gai et généreux.

En général.

Ils se levaient tôt d’un air content, sifflaient en travaillant et avaient toujours un morceau de pain à donner à plus pauvre qu’eux—le quignon rassis de la veille bien sûr, car ‘généreux n’est pas neuneu’ disait souvent la grosse Couette.

Pourvu cependant que le plus pauvre qu’eux soit le beau-fils de la soeur de la nièce de l’oncle du cousin. Ou le beau-père du frère du neveu de la tante par alliance. Ou quelque chose d’approchant. Car les Uckler avaient un défaut: quand ils voyaient un étranger, un vrai, qui échappait à tout généalogie même de la main gauche, ils le tuaient d’abord, ensuite ils ne se posaient aucune question.

Ce qui ne contribuait pas peu à préserver cet équilibre psychologique qui leur faisait au matin l’oeil frais et l’air content.

Bref, c’était un sacré foutu ramassis de salauds.

Which, roughly translated, means:

“The Uckler formed an industrious people, gay and generous.

In general.

They got up early with a satisfied air, whistled while they worked and always had a piece of bread to give to those poorer than they—now it was the stale hunk of the day, of course, because 'is it not generous to be a nanny[?]' as was often said [under?] the fat duvet. [not sure on that meaning…um…anyone???]

Provided however, that the poorest of them is the stepson of the sister of the niece's uncle's cousin. Or step-father's brother's nephew's aunt by marriage. Or something like that. Because the Uckler had a flaw: when they saw a stranger, a true stranger, who escaped all this same genealogy with his left hand [?], they killed him first, then no questions would arise.

Which contributed not a little to preserving the psychological balance that made them fresh eyed in the morning and seemingly happy.

In short, they were quite a bunch of fucking bastards.”

Well, okay then. Not boring. Started out with promise, anyway…and now I look at the title of the chapter: Une Omelette de Cul d’Ange (an omlette from the ass of an angel) and think, maybe he should have expected as much?

And here is the first page of my novel, a little simpler with more everyday details:

Martin Grüne enleva ses gant de jardinier et monta l’escalier quatre à quatre. Devant la porte de la salle de bains, il s’arrêta malgré sa hâte, écoutant la voix pas très grave, mais joyeuse et alerte, qui chantait:

‘Celui à qui Dieu veut montrer une juste faveur,
Il l’envoie par le vaste monde…’

Martin Grüne frappa et entra.

Andreas Freiherr von Berg-Alsdorf se tenait nu devant le lavabo. En chantant à pleine voix, il s’efforçait de couper avec de longs ciseaux quelques mèches de ses cheveux blonds, dont les boucles désordonnées étaient un de ses constants soucis.

Which, roughly translated, means:

“Martin Grüne took off his gardening gloves and climbed the stairs four at a time. At the door to the bathroom, despite his haste, he stopped, listening to the voice, not very serious, but cheerful and alert, singing:

'He to whom God wants to show a just favor,
He sends out into the wide world ... '

Martin Grüne knocked and entered.

Andreas Freiherr von Berg-Alsdorf stood naked in front of the sink. Singing in full voice as he tried to cut with long scissors a few strands of his blond hair, whose curls were disorderly and a source of constant worry.”

A naked baron in front of the sink cutting off his blond curls. And let me just add, a few pages farther in, the stairs weren’t the only thing being mounted four by four.

So we did pretty well finding books that were interesting enough and at the right level though not what either of us expected. Greg learned interesting phrases like “the stale end of the day” which sticks with me as poetic and seems to say so much about the culture. But he said it was difficult because in science fiction super natural things can happen, so it’s hard to figure out the meaning from the context. But the potential is there. I mean imagine the garden you’d discover learning what “the sayings of the big duvet” and “escaping the left hand” really mean. There is much to be uncovered…

And I learned things like knocking and entering is fine and every verb must be carefully chosen to be as enticing as possible. My problem with the French, however, is that there are all these twisted reflexive sentences and I can’t tell who is doing what to whom. Also, not understanding tenses, it is hard for me to know if it is happening, has happened, or someone is wanting it to happen. I also can’t tell if the book is truly interesting or if it’s the puzzle of figuring it out that I find interesting as my imagination that fills in the blanks with what I think they are doing. (Kind of like you do with dreams.) But I am certain the books are very French.

And now that I am learning tenses and pronouns I am going to try again. I do like the descriptions of everyday scenes and the discussions of character. It is the kind of book where lots of time is spent introducing and describing a character and everything around them from their clothes to the decor contributes the same information in a new way. Like said baron above, with the curls, who is cheerful yet disorganized as things around him are always precariously balanced. And though his trousers might be old and threadbare, they hang ever just so and look very chic on his stylish frame, and though his furniture is a bit shabby it is large and expensive and well loved. That kind of repetition is very helpful to my (flawed) understanding.

Interesting too that both books feature German names. Will have to look into that.

16 November, 2010, update:

Just read a blog about repurposed books and it struck me that perhaps these books we got at the sale are all that much more interesting because we don't understand all the words. It is like an ornament made out of a vintage French paperback that only has a hint of the original. That is intriguing. Like a page with holes punched in it. Some of the mystery is preserved and the story is layered with both the words on the page and the holes that you fill in with your mind. Structure and suggestion with improvisation on top. That is a fun place to be.

Incidental travel

2010-11-08T07:50:00.005-07:00

How to travel, now there is a difficult question. Having just returned from our one “vacation” while we’re here in France (yes, I know, it’s all pretty much like a vacation…), I think I’ve figured out a favorite way (for me), and that is what I am calling “incidental travel.” It’s where you don’t do “great things,” but instead, make lots of small discoveries. Of course, variety is key, so I like to mix in some “great things” and some “no things” days as well. But here’s a general outline of how it works.

My favorite thing to do is to pick a destination that’s not too far, and get there in an interesting way. The destination can be anything, but is usually something small and minor like a store, a weekly market, a festival, a scenic overlook, a statue, a village. Just a spark that you heard something interesting about. That spark functions as the excuse to go somewhere new and see what you find along the way. It’s the journey and creativity you bring to it, not the destination. You don’t know what you’ll find, there is no itinerary, but getting there is part of the fun, so maybe take the bus, take the scenic route, bike, walk.

Our first two weekends in Grenoble we simply had a general destination in mind (one day a “sports forum” in a northeastern suburb where they had different activity booths for the day, the other an 11^th century church in a southwestern village) then we took the bus or the tram as close and we could, and walked and explored.

One key thing we figured out is that every bus stop has a map. This knowledge would have saved me the day I got lost coming home. So my rule about always carrying a map turns out to not be so important. I still use my map from time to time, but in a pinch, you can just find a bus stop and get oriented immediately.

So on our first suburban excursion we used dead reckoning and found a nice historic path through the suburbs, lost the path, checked in at bus stops, and continued to meander. Along the way, we found a school book sale, a rock climbing demonstration, a basketball hoop the children enjoyed climbing (after which we started looking for OP-COs or “other potentially climbable objects"), a merry-go-round, and, the ultimate destination, a demonstration of various athletic activities including props we could try from the circus school. Rees learned how to walk on a ball and both Rees and I were able to spin plates on the top of sticks. You just never know.

It was its own sort of geography lesson too and we now know there are walking paths, playgrounds, commercial centers, and parks scattered all around (with maps at every bus stop!). Each has its own sort of unique activity.

The next weekend we headed out to a small village with an 11^th century church. We found a fun skatepark (Rees had his roller blades on) near the tram stop, miniature golf, a climbing wall, an old dovecote (where I banged my head and once again bled all over the place in dramatic fashion, but luckily, another feature of this area are the numerous water fountains/pumps where I could wash up), and the church and cemetery in the old, central part of the village. We smelled delicious Sunday lunches being grilled in outdoor ovens. I started taking pictures of Gallic Rooster statues. The church had interesting icons and symbolism about water. There is always something.

For our trip to southern France, we took a similar approach. After visiting a few towns and few abbeys, we wanted something different. Each town is great and all, but it’s so predictable to walk around though lovely winding, cobbled streets, find a luncheon spot, see the market square, the church, etc. etc. Abbeys are gorgeous and historic, but also predictable in many ways. So we did the beach and collected some stones and shells, and that was nice too. We were craving more open spaces and noticed some symbols on the map for menhirs and dolmens---symbolic rock structures created by Neolithic peoples---and that’s when we started menhir and dolmen hunting and that’s when I remembered the joys of incidental travel. (This is much of the appeal of geocaching as well, an activity my Aunt excels at.)

Along the way we found many interesting villages and sites and many a backroad that we never would have ventured down. It’s the small place you find for lunch, the sweet donkeys in a corral, the feeling of connection to people from thousands of years ago, the lay of the land, the garage sale or farm stand or medieval ruin that you unexpectedly come across. Expectations are low and pleasures are many. It’s perfect.

Lost pass and missed detention

2010-10-18T06:57:00.007-06:00

We had a wonderful weekend in Switzerland at the home of old family friends. Last week, my mom and aunt were visiting us and had planned to visit these friends next at their home southeast of Zurich, near the Liechtenstein border. But, because of the ongoing strikes in France, it looked like mom and Diana would have difficulty getting a train. But Switzerland is less than a two hour drive away and the trains there are running as scheduled. Greg was also leaving town, going to Texas (luckily, via Geneva), and the thought of being alone for the weekend was not appealing. So discussions were had and a plan was hatched to drive everyone (except Greg, sadly) across Switzerland by car. We left on Friday morning.

The schools are very strict here about attendance. For Kadin’s school, where the teachers have taken several days off to strike, I just thanked them for their understanding that Kadin would not be in school on Friday. For Rees’s school, I told them that the ongoing strike had made it necessary for us to take my mother to Zurich by car. (You’re supposed to give at least 15 days notice for planned absences, but that is not how the political situation works here.)

The drive was super easy. The roads were smooth and clear. Not unlike driving in the US. In France you pay at tollbooths, in Switzerland you buy a sticker. Figuring out what this highway sticker was and where to buy it caused some concern, but turns out you can get them at any gas station. And Swiss roads are wonderful, the fee obviously used well. Viaducts fill the valleys and tunnels lower the mountains. It was smooth sailing.

The kids were shockingly in love with Switzerland. Not that it isn’t great, but it is just not all that hugely different from France. When we try to do road trips with them on weekends from Grenoble they whine and complain and act like we are torturing them and “wasting” their weekend. Everything is somehow dull and unimpressive. In Switzerland, they were eager and loved everything---even old playgrounds at rest areas. The only significant variable that changed, as far as I could tell, is that they got to get out of school to go to Switzerland.

A little before Bern we go through a long tunnel and instead of SORTIE it's AUSFAHRT. The language has changed, just like that! After that hill it was all Swiss German until we headed back through that same tunnel on Sunday. (Hard for me to put my German head on, but people in Switzerland are more multilingual and likely speak English.)

We spent Saturday touring Liechtenstein (just across the road/Rhine and it really does look like a fairy tale kingdom) and a more traditional region of Switzerland called Appenzeller where they are known for their Appenzeller cheese, embroidery, widely spaced houses, and being the last Swiss Canton to allow women to vote. I enjoy this slow kind of travel where you do one small area more in depth.

I felt so well cared for by these generous family friends that I really let my guard down. At the Appenzeller cheese factory, Kadin left his sweatshirt. Then, when I came back to buy souveniers later with the boys, the waitress pointed out that we had left Kadin’s gloves at the table. Then, after paying for the souveniers, another clerk came running after me to return my bank card that I had left in the machine. Sigh. I’ve been so vigilant this whole time I've been abroad---up to that moment!

The next day we headed out to the local castle in Werdenberg and then through Leichtenstein again to Austria where we had lunch and found another geocache at another castle. Two castles and three countries before noon.Wild game for lunch.

Mom and Diana stopped at the small border crossing to get their passports stamped each time. Sadly, Liechtenstein does not stamp passports. While they wanted more stamps, I did not feel like explaining why my kids have French passports and a different last name while I have an American passport. I also have yet to complete my long stay visa process so am happy this was purely voluntary.

Then, while they headed on to Zurich, the boys and I headed back to Grenoble. The only slight flaw in the trip was the weather, which was foggy and rainy much of the time. We did get some nice hints of the mountains the last day, but my kids will have happy, if mostly mountainless, memories of Switzerland.

All was easy and uneventful on the drive back. We stopped at the last rest area in Switzerland to fill up on gas (since there are petrol depot blockades in France and there might be shortages) and clean out the car. We would be arriving late and wanted to have everything packed and organized before it got dark. The rain had stopped and so we took a few moments to put everything in our bags, brush everything off, and dispose of the garbage we had accumulated, etc.

To cap off our day of 5 border crossings, 4 countries, and 2 castles, at around 9:30pm, we pulled into the parking garage in Grenoble where we were supposed to return the car-share car. Just a short tram ride between us and our beds. Then we discover that Kadin has somehow lost his transit card during the drive. Outside of Zurich I had asked him if he knew where it was, and he showed it to me in the car. I told him to put it in his pocket, and that was the last we saw of it.

It wasn’t in his pockets, it wasn’t in any of our bags (which we methodically searched). Rees did an excellent job of checking every nook and cranny of the car (found a water bottle---ours---and a comb---not ours) to no avail. Kadin could not remember for the life of him what he might have done with it. It just wasn’t anywhere. We searched through every book and sheet of paper, every box of crackers. The boys were very patient and indulged my obsession about this. "Mom, it's not in the car," Rees truthfully pointed out. It might have fallen out of Kadin's pocket at a playground at a rest area or, more likely, it had fallen onto the garbage bag on the floor of the car and been inadvertently thrown away.

Well, it was a long walk home, so we figured we'd take our chances on the tram anyway. It was Sunday night, about 10pm. The trams don’t run that often at that hour, so we walked to the next stop while we waited. The tram finally came and, just as we were about to board, I could see that while there were not that many passengers on the tram, there were about a dozen controllers. Just our luck! So we let the tram pass and hiked it home with our bags. Kadin really couldn’t complain since Rees and I did have our passes at the ready!

This morning I again walked Kadin to school and later went out to get the card replaced. This was another successful, if not beautiful, conversation all in French. I told her my son had lost his card (so glad that I am now feeling comfortable with the past tense!). The woman asked me when and where it was lost, so I told her yesterday, in Switzerland. She laughed at this and agreed it probably was good and gone, but she said they would put a block on the card so it couldn’t be used and if it hadn’t turned up in 5 days they would issue a new one for a 7 euro fee. In the meantime, she gave me a ticket good for 5 days of tram riding. Standard procedure. Live and learn.

Meanwhile Rees came home for lunch today and said he was soooo glad he did not go to school on Friday. Apparently in 8^th grade geography class (includes all of the 8^th graders at the small American School), things had gotten out of control while they were painting their paper maché globes. Two people had apparently put blue hand prints on the walls with the paint. One fessed up, but the other didn’t, so as punishment, the whole 8^th grade will have detention until the guilty party comes forward. Everyone, that is, except Rees and another 8^th grade student who was away in Paris on Friday. Phew! Fascinating enforcement....(and is it any wonder that the French high school students are now the ones out marching in the streets?)

You win some, you lose some, but it's not dull.

Broken honor

2010-10-08T06:17:00.003-06:00

Like in most European cities, the buses and trams in Grenoble work on the honor system. You don’t need to pay when you get on. You have a card or a ticket that you validate. To keep people honest, there are spot checks. If you don’t have a valid ticket, you get in trouble and have to pay a fine. The idea is to save time, increase ease of use, and decrease the number of transactions at each stop.

Which sounds really good. And, for someone like me who can afford to buy a pass and doesn’t want to get into any hassles, it works.

What I don’t understand is the enforcement end. It is done by people called “controllers,” who circulate on the transit system.

On his recent visit, Bart asked me how often I have had my ticket checked. Well, I take the bus at least 4 times a day and have been here 30 some odd days. I’ve seen controllers board my car 3 times and had my ticket checked a total of once. One out of at least 120. I have no idea how much the fine is, but if it was about 50 euros, then it would be a toss up whether it is worth it to ride legally. (I also have other reasons to ride legally, but that’s not true for everyone.)

Ideally, to keep the honor system working, you need swift, enforceable consequences that everyone agrees upon. I’m not sure how that would work, but from what I’ve seen, it would take a big culture change for that to be the norm. I don’t understand what is going on at all, but I can tell it is not good. The enforcement end here looks broken, and it is causing unnecessary tension.

What I see is teams of controllers boarding buses/trams in groups: a pair through each door. But there are not enough of them to completely cover all the doors so it would be easy, if you didn’t have a valid ticket, to just get off and wait maybe 3 minutes for the next bus/tram.

The agents do not look happy. They look mean and annoyed, chest puffed out, defensive smile. They are waiting/asking to be challenged. The car takes on a palpable coolness, people close down, eyes lower.

Every time I’ve seen them board, they have quickly found someone without a valid ticket. A discussion with this person ensues. This person begins to sweat. I have never seen any exchange of money or identification. I have just seen long, heated, tense discussions, and so has everyone else in the car (with most of the other people in the car actually able to understand the discussion). After this lengthy discussion, either the passenger or the controllers get(s) off.

There is just waaaaay too much negotiation going on, no matter what it is about.

This puts everyone in an awkward position. The controllers spend their days in annoying discussions and the tariff dodgers spend their days thinking if they can just keep up a good enough argument for long enough they can get where they are going or just catch the next bus.

This makes it like a game.

The system is ripe for all sorts of corruption. If you need to pay the fine on the spot, does that mean the controllers are walking around with wads of cash? What if you don’t have the cash? And if they are walking around with tons of cash what is keeping them from taking a cut? If you need to pay later, then you need to identify yourself. What keeps you from giving a false name or saying you don’t have ID?

As a foreigner, I could just pretend (or not!) I don’t understand. What would happen if I didn’t understand that he wanted ID? That I didn’t understand how to validate my ticket? That I didn’t understand the fine? Etc. etc. They might just let me off, too much hassle.

Perhaps they are telling people this is a warning, but if they are caught again… This might theoretically work since Grenoble is not such a big town. I’m sure everyone knows the controllers and the controllers know most of the frequent transit riders. (Even I am now recognizing people whom I see over and over again.) If you were out and about all day looking for trouble makers, you’d probably get to know that segment of the population pretty fast.

But the negotiation is bad. It shows everyone riding that they too can negotiate. It opens the door for prejudice and stereotyping in a big way. It enables the agents to pick on different people. It allows their emotions in the door. From what I’ve seen, if you are black, don’t expect any leniency. Even if everyone were treated equally, it would still enable people to see the patterns they expect to see.

It’s not unlike people who give out parking tickets. Universally disliked, but accepted none the less. Now imagine if every parking ticket involved a face to face confrontation? Not the happiest job to begin with, add constant negative interactions, and you’d cultivate mean people. Hate would inevitably grow.

The personal confrontation part is really bad. It encourages the controllers to be bullies. It becomes part of a cat and mouse contagion. What kind of person would want to be a controller? At a party when someone asks you what you do, who would want to say, “I’m one of those obnoxious intimidating people who checks your ticket”? Well, only obnoxious, insecure bullies would want to do that! And then, for the dodgers, it becomes a source of pride, a source of stories of bravado and stealth. They feed off each other. Broken system.

And I don’t know how to fix it. But just as I was thinking all this (had my pass actually checked for the first time on Tuesday), Greg comes home to say that once again, the trams are not running. This time, due to an “incident” that had caused “perturbations.”

So I google “incident, tram, Grenoble” and find that the night before, in the early hours of October 7^th, a team of controllers had been assaulted by a gang of youths in the area of town where there were riots last July. (Kadin and I had actually been on that same tram during the day that day. It’s one of the most well travelled areas.) Six of the officers were treated for minor injuries and 2 people were arrested.

The next day, the tram drivers exercised their right of “retrait” (withdrawal, one of the numerous French worker’s rights) and stayed home for the day. Perhaps they feared for their safety, perhaps they wanted to show solidarity with the controllers? Not clear to me. But once again, transportation was disrupted.

It’s a powder keg. Stay tuned.

Burger

2010-10-05T10:44:00.002-06:00

Rees is a picky eater and seems to subsist on a diet of white carbohydrates (you know the four food groups: bread, pasta, rice, and potatoes). The other day, however, he was in the mood for a hamburger. He rarely eats meat, never beef. He is 13. We were out and about all day and, when a teenager is hungry for protein, he gets protein. So Greg agreed to take him to the dreaded Quickburger (aka “quality burger restaurant”) to get a…quick…burger. I guess this was inevitable. Kadin decided to tag along too. Rees ordered “un cheesburger” which was pretty straightforward. For Kadin, Greg ordered “un hamburger.” But this the woman didn’t understand. “Quelle sort? Il y a du….” and she started in on a whole list. "Non," said Greg, “un hamburger simple.” This was apparently not one of the options she had rattled off, not one of the items on the menu. After much discussion back and forth, they finally figured out what it was that Kadin wanted: “un cheeseburger, sans fromage.” Well, okay then!

Repair or replace

2010-10-02T14:37:00.004-06:00

So this morning I noticed the sun streaming into the living room and saw that the curtains in the bedroom were still closed. I went to open them and couldn’t. The string was stuck. Upon investigation, it was stuck because it had frayed and would no longer glide in its track.

Now I am not a curtain person and know very little about their care and maintenance. At first I thought it was a simple matter of replacing the string. But alas, it turned out to be the sort of thing where the string goes deep inside a track all encased in metal and there was just no quick fix.

So I manage to remove the track and switch the big heavy curtains onto the still working track of the liner curtains. So we still have curtains, just no liner ones. But I have the broken track in my hand and I had just been in a store down the street that sells all sorts of fabrics and upholstery and curtains and ribbons and buttons. So I plan to head there first. I look up the words for “repair” and “replace” and memorize several synonyms (in case they are used in a response).

First, however, I have to wait for this week’s protests to clear out of the street. Today, the syndicates are trying another tack to protest the retirement and pension reforms. They are having protests on a Saturday so that salaried employees and students and families can participate. Instead of starting in the morning, they have started after lunch (2pm), I guess so everyone can still do their Saturday morning shopping. And it is funny to me how they disrupt the very same public transportation that they took to the protest and that they will subsequently take home again afterwards. It is all carefully choreographed.

Once again, I do not understand the protests even as their grievences are being blasted at me from the street below. I don’t even get the basics, much less the subtilties. Chants, drum, horn, siren, vuvuzela reprise!

Meanwhile, Greg and the boys have gone out to the Bastille again. I call them to see if they can bring home a couple of rocks or pieces of concrete or bricks to use as bookends. Greg says they have a great view of the protests and the boys are imagining the crowds are orcs, swarming below, preparing for battle....

So while I’m waiting, I sew a scarf on the treadle machine and this time I even manage to wind a bobbin. I am super impressed by the 100% mechanical workings of this old machine. It is so cool!

Just after the marchers pass there is an uncanny silence. It is the brief pause between the protests and the time when the traffic returns. It’s nice.

Then I grab my curtain rod and head out on my mission. At the store, I find a group of clerks and give them my prepared spiel, which probably sounds something like this: “Hello, um, this work not. Can I repair such or do I need replacer?” The clerk nearest to me shakes her head, but she understands. The verdict is replace.

“You have?” I ask. She nods and takes me to the curtain track section. There is something about how the one I have is too old, so they don’t have the exact same thing, but they do have something similar in white plastic. She asks me some questions about whether there are one or two drapes on the track and she measures the one I brought in. She wants to know if I need brackets. I don’t think so. I’m all set with the track.

I also want to look for some webbing for a bag and some trim for my scarf, so I tell her I want to look at more things. She says she’ll leave the curtain track for me at the register. This is all going so swimmingly! I get it!

I manage to buy 1.5 meters of webbing from another clerk and then she marks a remnant for me that I somehow explain was unpriced. I do none of this gracefully, but I do it successfully. I leave with exactly what I came to get. The thrill is strong.

You know the feeling when you go to McGuckins (awesome Boulder hardware store) with a question and find a clerk and describe your problem and what you want and they find what you need? You know how good that feels? Well, it is even better in a foreign country, in a foreign language.

My number one interaction: paying for things

2010-09-20T07:51:00.003-06:00

So I can’t say I am getting tons of French conversation going on here. My main interactions come from the post office, the market, the grocery store. But still, I have learned many things from paying for things: how to understand numbers, the implications of the tax system, the rhythm of the typical day, how people use cash, immigration issues, and codes of politeness to name a few. Really. You won’t believe the variety of checkout experiences I’ve had in three short weeks.

First, numbers. Early on, I realized that purchasing things involved mainly numbers. And how hard can numbers be? They are concrete, quantifiable, predictable things that even have the same symbols in both languages.

Well, if you ask me, numbers in French are dang hard. They have a weird system where you say things like “sixty twelve” for 72, or “four-twenties-ten-nine” for 99 (that would be 80 and 19, get it?). On top of that, I find the word for tens almost identical sounding to the words for hundreds. For example, 50, cinquante, and 60, soixante, just do not sound that different from cinq cents (500) and six cents (600).

Another difficulty is the word Euro. In French, this word seems almost entirely swallowed to me. There might be a bit of an R and an O coming out at the end, but mostly this word just vanishes. I listen for it and it is not there. Deux euros sounds to me like “dur.” And then the 100^th of a Euro, is, again, a cent which just throws me for a loop all over again (see above). So deux euro cinqante cents sounds an irregular combination to me like “duh, 5 hundred hundreds.” Don't even get me started on "one euro."

And the don't say "one hundred" or "one thousand," they just say "hundred" and "thousand" when there is only one. At least that is what I think is going on...

Now I know it is possible to function well with these numbers because people here do it effortlessly everyday, so I am trying to hone my ear.

In our first week here I noticed a sign in the closest grocery store about new hours for Sunday due to the braderie on the street that day. So I looked up braderie and find out it means “cut rate sale.” I ask Carina, my key source, what is going on (thrilled that I managed to notice something was going on). She says it is an annual street sale on our main cross street. Kind of like a flea market, but more like a remainder sale for the businesses on the street. Basically the McGuckin’s tent sale for those of you from Boulder. (And I of course thought that meant the grocery store would be reducing its hours due the street sale, when in fact, these were added hours and the store is not usually open on Sundays at all---but I wouldn’t learn that until the next week.)

So on Sunday Rees and Kadin and I head out into the braderie. There is tons of cheap junk, mostly, but it is fun because there are people doing what they have been doing for millennia: looking for a deal, hawking their wares. There are pitchmen doing their thing in French and it all seems so timeless and universal. I can picture this same thing happening in the same place in medieval times: smells of bread and cheese and sausage, olives and sweets, people demonstrating the latest trick or gadget, buyers digging through piles for treasures.

Under the train bridge I find a booth selling fabric for 1 euro a meter. The couch cover in our apartment is a little too small for two boys to manage to keep on the couch and looking neat, so I thought if I found a source of cheap fabric, I would make another one that would stay put. I can’t believe the price, so I want to ask the guy how much. Rees gives me the words, “combien coût?” and the guy replies with something incomprehensible. So I figure I’ll try another way, “Combien trois metres?”

The guy wonders if I can really be that dense. “Twaro,” is the reply. Eh? Rees translates: 3 euros, mom.

I eventually ask for 4 meters, and the guy explains something about how much is left on the bolt. He is repeating the words “samet sont” over and over. He looks to Rees for help. Hmmm.

I do not know this word samet. Is that a kind of fish? He should be saying something like 5 meters, why is he suddenly talking about fish? And then the light dawns, samet IS cinq metres. Now we’re getting somewhere! 5 meters 50 left on the bolt, he’ll give it to me for sanker (5 euros, mom, says Rees).

I should probably bargain, but what the heck, about $8 for 5.5 meters of fabric and I can’t go too far wrong. I could easily spend that much for lunch (or French lessons!). So I learn that the way I learn is to listen for what I think they should have said and then calibrate backwards. It is a very slow process! I will have to take Rees with me more often…

Now, on to taxes:

I am in line at the store where I bled all over the dressing room, waiting to buy my skirt. There is a long line (I’m slowly realizing through trial and error that shopping at the lunch-two-hour is not a great idea as many things are closed, and those that aren’t, are crowded). There is only one register open and apparently, it is possibly not working. It is amazing to me, but the clerk is writing every transaction down in a book. She writes down what each item is, it’s brand, it’s size and price, and then she writes the total, how much money she was given, and how much she gave back in change. Wow. This is a tedious process.

Still, it is a step up from the Indian grocery where I went the other day. There, the old, grandmotherly lady didn’t even write anything down or use a register at all. We just added up the price of everything together in our heads and I gave her the money and she gave me the change. Like a garage sale!

Still, I am a bit stunned. This is a chain store and it seems so old fashioned to me. Other people too seem to think it a bit odd, but no one in line seems put out. They seem ready to wait. I think that in America, turnover would be key to store viability. Don’t make the customer wait, etc. Not a concern here.

Later, when back at the same store, the register is working. I again ask Carina and we hypothesize that it might be a tax thing. Either the register truly wasn’t working, or for a day or two a month, they do not record transactions electronically for some reason.

It is interesting that while people here seem to really enjoy and benefit from their higher level of social care from the state, they also pay higher taxes. One side effect is that they seem more open to finding ways to avoid taxes. I wonder if that wasn’t the cause of the retro payment systems I experienced at these two stores.

Big bills:

Next payment pickle I find myself in is at IKEA. I try to use the self-checkout to pay for the three items I have scored for a total of 5 euros (very psyched: two new---so gluten free---cutting boards, a salad bowl, and an analog clock). Unfortunately, I find there is no place to insert money into the machine and I am then informed the self-checkout is only for use with bankcards. Still don’t have a bankcard. Sigh.

So I go wait in line again. There are only two people in front of me, but the man paying is paying a HUGE amount in cash. There is some delay, which I can’t understand at all. A manager has to come over and go through every item on the 2-foot long register tape again. He is holding what I believe are several 1000 euro notes and a couple of 500 euro notes. He is paying in several batches or something.

I can’t really believe my eyes. Those are some big notes! I don’t think I have ever seen a $1000 bill or a $500 bill. Still not sure if I really did see a 1000 euro note, but definitely was tuned in by the time I saw the two 500s. At one point, one 500 sort of fluttered down to the floor. The person in front of me wistfully rolled her eyes. We were both sort of stunned.

Finally he finishes his elaborate transaction, the woman in front of me is uncomplicated, and when I get to the register I hand the clerk a 20 euro note. She asks me if I have anything smaller! I don’t really get that at all.

And my most recent foray into cultural codes:

Last Saturday, Kadin was brave enough to accompany me to another one of these gigantic super huge über stores. He wanted a French plug to charge his DS. So we head to the equivalent of giganto-Walmart. It is packed. Masses of people everywhere. It is located in an area of town where there is lots of diversity and a large immigrant population. It is closed on Sunday, so Saturday is THE DAY.

We find what we need and we opt to use the self-checkout. Not only do I now have a bankcard, but the lines are shorter and we only have a few items. Still, I am alert to any restrictions there might be at the self-checkout: how to pay, how many items maximum, etc. etc.

I find a sign and it says something about “for the comfort of other customers in the self-checkout area, please limit the number in your party to 3 people or fewer.” Wow. That is a new one. There is some logic to this since the space is tight and there are many large families shopping together, but I had never seen it spelled out like that before. Again, a whole new category that had never occurred to me.

The final lesson of this trip is how people let you know when it is your turn to go. I was again about the 3^rd person in line when there were at least 2 self-checkout stations open. Perhaps the people in front of me were new, I don’t know, but they were hesitating. The woman who was monitoring the self-checkout area was not making any signal that they should proceed. I had no idea what the protocol was. Then two people behind me noticed the stations were free and just loudly started saying, “Pardon, pardon” and pushing their way through the crowd up to the waiting machines.

So that is how it is done here. In America, you would show someone how to go ahead by pointing out the free station and encouraging them to go. In France, they show you by example, by just doing it themselves. You’re not going to go? You don’t know what to do? Okay, I do. And that is perfectly acceptable. You are expected to take care of yourself and take your own initiative. No blame, no fault, no apologies, just action.

I can completely see why the French and the English have such a hard time getting along.

Kid context

2010-09-17T12:28:00.004-06:00

So every time I pick up Kadin at school he seems okay, if a bit tired, but he always has something to complain about: the teachers, the students, the food. And I totally understand this. How fun can it be to go to a new school that is stricter than you are used to and where you don’t have any friends in your class and where you don’t speak the language? But still, a few days is not enough to form a balanced impression.

“I don’t like it, I’m not going back.” He says. I remind him that’s what he said when he started a new school in kindergarten too. “Oh mom, back then I was just spoiled.”

So that is my rallying cry. In Boulder the kids really are spoiled. They go to nice, friendly schools with highly skilled teachers, we have a yard, a trampoline, there is open space, room to run around, low crime. Life is easy.

So at least some of the point of our being here is to appreciate how really nice that life is. And that really easy place wasn’t so easy to begin with. Being new is hard.

Luckily, Kadin gets a break over the weekend, and with Wednesdays off, he’ll never have to go to school more than two days in a row. You do the first day, then there is just one more day before a break.

Rees too, was not at all happy after his first day of school. I remind him of how hard the first few days of middle school were, how he would complain about not having enough time to go to his locker or find his class and how the staff would “yell” at them to hurry.

What seemed overwhelming then is now a breeze and maybe even a little boring. Two days is not enough time to form an impression.

(New development: Rees does not want anyone to walk him to school. It is a little hard to send him out into the streets of a big city on his own on his first day of school, but he’s ready. Still, he had only done the route once before, so he agreed to let Greg shadow him that first day, just to make sure he knew where he was going…he did.)

I asked him about his music class, “What did you do, just sing or listen to music? Were there any instruments?” “No mom,” he replied sarcastically, “It was much more interesting than that: the teacher just talked at us for an hour and I didn’t understand any of it.”

On Rees’ second day of school he has his heaviest schedule: 8am to 6pm and that’s a lot of middle school, especially a new middle school where you don’t speak the language. So, by 6 I had a delicious dinner all prepared and ready to go. When the doorbell rang a little after 6, I knew it was him coming home. There he stood, shoulders slumped, head down. Hi.

Then, a couple of seconds later, “Just kidding! I’m practicing my acting skills!” He knows what’s up and he’s playing me like a highly strung instrument.

Turns out he found his day quite enjoyable and they are doing a boating unit in PE. (Okay, so if they do swimming he has to wear a speedo, apparently, so that’s a draw back, but so far, so good.)

I think they are both going to be able to deal. It may not be easy and they may not love it, but they're trying, and that's just fantastic.

Fidélité

2010-09-17T01:52:00.006-06:00

Got my carte fidelété!

So they ask every time at the grocery if I have one. The first few times I didn’t know what they were talking about. Then I would just say, “Non.” (That’s a whole new logistical obstacle to navigate, and I figure I’ll wait ‘til I’m ready…)

Then this morning the clerk asked me something else, right after. I thought maybe it was, "Would you like one?" so I said, "Oui!" but nothing happened. Hmmm.

Obviously I answered a different question. Like maybe she said, "You know you can save money with a fidelity card?" "Oui!"

Reminds me of the time the movers were packing us up to go to England. They were great, hard working guys, but they didn't speak much English and were probably recent immigrants. (When labeling the boxes TUCKER, for example, it was pretty clear they were just copying shapes of lines and weren't familiar with writing letters. We had boxes labeled TUKER TCKER TUCKR etc.)

It was a long, hot, miserable day and I really wanted to help them in any way I could. So at one point I walked into the kitchen and asked the guy there if there was anything I could do to help. He smiled enthusiastically and said, "Yes!" And then promptly went back to packing. He probably thought I asked if everything was okay. I think I finally got them all pizzas and soda.

So the next time I went to the store, I had a plan. When asked if I had my fidelilty card I said, "Non,” as usual, but then added, “pas encore," "not yet."

And it was like magic. A drawer opened, "Would you like one? Here is the form. It is simple to fill out. You get one point for every 5 euros, etc. etc." (That part all in French, BTW.)

I did it!

I'm no longer just passing through.

Laws

2010-09-16T01:42:00.005-06:00

So there are certain hoops I need to jump through to get my long stay visa and I am getting a sort of sick pleasure filling out my forms with a crappy ball point pen.

The next step is to mail my forms by “registered post” with a “requested return receipt.” The words they gave me are: “Reccommandé avec accusé de reception.” I’m mailing them to an office not very far from Kadin’s school and thinking it might actually be easier for me to just take it there than to try to explain all this at the post.

What I really want to do is make my own form that says “I have received the following documents from Jennifer Knuth” “Sousignée le xxxxx á xxxx” and take my ball point-pen-filled forms down, hand them to someone, have the person who receives them sign my form, take a out a stamp, and stamp it. Thunk! And I think I’ll wear a burka when I do it. That would feel so good!

This burka thing is still really bothering me. The French senate just voted overwhelmingly (like 243 to 1) to outlaw wearing a burka in public. I’m not even sure if the French senate is elected and represents the views of the majority of French citizenry, but I just don’t see the logic behind this mandate. It’s completely out of line.

And I've heard almost nothing about this on the news (not that I can understand the news). I am able to make out that there is a ton of coverage of "l'affair Bettancourt" and the "manifests" and "gréves." The new retirement age is certainly getting a lot of play, the deportation of the Roma. Maybe I just don't know the French word for burka. Still.

I mean the French are so tolerant of so much. Certainly it is completely accepted and appropriate to wear more revealing clothes than would be the case in the US. When I went to Kadin’s back to school night for his English class, the English teacher, who is from England, was wearing a form fitting, longsleeved, tan, crew neck t-shirt, which was all very well and good, but underneath it you could clearly see that she was wearing a busty, lacy, corset thing. This is completely normal. Carina said at her back to school night for Sam’s French class, the teacher was wearing tight white jeans with an obvious black g-string underneath. Again, completely appropriate. But a burka? Apparently that’s a no go.

The only thing I can think is that because the French so value tolerance and openness, the in-your-face symbolism of the burka infuriates them. They really see it as an ostentatious display of religion and they find that very offensive. Their anger is so blinding they can’t see their hypocrisy. At least that is the only explanation I can come up with. That and a deep, underlying fear of the “other.”

So I was envisioning a protest of my own where everyone wears burkas. We could even march down the streets, stop the trams… It would disentangle clothes from religion, just make it part of choosing to wear what we want, when we want. No big deal. Right?

The dam/bubble bursts

2010-09-15T05:51:00.003-06:00

After Kadin’s third day of school, his list of French phrases learned from his teacher consists of the following:

Ce n’est pas d’accord!

Ce n’est pas amusant!

and

Silence!

Great! Well, that sounds like one skilled teacher. Still, he says he doesn’t mind because he can’t really understand what’s going on, it’s all water under the bridge.

And I can see that. I think it is kind of comforting to be shielded from outside input. We don’t understand conversations going on around us, we can’t comprehend the news, so it all just seems okay. Our buttons aren’t being pushed. We don’t have to debate the merits of the strike, we barely know what it going on. We can’t brood or plan, we can just react in the moment. We are cut off and helpless and in general, people take pity on us and fill in for us. We are like toddlers or old people, where seeing our vulnerability, people are kind and/or deferential. We call it living in the bubble. It has its perks.

Tuesday was a big day. Not only was there a strike and Rees’s orientation, it was also the day we got our mail from America, and, at long last, phone and internet.

Wow. Now we were connected. I was so relieved to get the mail from the US---kind of a minor miracle---but at the same time it was mostly bills and automobile taxes, etc. Dang, I’m connected. (Except for one bright thank-you note from my niece---thanks Erin! That made it so worth it!) Oh, and to update an earlier post, two of the letters were from our lovely friends at HM Revenue and Customs. One saying they had updated our account and we were owed 2 pounds and the other saying we were also owed 75p. Those letters went from England to France via Colorado....

And we were thrilled to be able to have wifi and read the news and research things and use Google translate, but all the news was about terrible fires in Boulder and distressing political elections. And, as soon as we were connected, each family member suddenly retreated into their own respective technological device.

When the green internet light on the “live box” illuminated, Greg said, “Bye!”

It’s true. That sort of signaled the end of the cozy family time we had been having. Though we were cut off and frustrated, it was also really nice. We didn’t have much except each other and it was simple and old fashioned. That ended precipitously.

Not that I’d go back. But it was interesting, and a watershed moment. Now I seem to have more freedom, more agency, but less time.

I know enough French to be dangerous

2010-09-12T10:38:00.004-06:00

In most cases, I get the gist. But I can also go very far wrong. For example, this morning:

There was a survey on Rees’s cereal box , actually it was called a “Kuizz,” about, well, something, not sure what. But promising a “programme personnalisé.” So what the heck, could be fun. Let’s take the kuizz!

Question #4:

POUR MOI AVOIR LA LIGNE C’EST

(a) Une préoccupation permanente

(b) Une simple question de bein-être!

So first off, we think it is a question about laundry, LINGE. And with that in mind, I think the options are

(a) a permanent preoccupation

(b) a simple question of well being

Hmmm, those seem like sort of funny answers to the question about laundry, kind of all or nothing, like it is either never done, a happy thing, or done in one day. Not sure those are the categories I would have chosen, but maybe it is cultural thing.

Then, on closer inspection, I see that it is not linge, but ligne. Linge is laundry, but ligne literally means “line.” So the question literally is “For me to have line is…” Not sure what that means, but maybe something about being fit or in good form?

Then the answers sort of make more sense. Except the last one about attaining this in one day. And it dawns on me that I missed that a bit too. Not “a goal you attain in one day, “ but, “a goal you attain…one day!”

So you can see how easily I am diverted down the wrong path! And in the end, I still don’t really get it…sigh.

A couple of days ago I went shopping at a sort of French version of TJMaxx. This shopping trip taught me many interesting things, as most outings here do. One of which is to be careful where I put my feet.

When I go to try on some clothes, I try to read the sign in the back of the dressing room. It says something about what to do with the clothes you don’t want. I get that, but I don’t get what to do with them. Whatever.

I step out of my danskos and promptly step right onto a long, sharp tack, probably part of the security tags they use. Yowch! There is a giant tack sticking out of the instep of my foot. More unintentional acupuncture. I don’t really have the words to tell anyone about this unfortunate event, so I take the tack out of my foot and put it on top of a box that is outside the dressing room.

Then there is the blood. I am bleeding all over the dressing room floor. Which is actually a good sign for my healing, but I don’t have a tissue or a bandaid and I don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t want to be alarming and I am really fine, but it is a bit of a mess.

Since I don’t want it to ruin my trip, I just carry on, blood or no blood.

In the end all is well, no infection, and I buy a skirt. That evening I tell Greg the story and he reminds me the word for blood is sang. So I say sange. No, he says, that is the word for monkey.

So the kids and I get a big laugh about me explaining that there are monkeys all over the dressing room floor. Like asking a clown if you can have one of his baboons.

Yesterday I find out that Kadin thought n’est pas (isn’t it) was nez pa (no nose).

It's a puzzle everyday.

Rees’s orientation, Tuesday, 7 September, 2010

2010-09-07T13:31:00.004-06:00

So we’re walking to Rees’s orientation and I remember that this is not an American School event, that this is a CSI event, probably in French and probably for the whole incoming 4ème étage (8^th grade). It also occurs to me that parents weren’t exactly invited. I remind Rees of this, and as we approach, despite the strike, we see there are hundreds of 13year olds gathered outside the gates to the school. It’s on.

The kids are all in little groups and every now and then a girl will arrive and squeal as she sees her friends for the first time since the summer break. Rees and I joke about this a little bit, how it is just like at his school back home and he can imagine certain girls he knows doing exactly the same thing. And then we imitate the boys, “hey,” “hey,” trying to be all cool and low key.

So anyway, there are no parents anywhere and it is clear that I am really not someone to be seen with. We scope it out a bit and don’t see anyone we recognize from the American school. We are, unfortunately, about 15 mins early, so we head to our post across the road that we used the last time we were early.

So we sit. Kadin is all settled, now it is Rees's turn. My stomach is a bit fluttery, I can only imagine that Rees’s must be tying itself in knots. I mean hundreds of 13 year olds is intimidating in any language.

5 minutes pass, 10. We talk a little bit about the plan.

Pretty soon, the gates are going to open and the kids are going to go through into the courtyard. Rees is going to go with them. He has his carnet, but his picture and schedule are not on it. We are not sure what he needs to do to get through the gates today.

And then, once through the gates, what next? There will probably be some sort of announcement—in French. Will he understand it? Since we did have a meeting last week with the American school, he has met the head, the administrator, the math teacher, and the French teacher. That would be 4 people he might recognize. The meeting last week was only for new students and out of the 6 grades there were only maybe 1 or 2 in Rees’s class and we can’t remember who they were.

I have an insurance form to drop off at the office. I need to go through the glass doors, not the gate. So that is our plan. I will nonchalantly walk through the glass doors and he will independently walk through the gate. He will look for someone he recognizes and hope for the best. I will be nearby, and he knows where I am going.

The gates open and we walk independently across the street and into the school through our respective entrances.

I find the office of the head of the school and give her my form. I tell her I just dropped Rees off and she confirms that that is fine. I confirm that the orientation ends at 5pm (three hours later) and she says it does. I haven’t really made plans to meet Rees after, but whatever, we’ll figure it out at the time I guess. If he doesn’t know the way home, he’ll look for us.

So as I leave the school I see all the students are going in in little groups led by teachers. Somehow they got organized and found their places. I look for Rees, but I don’t see him. I guess that is a good sign? Then, when I am outside the gates I see a group of students from the American school led by the administrator I recognize. I see Rees and he is talking animatedly to another boy. He is not that far away, so I call out, “See you at 5!” He doesn’t hear me. I think maybe I should call again just to make sure he knows the plan, but then think better of it. He’s made a friend already. He’s doing fine. Go Rees!

And three hours later I go to pick up Kadin at Carina's while Greg goes to meet Rees, then Kadin and I walk over towards Rees’s school. And there they are, on their way home and Rees has a spring in his step and all is well. He has a draft of his schedule and is looking forward to starting school on Thursday. Of course, he failed to mention to anyone at the school that his draft schedule and everything else he saw had him down as Rees TRUCKER. Too funny.

Wow, that couldn't have been easy. I am so proud of him.

Our first French strike

2010-09-07T09:16:00.002-06:00

On our first weekend in our apartment, there was a protest, or a “manifest” as they are called. Since we live in the center of town, we are at the center of such activity. It seemed so French and protesty, even if we couldn’t understand what it was about. Something about “doits,” rights. Okay, duh.

The trams were disrupted for a bit due to the manifest. I only found this out when I was waiting at the tram and heard an announcement. I could understand that, due to the protests, there was something going on with the tram I wanted, but I couldn’t understand the part where it said what was going on. It sounded like the trams were running somewhere else, but where? I thought of calling off my trip, but instead called Carina who told me where to go to catch the tram. Just glad I was on my way out, not stranded somewhere trying to get back home!

By the time I was ready to come home, all was back to normal.

That was French protest experience number one.

Via Carina, we had also heard about a potential nationwide general strike that was scheduled to take place on Tuesday. I’m sure news of this was all around on signs, in conversations, on the radio, and on the TV, but none of it registered with us. Wooosh. On Friday, there was a note sent home in three languages from Kadin’s school saying the school would be closed on Tuesday due to the strike. We needed to sign off saying that we understood. Okay, that was clear. We understand.

They don’t have snow days here, instead they have strike days. Each individual employee decides whether they want to participate in the strike or not, so schools don’t know who will be there and who won’t. At higher levels of school it seems that school mostly goes on but some teachers just don’t show up so there are more gaps. Schools for younger kids might close if enough staff will be out, which I guess was the case with Kadin’s school.

So Kadin got another bonus weekend (he always has Wed off), and Monday was the last day I needed to pick him up for lunch. He'll have Tuesday and Wednesday off and then, starting Thursday, stay all day for the first time. It had actually worked out to be a nice, gentle, gradual immersion for him.

By Tuesday, in addition to manifest, we learned the word grève for strike or grievence. Now that I know these words, I hear them all the time on the radio. In fact, it now seems the world is full of protests and strikes!

It had rained Monday night and continued to rain on Tuesday. Greg was going to go to the university on Tuesday but heard an announcement at the tram stop that the tram would soon stop running and he wasn’t sure how he would get home, so he decided to work at home instead.

Meanwhile, Rees and I walked to the nearby grocery store and it was having a flood. There was water dripping everywhere from the ceiling, which was strange since the store is under a 5-story building and it hadn’t rained all that much. Still, the store was open and people just walked around, or through, the huge puddles while clerks patiently restocked shelves.

Wading out of the store, my cell phone rang and it was Carina who lives on the street with the tram saying the strikers had stopped the tram and it was getting exciting. She and Sam were heading out to see what there was to see. I told her we were wading through the grocery store and would call her back in about 15 minutes to meet her on the street (after we had unloaded our groceries).

We all suited up in rain gear and headed out to see what was up. There were tons of people out and about and waiting around with an air of expectation. I tried to call Carina but her phone was off. It was almost like there was going to be a parade. There were people lined up with signs and music playing waiting to march, but nothing was moving, just dense crowds of expectant people.

We headed towards Carina’s street, which seemed to be where the action was happening. It was only a block north of our apartment, but it took us a long time to get anywhere through the crowds. At the corner, I checked that we were all together. Greg was thinking he would go home. I told Rees and Kadin to stay close and follow me. It occurred to me that we should have a plan B if we got separated, but we had not gone far and the obvious plan would be to just go back to the apartment. I was at the corner and Greg was heading back to the apartment. Carina’s place was just around the corner and I wanted to check if she was there. If she wasn’t there, I was ready to head home too as the rain was starting to pick up.

I rang her bell and she answered. So she buzzed me in and I turned around to let Rees and Kadin in and…they weren’t behind me. I held the door and after a moment I saw Rees in the crowd and called him over. We had only been to Carina’s door once before when she wasn’t home, so I didn’t think the kids would remember which nondescript wooden door she lived behind.

“Rees, where’s Kadin?”

“I don’t know.”

Shoot. I couldn’t go in, but I didn’t want to shut the door either. Rees turned around to retrace our steps to the corner. He came back. No luck. Meanwhile, Sam came down to see why we hadn’t come up. I told him to tell his mother we had just lost Kadin.

Rees headed the other way to see if Kadin had somehow gotten ahead.

I didn’t want to leave my post in case Kadin walked by and since that was the only place Rees knew to find me.

Soon Carina appeared with her umbrella (her cell phone had stopped working for some reason). She and Sam headed out after Rees to see what they could find. I called Greg on his phone to tell him Kadin was lost. He had just gotten back to the apartment so could confirm Kadin wasn’t there. Greg would retrace his steps looking for Kadin and come back to Carina’s to help. Basically Rees, Carina, and Sam had gone one way and Greg was coming up the other.

Gosh. We really weren’t far, but the crowds were so thick and it was raining hard and everyone was wearing hooded jackets and had umbrellas. Even if on a normal day Kadin would know where to go, it would be so easy for him to get disoriented in this crowd and with the rain. And he didn’t know his way around yet at all. Maybe he thought he was following me but it was another person in a black jacket? How in the world would we ever find him? One small, confused boy who didn't speak the language in a mass of humanity.

Greg arrived and had not seen Kadin. Yikes.

Then Rees came back from the other direction. He hadn’t found him either.

Suddenly a dark blur came out of the crowd and threw itself into my arms. Kadin! He was crying and with some people we did not know. They smiled and nodded and looked concerned. I didn’t know how to explain, but they could see how relieved we all were. Hallelujah!

I still couldn’t call Carina, but eventually she and Sam also came out of the crowd.

Greg returned home and Rees and Kadin and I went up into the refuge of Carina’s apartment. There were computer games…and legos!

Carina and I had bowls of tea in the kitchen while the boys played. Soon the march outside started and the crowds thinned.

Kadin stayed with his friend and I took Rees home for lunch because that afternoon he had his 4ème étage (8^th grade) orientation at school. We walked past cars backed up in the alleyways all the way home. It was gridlock. These people would not be going anywhere soon.

Luckily, it’s easy for us to walk to Rees’s school. Since we hadn’t heard otherwise, we assumed the orientation was still on.

Run-around Monday, 6 Sep, 2010

2010-09-06T09:16:00.001-06:00

Monday is the day of 6 essentials:

(1) Post office to mail out an Etsy order as well as mail samples of my necklaces to Brown Alumni Magazine ASAP so they can be photographed for the gift guide.

(2) Buy school supplies.

(3) Deposit cash into our new, but empty, bank account.

(4) Sign insurance papers at insurance office.

(5) Recharge Greg’s ancient cell phone (the 50euro mobicarte I bought for him doesn’t work on his phone and now he’s out of minutes----thought I had that one settled!), and find out why our landline is still not working.

(6) Sign up for French classes.

I also still need to pick up Kadin for his lovely 2 hour lunch in the middle of the day.

So here is the plan: Rees and I drop off Kadin in the morning then head to the hypermarché for school supplies.

Return to pick up Kadin.

Take Kadin back to school with his (late) supplies, decode the Post Office (find one, find out how it works, etc.), and then head to meet Greg near the bank and insurance agent.

Orange, the phone solution center, and Alliance Français for language classes will be our last destinations before it is time to pick Kadin up at the end of the day.

And it works like a charm. Rees and I get school supplies and Rees endures me asking “embarrassing” questions of other shoppers in the store about what it is that is really on our list. Things I learn include that a Cahier des Textes is the same as an Agenda Scholaire, and what I thought was a box of “sheets of paper” is actually a box of tissues, etc.

Kadin is picked up, fed, and supplied by afternoon.

The post office is actually really easy and the woman there extremely kind and helpful. It is all done by automated machine and she shows me what selections to make. The menu is even in English. One thing I can’t understand is the difference between “Abroad” rather than “Overseas.” I am told to select “Abroad” or “étranger.” I ask her why these are different. She doesn’t understand my question and tells me that letters and books have special mailing rates, they are different. Okay, that’s good to know too, but…. Only later do I figure out that “Abroad” is anything outside the EU, and “Overseas” applies to French overseas territories. That kind of distinction would be so obvious to someone who grew up here that she probably couldn’t even comprehend why I didn’t know. Makes so much sense after the fact! I can do this!

2 down, 4 to go.

I have with me the information we need for the bank deposit, but I hope Greg has remembered the paperwork for the insurance. We meet near the offices of both and take a wad of cash out of the ATM. Then it turns out that particular branch of our bank does not accept cash, but we are given directions to another one that does. More exploring! Also, we don’t have the paperwork for the insurance, so that will be another trip.

We head to the other branch of the bank. There we successfully deposit cash and learn what numbers we need to make deposits in the future and what the verb for deposit is, the noun for account, etc. We’ve got money in the bank now!

Then we head to Orange. On the way we see the Apple logo. I am drawn in. There we get a small click-on plug adapter that will give our laptops a French plug and do away with the multiple adaptors we’ve been using. Psych! That wasn’t even on our agenda.

Orange is good and they successfully top up Greg’s phone by making a call (something that is hard for us to do in French). Hopefully that will be enough for the duration of our stay. Then I wait a bit to talk to the same woman who helpfully set up our landline account. She gets on the phone, inquires into the delay, and says it should be working by tomorrow. Hooray!

Meanwhile, Greg has been scouting the location of the Alliance. We head there next and find out they offer French classes on a schedule of 5 hours per week. That fits our schedule better than the 20 hours per week another language school was offering. We make appointments for placement tests on Wednesday evening. We are jamming!

5 down (with an Apple bonus thrown in), 1 to go.

I head off to get Kadin while Greg heads home to get the insurance papers and Rees. We don’t even let Kadin have a breather, just take off on a march to the insurance office. We eventually find it and successfully sign our forms. We are insured (an important part of French life, it seems, something that is required by our landlords and the schools, etc.). So it is done.

But run-around Monday has left me exhausted. Sore even.

We are very nearly there.

The sad truth about McDonalds

2010-09-05T04:50:00.000-06:00

Early on at Kadin’s school I meet Liz, another American who is here on sabbatical. Her oldest son, also named Sam, is 7 and at Huille Blance. She has 2 other children: a 4 year old son and a 1 year old daughter. When I meet her she is getting on the bus with the baby and says she’s in need of a Quickburger. We chat, but I can’t help wondering why someone so fit and thin and seemingly normal would want a Quickburger at 8:30 in the morning. I let it pass, but the name says it all. Quickburger. It’s waaaay down on the list of places I personally plan to visit here in France. In fact, I could say it is at the top of the list of places I would avoid like the plague.

It comes out later in the conversation that the attraction had nothing to do with the quality of the food, but rather the quality of the internet connection. She too has no phone or internet. Though they have been here a month, they have just moved into their house. She is an expert at making do and gives me some vital insider information: all McDonalds and Quickburgers have free wifi. Hmmmm.

The next day, Greg and I spot a McDonalds. So we walk over to check it out. We stand outside on the patio and sure enough, before my eyes, my email is quickly and conveniently downloaded to my iPod. Sad but true, McDonalds has found a way to be appealing here.

There is actually a McDonalds within sight of our apartment, just under the train bridge. I was ignoring it, but I have tried email in several other places, and except for French Coffee Shop across town, have had little success. So I head on down to our neighborhood McDs. I am horrified to see that it advertises something called the Croque McDo. (FYI, the Croque Monsieur is the French version of a grilled ham and cheese sandwich.) Sad but true.

The one thing I think will be safe for me on the menu is the coffee. Black. I order my coffee with a glass up water and find that this McDonalds is actually, well, attractive. It has efficient service, interesting architecture, plenty of seating. It’s clean and friendly, and for just over 1 euro, I can sit for as long as I’d like and use my computer. It’s open until 1 am. I find a nice spot with a view of the street AND an outlet. Very nice. The coffee is even good.

I confess, this will be my new office until our connection at the apartment is up and working. Sad but true.

School supplies

2010-09-05T01:35:00.002-06:00

So Carina told an interesting story about a French lecture she attended where she was taking notes with a ballpoint pen. The lecturer saw what she was doing and stopped his lecture to ask her how she could dare deign take notes in HIS class with anything but a fountain pen. He found it insulting that she would use a crap ballpoint pen to take note of his words. Wow.

I had heard some nightmare stories of the school supplies here and how you have to buy lots of them and how complicated and confusing it can be. Well, at least so far, it is true that there are lots to buy and it is complicated and confusing, but no worse than in Boulder. If I had arrived in Boulder and didn’t speak the language and tried to understand what the teachers were requesting, I would find that a nightmare too.

Since I expected worse, it hasn’t been too bad. And I have mellowed significantly over the years since my boys take about zero interest in school supplies and see their pencils, erasers, paper clips, and tape as more raw material for sculptures and weapons than as precious, appealing tools. They rarely use everything I provide because it’s overwhelming. So my motto in that department has become: less is more. I do it more for me than for them.

The biggest problem I had with school supplies here is that I planned to buy them on a Sunday. We got the list on Thursday and Friday and Saturday were filled with other obligations (like banks and insurance and making a gluten free cake that Greg volunteered me to bring to a dinner party Saturday evening). Little did I know that the huge hypermarchés are all closed on Sundays. It was so hard to imagine on Friday, when I was hurrying past one on my way to the bank, that this giant complex with a parking lot full of cars would be a dead zone one day of the weekend. But it is. Sadly, fermé.

So I would do it Monday. I had to write a note in Kadin’s cahier apologizing that we had only been here a week and his mother did not realize the stores were closed on Sunday. He was a bit nervous going back to school without supplies, but what can you do? (Besides, I think he has sort of been taken under the wing of this sweet, precocious tri-ligual American girl who translates for him and shares her supplies with him.)

True to Carina’s story, the strangest thing on the list for me was the fountain pen. Seriously? For nine year old boys? The French, as Carina so painfully experienced at a much higher stage of education, take their pens very seriously and they start with fountain pens early. Students Kadin’s age are expected to use pens almost exclusively (and write in cursive). Pencils are only for drafts. The quality of the fountain pen is apparently important and you can find a huge range in prices from 3 euros to 100s of euros. I think Kadin was taught handwriting but never taught to CARE about his handwriting. This will be something new.

Now I know that fountain pens are nice to write with and more expressive. I also know they help you form your letters consistently from the top down. And, I guess in a place where many documents are still hand written, handwriting is important. But for me, the thought of young boys with cartridges of ink is just bad feng shui. All I can do is envision exploding ink!

Carina said that the upshot of the professor’s ridicule was the students rallying around her saying they were horrified by his behavior and telling her where and how to get an affordable fountain pen. And she said she still has the jeans that have a big stain on them where that first fountain pen she purchased leaked.

And what do you know? Rees is psyched about his fountain pen and is practicing his signature for the first time in his life. Kadin too seems to be trying to make his letters consistently from the top down. Two minor miracles as far as I am concerned. I'll take it while it lasts!

American School of Grenoble, a school within a school, Friday, 3 September, 2010

2010-09-03T02:20:00.001-06:00

There is a 1:30 meeting on Friday at the American School (Rees’s school) to brief us on how they work and to sign more forms. 1:30 is also the time Kadin needs to be back at school. It is only his second day, but I ask Carina if we can just drop Kadin off at their bus stop at 1:00 on our way to the American School. This works out great. So Kadin returns to school with Sam and Carina and we go with Rees to learn more about the American School.

The American School is a private school embedded in the Cité Scholaire International (yes! CSI Grenoble!), the big, international public school in town that houses what we would call middle school and high school (they call them Collège and Lycée). The Cité Scholaire is one of the most prestigious schools in the city and students have to pass tough entrance exams to get in. There is even student housing near by and students commute to go here. As part of the American School, we just have to pay. I know the American School is in the same building as the CSI and the kids eat in the same cafeteria and that Rees can go there, but that is all I know.

Well, what we thought would be a 1 hour meeting turned out to be a 4 hour marathon of explanations, tours, and form signing. Rees and I left towards the end to go get Kadin—our insurance appointment will have to wait until Monday.

Turns out Rees is in what is called Collège in the 4ème étage. (Both kids are in some sort of 4^th grade!) It sounds impressive for sure, but they count down from 6^th grade (6ème étage) to 1er étage (11^th) and then Terminal. They really do have a way with words that I am only beginning to appreciate.

We find out that Rees will go to school anywhere from 8am to 6pm, 5 days a week. Lucky for him the American School does not do Saturday like the French CSI does. Wednesday is a half day with classes anywhere from 8am to 2pm. He will take all the regular American 8th grade curriculum in English (Math, Science, English, Social Studies, etc.) but also have his other classes like PE, computers, and music in the regular French school with the French students. In addition, he will have about 2hrs of French instruction each day. This is ideal because this particular school has excellent facilities for science, technology, PE, etc. The American school is able to benefit from having a small, close knit community and American curriculum as well as having all the infrastructure, facilities, and exposure to French found in the French school.

At the same time, that means the American School has to follow all of the French school’s rules. Some are a little odd. Like, for example, there is no way to take your child out during the day for a doctor’s appointment. There are gates that open and close at specific times and the students have to be in at the right times. Students have a Carnet or a school passport which must be in their possession at all times. It has their picture and schedule (also Retard notes and Pink Slips for absences) on it and they need to show it to get in the gate at the critical windows. If you miss your gate, tough. And students are not allowed to bring any food to school and can only eat food purchased at the Cantine at lunch time.

There is a Vie de Scholaire which sounds like a euphemism and is part of what we would call the Dean’s office. It is the only place you are allowed to be if you don’t have class and have a gap in your schedule. You can get a pass from the Vie to go to the library. You are not allowed to hang out in the hallways at any time, they are only for passing through. The head of the Vie (I forget the French title, the CPU?) has students who work under him/her called surveillents. Guess these are kind of like the prefects at Hogwarts (and the shifting staircases seemed kind of synonymous as well!). What an unfortunate name! I think Rees understood the underlying zeitgeist well when he said he wanted to have a mug shot on his Carnet.

And not only do you have a different schedule everyday, your classes can move to different rooms depending on what equipment might be needed for that class. There is also no substitute teacher system at this level so if a teacher is absent, that class becomes a gap. And your schedule can also change from week to week. And there is something in the schedule called Heur d'Arc de Ciel, literally "hour of the sky arc" or "Rainbow hour." Sounds like another euphemism. Wow. It will be great practice for high school. But certainly confusing at first, especially in a foreign language.

Despite all this, Rees is actually psyched about his school and game to give it a try. He has a sense of humor about all the rules and is ready for the challenge. Go Rees!

Reéntree Thursday, 2 September, 2010

2010-09-02T14:16:00.001-06:00

It’s the big day, the first day of elementary school, the reéntree.

Rees again opts to sleep in (his first day is Sep 9th), Kadin, Greg, and I hop on the bus. Who do we see on the bus? Carina and Sam! Hooray! Makes for a very nice, relaxed ride to school.

At the school it is a little more festive than it has been. Just like at Mesa, there are signs for all the classes in different parts of the playground. The equivalent of the PTO has set up a table with coffee and juice for parents.

Kadin is in the class CM1, one level below the top level in the school. Basically 4th grade, just like he would be back home. CP is 1st grade then CE1 and CE2 then CM1 and CM2. CM2 is a bit of a grind we’ve heard because they prepare for entrance exams to competitive middle schools. Glad Kadin avoids this! Perfect placement.

Sam is in CE2, 3rd grade. His name is on a class list. There are two CM1 classes, but Kadin’s name is not on either of the lists. I am meanwhile in the office, proudly giving the headmistress a list of our new phone numbers. Seems there is no secretary, only the headmistress, so there is a bit of a line for her. I overhear some people say their kids aren’t on any list. Realize now I must have overheard this in French because I don’t recall any English going on. When Greg and Kadin show me how his name is not on any list, I go back and find the English teacher. She says that is because Kadin is supposed to come with her. Phew!

There are three English teachers and they take about half a dozen students up to the classroom and invite the parents to stay for the first few minutes. Kadin was fine, calm, and ready to go, so I didn’t really feel the need to see his classroom, but something about the invitation struck me more as a request than an invitation. So Greg and I go up with the class. Turns out we are the only parents who took the teachers up on their invitation.

The teachers are very nice and explain that in English class the kids are not allowed to speak French and in French class they are not allowed to speak English. They have the students introduce themselves and they learn a little bit about each one. The teachers want to start with a writing assessment so they know better how to place the students in their classes. All is well, so Greg and I excuse ourselves and head out to the University. It is the day to set up our bank account with the aid of Greg’s colleague, Peter.

I meet Peter in the Geology department and he says we have an appointment at the bank for 10:30. I will have to leave around 11am to get Kadin, but at least it will be a start. In the meantime, Peter generously sets us each up on a computer with internet and I fumble with the French keyboard but get some stuff done. Then the bank calls and has changed the appointment to 11am. Oh well, I will walk with them back to the tram and they will forge ahead and get as much done as possible without me.

First we have coffee, which is a really more like espresso, small dark and strong, no milk. We chat and enjoy our drinks and then walk towards the bank. At the tram stop I get on the tram, a completely different line coming from a completely different direction, and who is on the tram, right where I get on? Carina! Too funny! She was on campus meeting with her students and we are both heading back to pick the kids up for their two-hour lunch.

We pick up the boys, ride the bus back home together, lunch, then head back to the school. Kadin is okay. Not overjoyed to be in school, but not too distressed. This time Rees comes with us as we’ll shop for his school supplies after we drop Kadin off again. When we get on the bus we find Sam and Carina, again! The buses come about every 2 minutes, so this is remarkable. We are synched. Kadin completely relaxes when he is with Sam, so this is helping dramatically with the transition to school.

After the drop off, Rees and I shop at a larger supermarket (á la Target) down by the school and pick out some simple pens and pencils, a lock, and the “agenda” we were told he would need for sure.

We have a pleasant time, but when we get home we are shocked to find our door OPEN. Yikes! I rush in, hoping no one is inside, and find everything as it should be. Nothing is gone. WE must have left the door open. That is a wake up call. I guess with three people leaving the apartment, it can be a little vague who is responsible for shutting the door. For some reason I assumed it closed itself, but no, we need to be more vigilant in the future.

Then at 4pm it is time to go get Kadin again. And yes, Carina is on the same bus. At the school we once again encounter what Carina calls the French “clump” as there often is a clump of people it seems. Not like the English queues or the American scatters. But this is exteme, I would call it a mob. After picking up Kadin at the end of the first day of school, I understand Bastille day a little bit better.

Kadin is exhausted, a little down, but okay. He reports on the first French he has learned from his French teacher: "Ce n'est pas d'accord." Oh well.

Bootstrap Wednesday, 1 Sep, 2010

2010-09-01T06:27:00.001-06:00

Who needs language, anyway? We're doing it. With a few grunts and hand gestures (and a lot of good will on both sides), a lot can be accomplished.

We're like persistent, demanding 2 year olds. It works for them and it's working for us. Our needs are being met. A couple key nouns in French and a couple words back in English accompanied by some pointing and gesturing (happy face, sad face), and progress is being made. We’re pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps.

We set out with passports and our baille (lease agreement, also handwritten, used by many places as proof of address) to get phone service via Orange, the hip network in these parts. They apparently don’t require a year-long contract. After waiting a bit, a very nice, patient woman does it all for us. She should get an award. She should be a teacher. Just the right amount of information: not too much, not too little, using slow, clear words as we all search for ones that are the same or similar enough in French and English. Synonyms are us!

She says if we know the name of the previous tenant in our apartment, we can waive a connection fee. We tell her the name of Greg’s colleague who lived there last year. She shakes her head and shows us the computer screen to see if we recognize any names. We don’t, but it can’t be that hard. There are only 8 units in the building and only two on the 4^th floor, so one of them has to be ours. She looks hopeless, presses a key to go to the next page, and there, only one more name, but it’s the one we had mentioned. Phew! Now she does not think we are so totally clueless. She is working for us. Yea! Land line set, should be up and running by Friday.

Then she sets up internet. Should be up and running in a week. Cost for phone and internet? About $30 a month. Compared to the $70 we pay in Colorado, that feels like a great deal. And we pay nothing up front. Don’t need a bank account.

Then we get a new sim card for Greg’s phone ($15) and a prepaid phone for me ($25) and we’re connected! We now have a way to call each other and have people call us. Boy does that feel surprisingly good! We’re doing it.

Communication. Check.

I want to press on and brave the line for bus passes. Transportation the next key piece of infrastructure. Greg says the phone store’s about all he can handle, and it’s a beautiful day, the last day before the start of school. He wants to take the kids out to do something fun. But hey, we can do that now: one person can go one way, the other person go the other, then meet up later. Wow!

The kids are in a bit of a rut and apartment living is not really Rees’s thing, so Greg is determined to get them out and moving. Yesterday on his way to the University, he walked past some interesting playgrounds with big climbing nets and ziplines. He wants to take the kids there for one last hurrah before the start of classes. Great idea as I think only one person needs to apply for the bus passes.

Before I even start standing in line I have the brilliant flash to walk a few blocks to our friendly internet café, stand outside, and quickly download my email to my iPod. Then, while I’m in line, I can read it. After doing my email, I familiarize myself with my cell phone and add the two contacts (Greg and Carina) I have in Grenoble. I’m multitasking. Feeling pretty chuffed.

I get to the front of the line and with a few more grunts and gestures, I successfully purchase 4 unlimited bus passes complete with photo ids for each member of the family. Hooray!

Transportation. Check.

I call Greg (my first contact!) to find out where they are. They are at a big park in the center of the city, but he is frustrated and says the playgrounds he saw seem to have vanished. Vanished? I think he is maybe in the wrong place, but I set off, using my new pass, to meet them.

I take tram A to tram C, cross the tracks and go one stop. I get off and call Greg again. He says they found out what happened to the playgrounds. Since it is the last day of summer vacation, it’s the day all playgrounds come down. Bad timing!

He even sees a truck with the workers in it that says: “Maître de l’éphémère,” or Masters of the Ephemeral. So zen, and yet so cruel. The kids are disappointed but at least that solves the mystery of the disappearing playgrounds. Bummer. Greg says they are at a snack kiosk near the tower and I can’t miss it.

I don’t see any tower. Hmmm. So I get out my map, walk a bit, then slowly realize my mistake. I got off one tram, crossed the tracks, and got on the very same tram going the other direction. I backtracked instead of transferring. Oh well, I’m not that far off, figure out where to go and meet up with Greg and the boys soon enough. Dope!

They are ready to go back to the apartment. So we do and I spend much of the rest of the afternoon figuring out how to recharge my phone. With only 10 minutes of talk time, I don’t want to wait until I am in a panic to do it. Much trial and error.

Takes me about half an hour to figure out that "précédent" on the phone menu means "back." Boy is that useful. Big old forehead slap when that came through! To my dismay, it seems that our foreign credit cards don’t work for the phones (or the trams, but tram problem now solved) and at dinner time I see Orange mobicartes for sale at the grocery store. I buy the cheapest one, and it works! Hooray! I found a way to do this without a bank account!

Very excited by what we’ve accomplished today.

Big fat black pen: French bureaucracy part 1

2010-08-31T08:11:00.001-06:00

Tuesday’s agenda: connect with the University and find out Kadin’s test results (and take appropriate action)

For the first time, we sleep in and have a real breakfast in the apartment. Then once again head to the internet café. Greg needs to find out where to meet his colleague on campus and I need to find out if Kadin got into school.

If he did, there are forms I need to take to the Mairie (town hall) and then back to the school and I need to sign him up for the school lunches ASAP if I want to avoid picking him up everyday to come home for his 2 hour lunch (perish the thought!). He is not allowed to bring his own lunch to school. He will have only 4 days of school a week for a total of 24 hours. This is standard here as I think there is more homework. He’ll have a luxuriously long 2 hour lunch, be in school from 8:30 to 4:30, but have Wednesdays and weekends off. If he doesn’t get into the school…I don’t know what I’ll do, but something!

At the café I scan my inbox and find the message I’ve been waiting for. He’s in! Just after that message was sent there is one from Carina saying she hasn’t heard yet. Hmmm. Then the end of her message says she then called the school and Sam’s in. We are supposed to stop by the school around 10am and pick up a signed letter to take to the Mairie with passport and proof of address. Okay, it is now 10:15 and I just ordered a coffee. Greg is planning to set off for the University to get set up there, find out more about bank accounts, wifi, French classes, insurance, etc.

I finish my coffee and email and set off with the boys about 10:45 to take 2 trams and a bus to the school. We need to beat the “lunch deadline” when everyone is out of the office from about 11:30 to 1:30 or is it 12 to 2? We arrive sometime after 11 and the headmistress is there with our letter. We take it the Mairie with all of our documents (and more) around 11:30. They do not speak English, but a helpful person in the waiting room translates: there are two people in front of me and with the office closing at noon, it would be better for me to schedule an appointment for after lunch. Fine with me. So after much discussion it turns out the earliest appointment is for 16:00, or 4 o’clock. I have my wits about me enough to ask if I can have the forms to sign up for lunch as well. The receptionist gives me the lunch forms and I figure that should kill about 4 hours!

We lunch at home on yummy selections from the grocery store. There are yogurts and cheeses (goat and sheep are easy to find) salamis and lentils, baguettes for the kids, rice cakes for me.

I do make a valiant effort at the form. I look up words and try to understand the intricacies of the lunch options. I hope Greg will come home to double check what I have concocted. A little before 3 (15:00), when he hasn’t returned, we all head out to see if we can find Carina and Sam. Kadin wanted to play a little bit with Sam and I figure Carina can help me with the forms. We find their place and ring the bell but there is no answer. So instead we buy another baguette and stop in at the fun looking magic shop down the street.

Then it is time to head to the Mairie near the school. I was warned that this could be the most difficult part of the whole process. I have double checked that I have everything I need and they even confirmed this when I stopped by in the morning.

We show up a few minutes early and are told to wait. The room and the building are very pleasant and the people working there are kind, but there is a pall hanging over the room. People waiting there seem to have a sense of helplessness. There is nothing to do in the waiting room. Since French civil servants have a guaranteed job for life, they have little incentive to offer customer service. Our few minutes turns into 15 then 20. Finally someone comes out of the office. I ask the receptionist “16:00? Ça va?” And she explains there are two people ahead of me. Still two people ahead of me.

I am starting to feel like I am in the salle de mort. When the next person comes out, a little argument ensues about who is next and who has been waiting longest. It is explained that several of us have been asked to come back. People say they have young children and they have to work, they can’t sit around for hours. (Realize now that I actually got the gist of this!) Mothers with new babies come in (to register them, I suppose), but they are helped immediately.

Rees is about to jump out of his skin. Kadin is merely antsy. I am just hoping I will pass the test. There is a sweet young girl who keeps trying to talk to Kadin. He asks for my help so I try to understand what she is saying. It takes me awhile, but I finally figure out that she is asking him what his name is. Duh! I tell him how to reply and he does. We ask her name. Boy, I can barely talk to a four year old, how will I do with the official?

Rees and Kadin flee to a little courtyard on the other side of a door. I am not sure they are even allowed to be out there, but at this point I don’t care. If they set off an alarm opening a door at least that would be a little excitement and entertainment for everyone. It is clear we are clueless anyway, so if we inadvertently break a rule, so be it.

The little girl cries because she is too little for her mom to let her go out in the courtyard with the boys.

Finally it is my turn. I say hello (in French) and say I am sorry but I don’t speak much French. The civil servant is very officious and grimly bears the news. She takes my letter and my documents (thank goodness Kadin is French and I have the standard Livret de Famille, otherwise, who knows what complications could have ensued) and trots off on her high heels to photocopy them. She then uses an impressive fat, black pen to fill out a long form in front of me repeating all the information on the documents: name of student, name of parents, address, etc. She has large, formal handwriting. It is almost like a comedy skit, but unfortunately there is only flourish, no humor in her demeanor. I am impressed by the French bureaucracy in action.

Then, before my stunned eyes, she writes out a letter to the headmistress—by hand—saying with her big black pen that it is okay to admit Kadin Tucker to the school. Then she signs it and stamps it with her official seal. Thunk. Done. It is now my job to walk this precious piece of paper back over to the headmistress about 2 blocks away. I think this is done for every single new student in the schools. Hundreds of them. Where do all these papers go?

Then I produce my school lunch form and tell her I would like to sign my son up for lunches (I use the words from the form, otherwise I would be hopeless in saying this). She looks at my form, shakes her head, takes her white out, crosses out nearly everything I had filled in, muttering “non, non, non,” corrects it all with her big black pen and tells me my son can start lunches on September 9th. She writes a big “September 9” on a post-it note for me. Fine. Maybe my inability to understand is working in my favor! I’m the big savage imbecile.

Then she tells me she needs a feuille for the lunches. I am stymied on this one. I understand it is a form or a piece of paper of some sort, but what sort exactly? She tells me lots of things I can’t understand, but I think she says I can get it from my husband. Okay. She then flourishes her pen again and writes out her request on another post-it note in big formal letters and says I should take it to the school.

So I do. The headmistress at the school also does not speak English. She has had a whole day of this. She accepts my all important signed letter and then, when I show her the note about the feuille, she very kindly takes me up to see the school’s English teacher to help translate. It turns out, to see if we are eligible for a reduced lunch fee, they need to see last year’s tax form. “How long have you lived here?” I’m asked. “Since Friday,” I reply. It is clear to all that there will be no tax form from last year. “Well,” I say, “I’m sure we can afford to pay for the lunches.”

“Yes,” says the English teacher, “but it doesn’t work that way here. You live in center city so there is likely to be some subsidy of the fee. Don’t worry about it, it will sort itself out.” Meanwhile the headmistress has gone back downstairs to call the Mairie. She speaks to someone. When she hangs up she explains something that I think means she needs to talk to someone higher up who wasn’t available, not to worry about doing anything now, and that she would let me know more later. Wonderful. “À Jeudi” she says. “See you on Thursday.” Thursday is the first day of school.

I think we’ve passed the test.

We rendezvous with Greg back at the apartment and debrief. His joy of the day was that to get a bank account you need to get paid and to get paid you need to have a bank account. Once again, there are ways around these problems, but one thing he needs to get paid is to prove he is qualified for the job. Part of this proof includes photocopies of his diplomas. Well there is something we didn’t think to pack. Still, they’re accessible and an email home will likely solve that problem. So it goes. I don’t have a bureaucracy part II yet, but I do have the feeling this is only the beginning.

Expats and results left hanging, Monday 8/30/10

2010-08-30T07:51:00.001-06:00

Again have to force ourselves to WAKE UP, this time to make it to Kadin’s 8:30 test. Since all stores were closed on Sunday and we didn’t want to accumulate too much more baggage before the big schlep to the apt, we postponed shopping and there is very little around to eat. The landlords have left us some essentials, like coffee, but for the rest we make do with the Lara bars, fruit, and nuts we have.

Rees opts to stay home, the rest of us make it to the school in plenty of time. Early. Kadin is remarkably calm. It is all a bit grim at the school and all business. There is only one other family there, French speaking, when we arrive. Finally the headmistress appears and gives us a numbered card. A few minutes later she asks Kadin to follow her (in French). He doesn’t understand a word, but he goes. She reappears. No reassurances, no attempt to give us more information, like, for example, what this test is or how long it will take. More families have arrived. More children are given cards.

The headmistress makes a sort of announcement explaining something about times and results. I only catch something about 3 o’clock. Kadin is going to be here until 3:00? We are hopeless, unable to understand. The headmistress does not speak English, but adeptly finds another parent to translate. This turns out to be a godsend. The other mother is Carina. She is American, a French professor at Swarthmore, and is in Grenoble supervising the Swarthmore students' year abroad. Her sweet, shaggy haired son, Sam, is 8 and also waiting for his test.

Carina too has just arrived, but has lived in Grenoble before, about 3 years ago. She is obviously fluent. She translates some complicated instructions about how we will be contacted with results later in the afternoon and how we need to get some papers, bring some papers, get some signature at the town hall, bring them back, sign up for lunch. etc. The 3 o’clock I heard was actually 13 o’clock or 1 pm. And that is when the testing of all the students will be winding up. Results come after that, but the test itself is only about 20min. The headmistress will contact us via email in the afternoon.

Another dad standing nearby, Dave it turns out, has, on the whim of his Francophile wife, just moved the family to France. They were on vacation, now they are here for awhile. He speaks no French, so Carina briefs him as well. His wife, who does speak French, is meanwhile off signing their French lease. His older son, Dominic, is 7 and also plans to attend the school. His younger son will be in preschool. The three new American boys all have t-shirts that are too big and sport long, shaggy hair. They hit it off immediately. So sweet to see! So funny that they all have stubbornly kept their “locks.”

Then it turns out Carina and Sam live just a block north of us so we discuss possible “carpooling” or (really) bus/walk pooling. Carina answers many many of our questions and we take the bus back together. The test, which I thought was sort of a formality or a placement test, turns out to be a test of how well the students know English and it is possible a student will not be admitted (it is the only international elementary school in Grenoble and has tracks in English, French, and German). So glad I didn’t know that in advance! Not that Kadin doesn’t know English…

Strange that even though there is a great variety of Americans in the world, the first two we meet here are ones that we feel we know or have known. They are somehow like us and there is a common feeling of understanding and familiarity. Really great to talk to them and really great company.

Dave cracked me up after he took his younger son to the bathroom at school. He inquires of Carina, “And so what is up with the bathrooms? No toilet seats, just a hole in the ground, and the toilet paper is outside the stalls?” “That’s pretty common.” “What if you don’t have enough? What if you need more?“ “Make sure you take what you need,” she replies. “I saw that down south and I thought maybe it was a beach thing, but no. You're in, the toilet paper's out...” Too funny and good to know as I could totally see myself being caught out by that toilet paper thing!

Next mission: lunch and internet access. We had read about a good, relatively inexpensive restaurant in the old town that also had internet access, so we head there. The review was right, it was pleasant and had good food, but unfortunately, though we are surrounded by people working on their laptops online, we are unable to log on. We inquire about a code or how to log on, we are assured there is none. We are assured that the internet is working. We try three computers an iPod and and iPhone. Feeling shut out again. I am hungry and frustrated. I eat a huge salad of grilled veggies and dried ham and feel a bit better. We wait and wait for the bill. Greg finally leaves with Rees to find another nearby internet friendly café with the unfortunate name of “French Coffee Shop.” Turns out the bill was on the table all along. Kadin and I pay and leave.

At “French Coffee Shop” we have success! We get the needed “clé” (that's the word we've been looking for) and we’re on! I reopen my Etsy shop and answers emails, etc. I do this for the next 2 hours. The boys are antsy, so Greg takes them back to the apartment where he would like to nap. I tell him I’ll join him in about an hour and then we’ll finally do the grocery shop we’ve been meaning to do since we arrived.

Now that it’s Monday, the town has come alive. Honestly, it was a bit grim when we arrived. It was the end of August and the weekend so in the center city many places were shuttered. Only the dregs remained. All much more cheerful and inviting now that things are open. Instead of taking the tram home, I decide to walk and take a shorter route I remember seeing on the map. I have to pee but someone is in the bathroom so I just head out. Shouldn’t take more than 15 minutes.

In no time, I am completely disoriented and have no idea if the street angling slightly to the right or the one angling slightly to the left is my best bet to get home. I had in mind that I would eventually hit one of two main cross streets that would lead me back to the apartment, but I don’t find either one. If I were in Boulder I could just use the mountains to get my bearings. Here, there are mountains all around and I try to recognize if they are the ones to the east or the west. However, at the north end of town is a good landmark, the Bastille, the large fort in the bow of the river Isère. Finally I spot the Bastille and adjust my course.

Then I get the idea to look for the trees of Cours Jean Jaurès. Then I see trees everywhere. My need to pee has increased dramatically. I find a big Habitat store but press onward. Finally, I spot the elevated train tracks that run above the market. I am not far! Just a few more blocks and I’m home. Mental note to self: don't leave home without a map. Pee at every opportunity. Near the train tracks I spot a discarded table…

It’s not that we don’t have everything we need, it’s just that I stole the table out of the kid’s room and put it in my room to set it up as my jewelry workshop. The kids have taken to cutting paper and making things on their floor. So, after a pee and a brief rest at home (where I find a map and locate the circuitous route I took), Rees and I go to check out the table.

It is a small gate leg table with a white laminated top and metal legs. One of the leaves of the top has come off its hinges. That looks pretty fixable to me, so Rees carries the leaf and I carry the table, scanning for screws we might find in the sidewalk. Thanks to the tool box in the closet and a supply of screws found there as well, the table is back in shape in no time.

The kids set up shop and start making their paper creations on the table. I have an enormous sense of satisfaction at my first scavenge.

Finally, we make it to the grocery store and cook up our first home made meal in weeks: rice, curried lentils (dal), and a salad with iceberg, maché, and two colors of tomatoes. I am so craving this simple food! Chocolate and a glass of wine top it off perfectly.

After diner we watch something on French TV called Plus Belle La Vie. It is a soap opera, but we like it because we can see the people talking and they speak relatively clearly and slowly, not like on the news or a faced-paced reality show where the voices are clipped and often off screen. Still, I can’t understand a thing, but I’m hoping that will change with time. I’m thinking this will be our show as it ends at 8:40, a perfect bedtime.

Even though I left the internet café at around 3:30, I never did find out the test results. Hope that doesn’t mean he didn’t get in. Too tired to hike back the café tonight. Tomorrow.

Seems there is plenty to do, but we don’t feel rushed.

Bye, bye nice hotel, hello life! Dimanche 8/29/10

2010-08-29T03:43:00.001-06:00

Agenda for the day: check out of hotel, find Kadin’s school, move into apartment.

After a delicious buffet breakfast at the hotel restaurant, we set off to find Kadin’s school. Kadin’s school is called Houille Blanche. We look it up. Instead of white oil (which would be huil blanc), Houille Blanche means water power.

We find the school and find we can walk there no problem, but there is also a convenient bus (about half a dozen of these pass us as we walk). It seems safe and easy to walk around the city and so far I have managed to avoid getting my z-coils stuck in the groove of a tram rail. The children too have been adapting in their own ways. While one child agilely leaps over pylons and obstacles on the street, the other is so in his own head he is in danger of crashing into them (not to mention being hit by a vehicle). Urban life sure brings a new awareness (and for mom a whole new stress on the brain).

Walking back from the school, keen eyed Rees finds a 20€ note! Score!

We also score as we find the open market (marché) under the train tracks near our apartment. Apparently they set up every morning except Mondays. And, bonus for us: it’s lunch time!

I have some organic goat yogurt in my bag from our stash at the hotel (bought in old town), Greg and the kids opt for some very delicious smelling oven roasted pizzas. We enjoy the sites and smells of the market and the sounds of the accordion player while waiting for the pizzas to come out of the oven. I buy more white peaches and prune plums, and this time some small green ones as well (we have already tried the delicious yellow plums). We resist loading up because anything we buy will have to be carried later with our luggage from the hotel to the apartment.

Greg looks at the map, finds a nearby park, and we head there to enjoy our impromptu picnic. Not sure what we will find, perhaps a bench in a concrete square covered with pigeon droppings, perhaps a dilapidated play structure, perhaps some mischievous foul-mouthed teenagers, or perhaps the garden of Eden. We easily find something in between: a pleasant enough park with formal gardens and plenty of benches. The few people there are relaxed and pleasant, talking and walking as one should in parks.

While the city seems fine safety wise, it is still a city (and one where there were recently riots), and I am trying to calibrate how wary to be and in what situations. Is it okay to walk down a dark alley alone? Is it okay to carry a purse that doesn’t zip closed? Etc. Heck, in Boulder, if you went around with bills sticking out of your pockets no one would take them. In Boulder, if you leave your iPhone or wallet on the bus, there is a good chance it will be returned to you. I don’t get the feeling that would be true here.

But in my experience, if you calibrate it wrong, people are generally very nice and give you some warning that you are being foolhardy. Like in Bogota, Columbia, people warned my mother not to carry around her big telephoto camera before it was ripped off her shoulder. And in New York city, people warned my friend Marcia that having her wallet sticking out of her pocket was not a good idea, even if she thought she always had her hand on it. It disappeared while she was browsing in a department store. So if you pay attention to the cues, you can generally be safe.

So here are some signs of crime that I have observed so far in my short time here:
Bicycles are triple locked (seat, wheel, and then to something like a pole or rack).
You need to ring a bell to get into the hotel lobby.
You need to use a key card to operate the elevator.
There is a man sleeping in the vestibule of the bank across the street.
There are heavy metal shutters on all the closed shops and multiple locked doors.
There is graffiti and burned trash cans.
There are lots of security cameras.
Many stores search your bags or backpacks if you bring them in.
There are security guards in some shops.
Shops only have one door that opens, other routes are closed.

And here are some signs that, though there may be crime, it's not too bad:
People hang purses on their chairs at outdoor cafés.
Not all purses are zippered.
Parks are relatively nice and clean and people in them seem relaxed.
People do walk down side streets alone and seem to take their time when they do it.

After lunch and a rest at the park, it is finally time for the big event of the day: the move in to our apartment! We know hardly anything about it, only that it is two bedrooms, furnished, and Greg’s colleague with two daughters rented it last year and found it worked well for them.

We grab our wheelie carryons and small backpacks from the luggage room at the hotel and walk the three blocks to our future home. At the large, nondescript wooden doors of #54, we punch the code we were given into brass buttons, hear a quiet automatic buzzing sound, and the door unlocks. We push the heavy door open to find ourselves sequestered in a cool, colorfully tiled, echo-y hallway with high ceilings and carved stone walls. Sunlight floods in through a stained glass window at the back. Can you hear the angels singing? Wooden mailboxes line one wall. A large stone staircase with ornate wrought iron railings circles around a central (retrofitted) ELEVATOR. Ahh, I was wondering if there would be an elevator. It's the kind of place suspenseful scenes in movies are set: big, shadowy, cavernous, clanking. Cool.

Our destination is the top floor, where we find the name we are looking for on a large wooden door to the right.: 4D (not 4G, can you figure that one out?). Instead of front/rear we have one side and views of the mountains out both the front (east) and back (west). We have a wrought iron balcony on the front over the street. It’s soooo French! Though our street, Cours Jean Jaurès, is one of the biggest and busiest streets in the city, it is not too loud inside the apartment since we are 5 levels above the traffic and have good windows and solid walls (built in 1910, according to the owners). One other benefit of being on this main drag is that it is lined with two rows of sycamore (plane) trees. Our apartment is at the same level as the treetops and, though it would be nice to be on some small back street, it is nice to have some greenery nearby. It’s also nice to see the sky and have the vistas that we do. And I am grateful for the elevator today since I am thinking about our 4, 50lb bags still back at the hotel.

The kind owners show us around, we sign our lease, and they depart.

Ah, the simple life!
Rees's assessment: "This place is awesome!"
Kadin's assessment: "Well, I think we found the right apartment."

Three large, sparsely furnished rooms plus a kitchen. Wooden floors and ceramic tile throughout with thick stone walls and high plaster ceilings. The kind of place where the rooms are taller than they are wide. Simple and elegant, with the best of old and new (old floors, new faucets/plumbing/dishwasher/washing machine; old stair railing, new elevator; old thick walls, new insulated easy-to-open windows). It is both rustic and refined and generally lovely.

We have everything we need, but not too much. I marvel at how the owners' tastes mirror my own. In the living room they have the same comfortable chair my parents bought the year they were in Boston, that I inherited when they left and used throughout college, and that my grandma bought from me when I graduated. I think my aunt Diana has it now. In the kid’s room we find the same Danish bunk beds I slept on as a kid that are now at my brother’s cabin in Grand Lake. (Glad there are two beds for the kids, something else we did not know beforehand). The choice of décor is simple, solid, functional, eclectic.

When we make the beds we find vivid, solid color cotton sheets and comforter covers, just the kind I would have selected.

Then there were three things I really didn’t want to do without, but also didn’t want to bring, so I took my chances: hair dryer, kitchen scale, and salad spinner. She was right, “il y a tout qu’il faut dans l’appartemente.” They are here.

Even the spices in the cupboard: cumin, cardamom, corriander, oregano, curry, cinnamon, and thyme. Parfait! As if they too like to have cinnamon and cardamon on their rice pudding in the morning, thyme on their roasted vegetables.

And get this, in the master bedroom, next to the bed, is a functioning Singer pedal sewing machine (no electricity needed). She uses it and it works, so she showed me how to use it if I want to. In the cupboard they also have two key things that no hotel could match: a sewing kit and a tool box. Triple score!

And yes, the kitchen cabinets are IKEA.

I half expected to open a cupboard and find yoga mats.

One more trip back to hotel for the big bags, and we’re in!

As we unpack I have a bit of an American moment when I run out of hangers for the wardrobe. The wardrobe in the bedroom doesn’t fit full-sized hangers, only the narrower pant/skirt clamping ones. I just need one more for one last skirt…so the American consumer in me thinks, well, I’ll just go out and buy a three pack. And then I think, well, what would I do if I couldn’t buy a 3 pack, what could I use instead? And then I look at the variety of hangers in the place and the number of different hooks and crevices on each hanger and realize: these hangers are designed to hang more than one item! Of course! Who would waste hangers by using only one piece of clothing per hanger? Duh! So easy to just put two skirts into one hanger. Problem solved, space and money saved.

Firsts

2010-08-28T12:42:00.010-06:00

Good signs from yesterday: when we saw the limestone and the valley Grenoble sits in, I thought: nice! Let's check this out!

Went for a walk to get map, money, and food. Stunning sunset. Notice lots of kabab, Indian, and Cambodian cuisine, all yummy and gluten-free friendly. We've arrived in time to enjoy those lovely French prune plums. Hotel has cool, functional euro design features: pull out tables, wall mounted magazine racks to keep clutter off tables. Modular. Very smart. Our room on top floor (909) is quiet and features great views (see pic above left). Walked by our apartment (on fourth floor of building on right), closer than I thought, maybe half a kilometer from the hotel (we move in on Sunday). Right downstairs from apt is an excellent chocolate shop with yellow awning. Looks like we'll do fine.

Closer view of chocolatier (note chocolate Eiffel Tower):

Aujourd’hui:

Today we walked to Place de Sflax (Kadin hears: “plastic socks.” Horrifying thought!) the location of Rees’s school. Here's a picture looking towards "plastic socks"---I like the way they put grass over the tram lines:

Investigated renting cycles through the MetroVelo program (a UN socialist conspiracy, in case you haven’t heard). Looks cool.

Took tram to old city, a lively place with interesting shops. La Halles Ste Claire:

Tomorrow’s agenda: find Kadin’s school (opposite direction and a bit further than Rees's) and the move to our apartment. Probably won't have wifi for awhile.

Kadin has a test on Monday morning at 8:30! Rees starts school on the 9^th. Honestly not sure when Kadin starts school, communication in August has been a bit thin, but perhaps they’ll let us know on Monday…or, perhaps they start on Monday!

The journey

2010-08-28T03:04:00.003-06:00

At the airport
On a bit of a shopping spree since I can still easily communicate with people at the checkout. I'm buying some disposable toothbrushes behind a Frenchman at the airport. He is using a credit card because he is out of cash (as I always am at the end of a foreign trip). The clerk asks him, "Do you wanna bag?" "Huh?" "Do you wanna bag?" "What?" "A bag." "Oh, no." Tomorrow morning, that will be me. Strangely, or not, this Frenchman has no hair on his legs. Though he is overweight and eating potato chips, his legs (in either long shorts or manpris) are very elegant. Must look into this.

Rees is super excited as it appears we get individual TOUCH SCREEN TVs on the flight.

On the airplane
And what do you know, WE DO! Everything is beautiful on Jet Airways, an Indian airline. The stewardesses in lovely saffron Nehru jackets, the stewards (wow, are they coiffed), in lovely, dark gray, band collar suits, the elegant older woman in a sari sitting in first class as if on a throne. Urdu/Hindi first, English second. Cold towels graciously served before take off, warm towels before landing. Pillows in nice paprika red. Key moment is when one stewardess walks down the aisle spraying a rose scented air freshener. Nothing but roses. But what else do I smell? Now the cabin is filling with the aroma of curries. Fingers crossed it's gluten free.

Flight is under 7 hours, not much farther than CA to NY, but 'cause it's international, as usual, ever so much nicer.

Unbelievably, after we got on, there was a sock dropped in the aisle. A SOCK. The stewardess asked if it belonged to the kids. It did not. I feel like a magnet for socks. Why can't people (and cats) just keep them to themselves? Must other people's dirty socks follow me everywhere??? Huh???

OMG that was the most delicious airline food I've ever had: rice, dal, spicy chicken, and a chickpea salad. I'm saving my yogurt (plain) for breakfast with the almonds I brought.

For me, I choose the "D" movies: Date Night and Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Have yet to explore the Bollywood options, the news, the short features, or the games. So much to do...so little time.

Kids are so enamored with the touch screens they stay up well past bedtime. Even Kadin is wide eyed at 11pm glued to Avatar. Eventually, about the time of sunrise in Belgium, he goes to sleep. Rees stays up all night. I sleep for a couple of hours. Greg not so much.

Is it my imagination or do people on this flight throw their trash down on the floor more than usual? The flight attendants keep picking things up. First class was littered when we got off.

Next airports
Brussels is the port of entry. We don't have long to make our connection (1 hr) but must go through passport control, to another terminal, then pass through security again. Luckily we do not have to claim our large bags.

Still, we are caught up in the masses of overseas migrants who arrive at such places early in the morning. Lines, lines, lines. Some clever marketing person has thought to advertise mattresses in this part of the airport. Mean.

At security, for the second time today, they need to search my carry on jam packed with jewelry making supplies. This always turns my stomach in knots (and actually makes me shake), but they have a job to do. I'm glad at least most of my containers are see through! Then Kadin is the lucky random selection to get a more thorough pat down. Not a big deal, there is so nothing on that kid (and I was so proud of him for not freaking out and also for having all his clothes on right side out and forwards!). But it all takes more time. Run!

We run to the gate, but they are running late too and just about to begin boarding. The flight to Lyon is a much smaller plane. Many women at the gate are dressed in fancy kente cloth with beautiful gold jewelry and braided hair. Lots of people seem as dazed and confused and as foreign as we are.

Just over an hour to Lyon on Belgian Air. No elegance here. Rees finally conks and conks big time. Flight attendant speaks many languages. Lyon countryside rather beautiful, Lyon airport rather ugly. We wait forever for our bags. Rees can barely function, says he feels like he is going to explode, that he wants to die, and so on. And it is a grim scene. Exhausted people from all over the world, crying babies, dirty floors. It seems no one works here, there is no music, no color, no cheerful sense of order or cleanliness, just bland, intermittent security announcements.

The luggage too, when it finally begins spewing out onto the belt, does not look like ordinary vacationer's luggage. This is some serious immigrant style baggage: big ugly suitcases, cardboard boxes, baskets, plastic tubs wrapped in more plastic, wicker, drums, surf board bags taped together. We fit right in.

Train
We finally emerge from baggage claim and find we have 10 minutes to get our train. We had anticipated that this might be the most difficult part of the trip: 4 large bags, only 2 of which wheel, 2 wheelie carryons, 4 small backpacks, and 2 zonked children. We find the train station, find the ticket counter, purchase tickets, and with two minutes to spare, we return our luggage cart, heave the big bags on our backs, validate our ticket, and race down to the track.

Only the train is not there. Were thinking we needed about 10 more minutes to get it all right. And miracle of miracles, it seems that that is the only error we've made: the train is scheduled about 10 minutes later than we thought. Another train comes about 3 minutes before ours, so we scope out the most efficient way to board with all our stuff.

Scrutiny of our tickets reveals that we have seats in car 6. So we try to guess where car 6 will be based on the train that comes just before. As that train is pulling away, I notice there is a train parked right behind it, and (gack!) it's OUR train, waaaay down the platform. It's the moment we've been waiting for!!

The mad dash down the platform begins and at the last possible minute, we hop into the nearest car somehow managing to include everything and everyone.

We are a miserable mass of people and bags in a narrow corridor and not in the right place. Only one car off, but turns out the only way to get where we need to go is up some stairs, through a car, down some more stairs, and back again. This would all have been relatively simple and doable if we knew what we were doing, but we don't.

So begins the public spectacle of us shuttling our bags one by one up the narrow windy stairs, down an endless narrow and rocking aisle strewn with feet and elbows (pardon, pardon, pardon), and back down some other windy stairs to our car. We do this what feels like 10 times. Basically a set of 10 reps with 50 pound weights in the glare of stranger's eyes.

I am actually quite proud of us for managing so well, we've been up all night and are navigating a system we've never seen before. However, the passengers we derange with bag after bag after bag are not so generous. It is the sweaty, bedraggled, humiliating moment all trips seem to require. Check.

And so far, that has been the worst of it! The train is very comfortable and efficient, and the French countryside begs exploration.

Another miracle when we get to Grenoble is that the hotel I booked, knowing nothing of the city, is a mere 200 meters from the train station. I chose it because it was 1km from our apartment (which we can move into on Sun) but didn't think about the arrival part. Hooray! No struggling with cash, taxis, luggage, directions. We're in! And out...goodnight!

Why France?

2010-08-25T18:51:00.003-06:00

Okay, so we have this sabbatical, this opportunity to experience a new place. We could have chosen anywhere. So we chose France. Perhaps because Greg and the kids have French citizenship and passports. Perhaps because France is known for it's food and culture.

But the closer it gets (we fly to Lyon tomorrow), the more I realize that we have chosen a place with not only a difficult language, but also a place extremely proud of its language. That we have chosen a place not known for its friendly generosity and hospitality. We have chosen a place known for being brusque and proper, bureaucratic, and difficult to get to know. If we were going to Scandinavia, I would be happy to learn to emulate some of their simplicity and efficient design. Iceland or New Zealand would be friendly and just all around cool. If we were going to Japan, some of their politeness and grace might rub off. But France? With celiac, I can't even eat their bread. Was I going there to bring back an upturned nose? To paint it in the best possible light, maybe I was going to bring back some of their appreciation of the finer things in life? Still, luxuries are not my forte, so it seems like a strange match. The question remains: why France?

It will be fun to answer this question. I really can't say in advance what I'll learn and what I'll bring back. But reading this book on French culture by Polly Platt called French or Foe? gives me an inkling of something important I might bring back: confidence.

In addition to not smiling at strangers, it is apparently just not French to admit you are at fault. This is truly a foreign concept to me! I am responsible for everything and only too happy to take the blame. When an acquaintance spilled red wine on the author's beige couch, the acquaintance did not apologize, merely commented, "What a strange color for a couch." Or another man who gave an acquaintance a key to use his garage. The man came back and produced a key the owner had never seen and said he had been given the wrong key. The owner figured out that the borrower had in fact lost the key and was trying to save face. This will be interesting for me!

So when the children are eating with their fingers and slurping salad dressing from their plates, wearing their ripped shirts wrong side out and backwards, I will hold my head high as if nothing is amiss. Didn't you know? It is the way things are done.

Bermuda cruise

2010-08-23T08:44:00.003-06:00

If I'd had internet access this last week, here are some of the status updates I might have posted:

Sunday 8/15/10
The Love Boat....(aka Norwegian Dawn)
Sail down Hudson, under Verrazano-Narrows bridge and out to sea.
Very big and majestic. Feel like I can almost touch the underside of the bridge.
Ship is full (2400 passengers), crowded.

Monday 8/16
Sunny.
Glassy seas, smooth and wide.
Work out in gym with ocean view.
Definitely a cruise for the masses: stunned by quantity (not quality) of tattoos.
As for the dominant vibe, crass luxury kind of sums it up.
Diversity of crew is, for once, reflected in the diversity of passengers. Thanks New York, for being a microcosm!

Tuesday 8/17
Sunny.
Thermal spa. Rocked to sleep.
Second City workshop.

Wednesday 8/18
Sunny.
Bermuda, one of the most isolated island chains in the world.
One hour ahead of NY.
Not a "Caribbean" island but an "Atlantic" island.
Drive on left.
Tempted to stay on the now nearly empty ship.
Rent a moped instead.
Rees and I sing "Wavin' Flag" at the top of our lungs while riding moped on lush, narrow, windy roads to Horseshoe Bay, a lovely, if crowded, beach.
Greg and Kadin opt to take the bus.
Houses painted in the pastel colors of Lucky Charms.
Water comes from collected rain.
All houses have distinctive white, terraced roofs for collecting rainfall.
Rees has found a worthy (read: relentless) opponent in the ocean waves.
Bright. Very, very bright. Stunning.
After beach frolic, Barritts Ginger Beer (since 1874) saves the day.
Nick and Norah after dinner.
Feeling a bit crispy.

Thursday 8/19
Sunny.
Buy spf70, and for me, that's saying something!
Purchase unlimited ferry/bus pass for the day.
High speed catamaran ferry to St. George, historic town on opposite end of the islands.
Lunch at Wahoo (not the chain).
NY prices everywhere. Relative prosperity.
On the bus, you get the novel opportunity to see solid limestone walls pass by at great speed about 6 inches from your nose.
Destination: the remote and uncrowded Clearwater beach on Cooper's Island, a nature preserve.
Ahhhhh! Beautiful, lots of fish, but no waves for Rees.
So far today, Kadin has worn his shirt wrong side out and backwards, right side out and backwards, and wrong side out and forwards.

Friday 8/20
Sunny.
Kids discover they can walk/roll on cylindrical stool in our small cabin. Bad feng shui.
Souvenir shopping at the Dockyards: Bermuda onions, Bermuda grass, Bermuda shorts, Bermuda triangle....
Glassblowing, lampwork fun.
Email at Freeport a real treat!
Depart and air is warm and windy.
More Second City in the evening.

Saturday 8/21
Sunny.
Another sea day.
Reclined and semiconscious, watching a reflection of the porthole fill with the horizon, empty, and fill again.
Post work out: alone in the warm and bubbly hot tub, sighing deeply, rocking in harmony with the swells of the ocean.
Late afternoon, brave the "bingo lingo" in the Spinnaker Bar because it has the best view off the prow. Try to read, but instead, get sucked in to watching the waves. Spot three different pods of dolphins and numerous flying fish.

Sunday 8/22
Wake to gray and rainy Manhattan.
Laundry beckons!

Faceless bureaucracies, part II

2010-07-18T21:44:00.007-06:00

Flash forward to 2010. This time: international tax horror! Greg got creative and authored this account of our tale to HM Revenue and Customs. Since I am not sure anyone at HM Revenue and Customs will ever read it, I thought I'd post it here as both an amusing diversion and a warning to all:

13 July, 2010
HM Revenue and Customs
Saxon House
Causway Lane
Leicester LE1 4AA UK

Dear HM Revenue and Customs:

Enclosed please find copies of my tax returns for 2009-10 as well as 2008-09, with my sincere apologies for being late with the latter.

No doubt you are quite busy, and probably not interested in hearing yet another tale of why someone’s tax return is being filed late. But, in case I am wrong, and at the very least perhaps to provide a bit of amusement, I will tell the sad tale of my 2008-09 return. First, you will notice of course that my UK taxes are not especially complicated. I live in the United States, and I am a United States citizen. I am neither resident nor domiciled in the UK, and have not lived in the UK since 2003. I happen to still have a bank account in the UK, however, and every year it earns a few pounds of interest, so I need to file a return. Each year, taxes are withheld, and, after a certain amount of mail and effort on all sides, around a pound is refunded.

Now, in the US, the big tax deadline every year is April 15. So, around January, I begin collecting various bits of paperwork for filing taxes. In fact, it was in January that I realized that the deadline for UK filing online was the end of the month. ‘No problem,’ I thought, ‘I will simply enroll and file online. How hard can it be?’ I was proud that this was the environmentally responsible approach as well. However, for some reason I couldn’t log in. I called the helpline (finding a helpline number that is accessible from abroad was actually something of a feat in itself), and learned that (1) I had previously tried to sign up several years before and, because I’d forgotten my password, I would have to have my account re-set, and (2) this would require sending something in the post that would inevitably arrive after the deadline. So, I resigned myself to being a week or two late, and waited for something to arrive in the post. At least, the gentleman on the telephone assured me, it was unlikely that any fees would be assessed, as I don’t owe any taxes. (Did I mention that my UK income in 2008-09 was 10 pounds of bank interest?)

Weeks went by, and nothing materialized. By the end of March, I was beginning to suspect that something had gone horribly wrong. I looked back again at the website, and discovered that, apparently, the sending of a user ID and activation PIN required me to actually sign up again. That detail somehow hadn’t gotten communicated effectively in my conversation with the helpline agent back in January. So, I tried registering again, and was presented with a message announcing that a newly issued user ID and PIN were en route to me. They would need to be used within 28 days or they would expire and have to be re-issued. Surely that would be plenty of time for a letter to cross the Atlantic.

I won’t even attempt to spell the name of that notorious Icelandic volcano, but suffice it to say that April was not the most ideal month for air traffic across the north Atlantic. Whether this was the cause of my next set of woes or not, I cannot say for certain. But some time in the third week in April, I received a friendly letter – dated March 31 – from the UK Government Gateway, providing me with a brand new User ID. I tried to use it to sign up, but it required a PIN, which I did NOT have. Obviously there must be a second letter, but where was it?

Then, on April 28, the postman brought the second letter from Government Gateway. The letter landed in my hands after I returned home from my day’s activities, a little after 4pm: 28 days to the day from the date of the letter. Converting from Mountain Time to GMT, I realized I had a little under an hour before midnight GMT. Just in the nick of time! I immediately logged in to the Government Gateway. Here’s what I saw:

Now, I promise you I am not making this up. I’m not sure I could make this up.

Of course, I tried again after the site was back up, and of course my PIN had stopped working. With a very deep sigh – and after a few weeks of trying in vain to find someone on the other end of a phone or email who could re-awaken my deactivated PIN – I finally succumbed to the inevitable, and re-registered for Self Assessment Online. Whether by grace of clear northern skies or some other mystery, this time my User ID and PIN arrived well in time. With an enormous sense of relief, I finally succeeded in registering online for Self Assessment. It was with that little sense of accomplishment that I set off on summer travels.

When I returned in July, I sat down to carry out the task of filing my UK taxes online. Guess what helpful little message popped up when I ultimately navigated to the key page?

As it happens, I am not a Minister of Religion, and I am certainly not a Lloyds Underwriter. However, as I believe I mentioned earlier, I am indeed both non-resident and non-domiciled in the UK.

Could it really be that all those cheery notices touting the many virtues of filing online had been leading me down the garden path all along? And why did those friendly and reassuring helpline agents, way back in January, fail to mention this inconvenient little fact? Filing online from overseas: it sounds so simple! So economical! So sparing of the international postal system! And, alas, so impossible.

Ah, well. I give up. I will go back to the annual ritual of sending paper forms in thick envelopes across the Atlantic, to officially acknowledge my earning of a few pounds of interest in a bank account. I don’t suppose it would do any good if I were to offer to let the UK government keep all future withheld tax as long as I can be spared the burden of posting these tax returns from afar? Please?? No, I thought not.

In view of these circumstances, and that fact that I don’t actually owe any taxes, please remove the 100-pound overdue penalty. Believe me, I have well and truly learned my lesson!

Repentantly yours,

Gregory E. Tucker

Faceless bureaucracies, part I

2010-07-18T21:42:00.002-06:00

Large faceless institutions are the stuff of nightmares! I thought I wrote about my lovely experiences with our internet bank in the UK, but looks like I was wrong, so I'll have to recap here as a prelude to the current debacle. Really, I love this story! International banking horror!

When we moved the states in 2004, we needed to transfer our money from England. It was a fair amount of money as we had sold our house there, so a small percentage difference could easily be thousands of dollars. We did our research. We found a good way to do it online that avoided a lot of the fees banks will charge you (the banks won't disclose exactly what these fees are, they just say it is a percentage of the exchange rate) and we planned to do it over several weeks so that we could average out a fluctuating exchange rate. We learned that if we did an electronic transfer, it was free (unlike checks and wire transfers). However, our bank, an internet bank, which, according to Wikipedia, was "set up at a time when many banks were exploring opportunities to utilise new technology to reduce the costs of providing financial services" and whose motto was "the way all banks will be," did not make this easy for us.

It seemed very backwards to us, but we encountered the following difficulties: We could have an internet bank account but we could not have internet access to our account because we lived overseas. We needed to call on the phone to initiate a transfer (a calling card at least made the cost of this negligible). And, after failing a few times, we learned that this call needed to placed between 8am and noon, UK time. That's 1am to 5am Colorado time. No, I could not call the day before to initiate a transfer. I can't think of a worse 4 hr interval to make a phone call: 1am is a little too late and 5am is a little too early, but that was the deal. I'd set the alarm for 2am for each transaction. Sigh.

There were many, many frustratingly ridiculous interactions with this bank, but we muddled through. When at last our account was nearly empty, I told the teller on the phone I was ready to close my account and wanted to transfer the remaining funds out. He gave me the amount in the account and I arranged a transfer of that amount to another UK brick and mortar account. I did a little dance of joy now that I was rid of that clumsy internet bank that had been such a thorn in my side.

The next month, I was horrified to find an envelope addressed to me with the bank's logo on it. Whatever could it be? Sent to me across the sea was a statement for 1 pence. One cent. Unfortunately, between the time the teller had quoted me a figure and the time the money had been transfered, it had earned 1p of interest. My account was still open and active. I ignored the statements, hoping they would go away. They continued to arrive.

My conscience gnawed at me. All the paper, printer ink, and energy it took to mail these statements thousands of miles! I had to take action to close the account once and for all. So I bit the bullet and wrote a cheque, for exactly 1 pence, and put an 80 cent stamp on it to mail it across the ocean for someone to process in order to stop the madness. Just stop.

Then another letter arrived with the ominous logo. This time, it was even worse: a notice that we were overdrawn by 99p. Apparently, the bank where I had sent the cheque has misread it as 1 pound, not 1 pence. My good deed had resulted in penalty fees and interest that was mounting. Noooooooo!

By this time our calling card had been used up, but I didn't see what else to do. I set my alarm, got up in the middle of the night, and gave them a piece of my mind. Including being on hold, I think the call probably cost me about $30. But they did agree to waive the penalties and eat the 99p in the end. It was done. I never heard from them again. One faceless bureaucracy out of my life.

Olympic Virtue and Moir

2010-03-02T09:16:00.003-07:00

I have been obsessed with the Olympics, and now that they're over, I'll need to find a new obsession. I am hoping it will be painting the downstairs, but I'm still in transition mode, so I'll muse a bit more on the Olympics here.

My obsession with the Olympics kept me from being as productive and getting as much sleep as I would have liked---even though we don't have TV! (But thanks to Lisa and family for inviting me over regularly to be an extra potato on their couch.) Whatever I was doing, if I knew there was an event on, I had to check the standings/results on my NBC Olympics iPhone app. You know how they talk about technological distractions? That was me.

In addition to the events, there were the tweets from the athletes that, though generally not very interesting, were always new and varied. I learned about the earthquake in Chile from a speed skater's tweet.

Many, many things to discuss: Apolo Ohno's Jedi-like powers, figure skating costumes (especially ice dancing---ugghh!), how amazing the athlete's abilities are and yet how they are also just ordinary people with ordinary foibles. I'm fascinated with how they handle fame or adrenaline or years of training in obscurity. I love the different cultures and ethics of the different sports: how the mellow snowboarders (whose snowpants looked like ripped jeans) were horrified at the white pants they had to wear for the opening ceremony, while the figure skaters gushed, "I love you Ralph Lauren!" And on and on.

All of the athletes have drive and dedication, and I am curious about that too. Some seem to truly love what they do and others just seem really determined. Some thrive on pressure and rise to the occasion, others don't. Some get a lot of energy from their fans, some prefer anonymity. The psychology of it all is a microcosm of all our interactions (or like human drama put under a microscope!).

One thing I wanted to share is an obscure video of Tessa Virtue and Scott Moir. It was what is called a "Fan-swer" session, where fans send in questions and the athletes respond. The skaters are looking really young and normal in warm-up jackets, not in their fancy guise, not "on stage," but still on the spot, doing their job.

Virtue and Moir are the Canadian ice dancing pair who won the gold. Now I am not a big fan of ice dancing. The idea of dancing competitively is weird to me, and then doing it on skates even stranger, and then making it an Olympic sport seems a stretch...but whatever, it's there, and it is amusing in its own way.

I didn't watch the competition, but I did see some of the more outrageous costumes and some of the clips of the winning dances.

What first struck me about Virtue and Moir was the name Tessa Virtue. I first heard it when they said Joannie Rochette was rooming with teammate Tessa Virtue, but Rochette would get her own room after her mother died. Tessa Virtue, what a perfect name for a figure skater, an icon on ice. (Scott Moir also a solid name in it's own way, kind of a mysterious counterpoint to Virtue, like noir or moiré). I wondered if she lived up to her name.

Then she did, they won the gold, and their costumes were relatively nice and classic, not outrageous. Watching their videos showed me how they are just really really good at what they do. They are completely present and their performances are transporting. It is an art.

Sometimes ice dancers are a couple off the ice, but often not. Part of their job, then, is to act romantically involved, and not just for one movie or one show, but for decades. What a strange job. And to find two people who are not only matched in talent and style but also drive, ambition, and personality, is truly miraculous. They must really work at it on ever so many levels.

So back to the "Fan-swer" video. It is always interesting to see a pair interviewed because they are both being asked to speak and to speak for each other as one. Sometimes this works, but sometimes it can seem awkward. Ice dancers are supposed to be perfectly matched, so the pressure is on to just smile and agree. Have no idea if Virtue and Moir are a couple off the ice, but they do a great job of acting as if they are, which is part of their business. They create fantasy.

The fan question was something like: "Everyone wants to know, what did you say to each other at the beginning and end of your performance?" Their answer seemed so metaphoric and inspiring, a lesson in how to live life, how to get along, and how to bring your best to any situation. Here is how they replied in their 20-year-old, casually dressed way (and it really helped that clips of the performance—where you could see them mouthing these words—were played at the same time):

Scott:
"At the beginning, I don't really, you can help me out because I don't really remember, but we always just look at each other and say, 'we're here,' you know like 'this is it, we worked so hard' and 'let's do it.'"

"And then we'll get into it and Tessa will say something like, almost immediately, once, as soon as we start."

Tessa:
"I think I said, 'Hi,' within the first five seconds, as soon as Scott came up behind me and I turned to face him."…

Scott:
…"We talk pretty much the whole way through."…

Tessa:
…"Then you said, 'Thank you very much,' at the very end."…

__________________________________

"We're here," "Hi," communicate, and "Thank you very much."

That pretty much sums up a great way to be in almost any situation: present, receptive, filled with gratitude. I think they meant it, but I also think they LEARNED this and practiced bringing their best to their work together. That joyful attitude helps make them champions. They could just as easily have said, "Oh boy, here we go!" "You again," and "Phew, that's over!" Every day they are on that ice, working. Yet they've learned how to keep it fresh. They love what they do and it shows. A really great example to follow.

Airplane 1/4/10

2010-03-02T09:10:00.002-07:00

7:30am flight, up since 5am. Sitting next to c. 40yr old man. He is fashionably dressed and exudes a hip and thoughtful vibe: artistic glasses, fashionably cut hair, perfectly distressed jeans.

Across the aisle is his family: equally fashionable and coiffed wife sitting in between c. 6yr old son and active and charming c. 4yr old daughter. Mom is tirelessly interacting with kids, reading books, playing word games ("What letter does cat start with? What letter does apple start with? Yes! You got it!").

I am simultaneously thinking two contradictory thoughts: on the one hand, how sweet and lively the scene is across the aisle, and on the other hand, how in my mind, the dad got the prime seat by himself and how the mom got the mush pot between the two kids.

In a way, though, his situation was sad: he was on the outside, quiet and alone. Perhaps the kids chose to sit with mom. But then there she was, doing lots of work (making it look easy), likely up very early, not able to relax, read, shut her eyes. Instead, having to make up endlessly interesting tasks for 4yr old mind. She really did seem to be enjoying it too. Why not?

The dad slept, read his kindle. I slept (Kadin, sitting next to me, also slept), did a crossword puzzle (Kadin helped a bit, played on his DS). But I was drawn to the energy on the other side of the aisle, even as I was so glad not to be in the middle of it.

Is it really that simple, just a swivel of attitude to change something from a burden to fulfilling enjoyment? How could she not be achingly tired? Resentful even? Could I embrace such moments? Revel in the love and liveliness? Boy, was I glad to get some sleep and have older, self-amusing kids, and yet...

Better metaphors

2010-01-11T11:13:00.002-07:00

I introduced a new concept to the kids called "follow through," where you complete a task by cleaning it up and putting it all away before moving on to the next thing. Not new at all, just one in a long series of (yawn) explanations about why it is important to keep things in their place. How if you don't, you won't be able to find it when you need it, yadda, yadda, yadda. I really can't totally blame them for being handicapped in this regard because (1) they are kids (2) both of their parents are deficient in this ability as well and (3) it's really boring. Hence, yet another approach where if they ask me, "Mom, can I...?" instead of saying, "First clean up blank and blank and blank," I can just say, "After you follow through." Hoping they'll see the connection between a task and its completion and how that will directly benefit them in the end. Hoping.

Imagine my delight when Rees chimed in with, "It's like nun-chucks!" Nun-chucks? The weapon that is like sticks on a chain? Rees has learned how to use these at Kung Fu and got a pair for his birthday. "Yeah," he says, "With nun-chucks, if you don't follow through, they'll come back and whack you!"

Exactly! So now when they can't find their backpack in the morning, maybe they'll see how the lack of follow through has come back to whack them. Maybe... But this idea of future whack avoidance is working for me! (Also helpful to me right now is the idea of "ship shape," where it's of dire importance to keep things in order and ready to go in preparation for the next crisis. Pause and take the time to neatly coil your rope, or it won't be ready when you need it! And my mom just posted about "stepping stones of calm" and order in her day as a reason to keep things in their place. Another good image to keep me focused on "follow through.")

Then there was the dire outing we took to hike in a canyon last summer. It was over an hour drive out to the plains and Kadin had brought a friend. None of the kids wanted to go, much less go for a car ride, and kept asking when we'd get there. To make matters worse, Kadin's friend, a very sweet kid who has the unfortunate habit of always positioning himself as the victim, sort of assumed that Rees, the big brother, would be "against" him and Kadin, so kept saying things in a defensive, provocative way. Much of it was unintentional, just an assumption, but it really worked to make itself true. Lo and behold, Rees got upset and the 8-year-old friend kept saying unknowingly unhelpful things like, "Rees is upset, aren't you Rees? I think Rees is upset.” I felt scars forming on my psyche and asked myself repeatedly (and silently) was it worth it? Why even attempt such outings? What was the point of leaving the house? How do people do it?

Needless to say, we were all ready to bolt from the car at the earliest opportunity. Didn't even choose a trailhead, just stopped at the first available parking area. Rees was in a real funk by this point and determined to bring everyone down with him. Every step was torture it seemed, kids provoking and protesting. Greg and I kept waiting for things to turn around. They had to, right?

After about a half-mile of unrelenting freak-out, despite lizards and boulders and ruins, Greg finally announced that it was a failed trip. I agreed. But, I always have to see what is around the next bend. It looked like we were finally approaching the creek, so I suggested we get to the creek then head back and cut our losses.

Out of desperation, and relieved the trip would end soon, I took an unofficial trail down to the creek. And it turned out to be a beautiful sandy creek with large, inviting boulders strewn throughout. Perfect beaches, perfect perches, warm air, cool, clear water. Heaven to anyone who cared to open their eyes and look. There was still a lot of tears and anger, but I didn't see how it could last through all the enticing beauty surrounding us.

Slowly, with people not yet ready to leave, the mood began to change. Shoes came off, wading began, a pool of frogs was found...things were miraculously looking up. And way in the distance downstream, we could see the dot of our red car at the trailhead. It was decided that we'd wade back to the car instead of take the dusty trail.

So the expedition through the boulders and reeds began. At places the stream was wide and shallow, with boulders and open vistas. Then it would narrow into an ominous, swift, deep, shrub-choked section where we could barely see and had to duck under sticks and branches in the encroaching vegetation. Footing was difficult as the current was swift and the water deep. But we quickly figured out that each deep, narrow bit was always followed by another gentle, shallow bit. The kids, scouting ahead, would reassure us that when it looked dark and dim and dire, another bright spot was right around the corner.

Success! Their favorite part of the weekend!

Metaphor for the next few years

2009-08-14T16:38:00.003-06:00

Well, looks like we have survived the summer quite well. I am not even exactly looking forward to school starting next week—even as I AM looking forward to it—the kids are so happy! They are loving their unstructured time and actually making pretty good use of it, doing that serious work of being kids.

I was worried, though.

Rees is at an age (11) where it seems that playing with a pile of blocks or Legos just doesn't really cut it anymore. He and his friends need more excitement, something slightly risky and new. I know this is normal—and a big part of growing up comes from experimenting and trial and error—but I'm not sure I'm up for the excitement myself. I was wondering just how many edgy kinds of activities I could take.

Last spring, when Rees had a friend over and they were getting antsy, I sent them out back with hedge clippers to have a go at the Russian Olive tree. I knew they wouldn't kill the tree (you get an award around here if you manage to kill a Russian Olive—considered an exotic invasive), and they would get to use sharp tools. In no time, I noticed, they had also found and commandeered the machete. A good tool for the task…no? They were having a great time, and they did a good job. Okay, not so good with the clean up of the branches, but they did manage to trim off all the new growth and put the tools away, and no blood was drawn. That's one successful morning.

A few days later they wanted to play with candles and some matches. It was a cold, rainy Sunday, so I told them they could do it out in the driveway. Needless to say, this dampened their fun, but hey, it was safe, clean-up was minimal, and they were amused.

Then there was the math class project where they needed to construct a robot of geometric solids. They constructed "Arnold" from boxes and plastic jars and asked if they could spray paint him. So I got out some tarps, they helped me cover the drive, and they chose some colors to finish off their masterpiece. At some point in there, in between coats, I had to go get Kadin. 10 minutes max, but leaving two 'tween boys in the drive with spray paint in hand??

Came back to find they had also spray painted the pogo stick and a large mullein weed bright blue. "You just couldn't resist?" I asked. "You were just going to pull it up anyway, right?" said Rees quite logically and accurately. Right. They did great. I mean, they picked the best possible thing to paint. No harm done, if you don't count leaving your mother on edge and the specter of destruction lurking in the shadows...

A couple of days after that, it was hot and sunny again. We were all out for a hike and Rees and a friend were bored and wanted to go home. Okay, we said, we'll meet you at home in about an hour, and they trotted off.

Came home to find more wax drips in the driveway, strange chemicals (like my $80/pint stone sealer) uncapped and off the shelves, and a half-hearted attempt at putting away matches and candles. Hmmm. Also found some small potato chip bags around the house. Hmmm.

First I told Rees that it was not okay to randomly play with fire and unknown garage chemicals without asking. Then I asked where the chip bags came from. "Oh, we stopped at Ben's house on the way home and he gave us some chips." So Ben was here too? Three 'tweens, hot, sunny, dry, fire, and no adults. A combustible combination!

The funny thing is, if they had been organized enough to completely cover their tracks and completely clean up and put away all evidence of playing with fire, I think perhaps that would show they were thoughtful and together enough to keep from harm. And we've all done it. We've all enjoyed playing with fire.

But boy was I glad when the next weekend Rees had a field trip with his school band to the local amusement park. Perfect: fast rides, the allure of danger, but all in all, a pretty safe environment. I finally understood and appreciated the true function of the thrill ride.

So it was with some trepidation that I saw the summer (and the next few years) looming ahead of me. I'm crossing out of the golden age where the kids are old enough to pretty much take care of themselves but young enough to not get into serious mischief. Breathe, breathe.

But so far, it has turned out fine, I'm still enjoying the golden moment. We discussed the concept of group psychology where it is okay to be home alone, but not with a group. If I need to go out, I send the bunch off to someone else's house. And I have cultivated a strategy of being welcoming but clueless when other parents call, "Oh, your son is here? Are you sure? Okay...let me check." If other parents think I don't really know what is going on, I figure that's a good thing. I also try to be a little bit boring with the kids: make them get their own food and ask them to clean up and put things away, etc. I'm not trying to win any popularity contests, and it's working.

Instead of burning down the neighborhood, they have gotten into a card game at Dakota's called "Magic," enjoy playing "Halo" at Dustin's house, and at our house they have made up endless, imaginative games and variations involving the hose and the trampoline. [Okay, full disclosure: my rule HAS changed from "no jumping off the swingset onto the trampoline," to "no doing flips off the swingset onto the trampoline."] They seem inclusive and able to work through occasional conflicts and everyone is having a good time. And I really don't mind if they play with fire—it's something they have to do, it's how they learn—I just want it to be at someone ELSE's house. Ideally, with some wise adult who is interested and engaged. But if they do it on their own and somehow manage to be wise and thoughtful enough to cover their tracks? That's okay too.

The phone, the phone, the phone

2009-04-09T15:21:00.001-06:00

I had just gotten home from Kadin’s very fun 2nd grade “Australia Day,” when the phone rang. Unfortunately, I was in the bathroom and I thought, “Well, I could have gotten home five minutes from now, so why kill myself to answer? They can leave a message.” And then I heard a small, thin voice coming through the machine saying, “Mom?… Mom?….” Oh dang it, I should have answered.

It was Rees. But where? He should be at school. There’s no way to call him back. He’ll probably try my cell next, but I’ll just call the school in case. So I call the school and sure enough, while it is ringing at the school my cell rings. I hang up the land line, pick up the cell, and it is Rees. Apparently the school has been evacuated due to some sort of leak and I need to go pick him up at the High School.

Sure, that throws a wrench into my afternoon plans where I had much to accomplish, but no worries, he had wanted a snow day, and this would be like a snow day but without the snow.

It turns out that Rees is no problem at all. Quite happy to amuse himself. But every time I sit down, get my focus, and try to get something done, the phone rings. A robot voice: “There is an important communication for you. Please press any numeric key to receive this message.”

What is this? Some kind of a prank? Is it from the school? The city? If so, why didn’t they identify themselves? Is it from a telemarketer who will say that because I pressed a numeric key I agreed to something? I hang up.

About twenty minutes later, again the phone. Same deal. If it is someone official, they would identify themselves, I think. If it is a marketing ploy they might not. If it was a marketing ploy that identified themselves as someone official, at least they could be accused of misleading the recipient. As it is, it’s similar to an email that says, “For important information, click this link.” I’m not going for that.

A few minutes later, again the phone rings. I don’t answer. No message. Then my cell rings. This is the first clue I have that this call really is for me personally. My two numbers dialed in quick succession. The robot voice is now on my cell. This time I press a “numeric key.” I guess this is so they can be sure an actual person is getting the message, not a machine, the toddler, or the cat. I am instructed to listen to the entire message and then press 2. Okay. So there is a long message about the school evacuation and where to pick up my kid. I listen. I have picked up my kid over an hour ago. At the end, I press 2.

The phone rings again. Of course I have to answer, it might be one of the kids. It is a teacher from Rees’s school, the one who is coaching their soccer team. He tells me their afternoon game is still on as planned, but I’ll need to bring Rees to the venue myself. Fine.

A few minutes later, again the phone rings. Robot voice again asking for a numeric key. I thought I’d pressed 2 already! I can’t bear to listen to the long message again, so hang up.

I am not getting very much done in the end. Evacuation this, evacuation that. I have also received several emails each from the school, the district, and something called nxt, informing me of the situation.

Then the phone again. I answer. It is Greg: “I just got a call about an evacuation at Rees’s school.” Yes, yes, yes, I KNOW! But of course Greg has to check in with me. So I tell him Rees is fine, I have picked him up, he is now at the skate park with Dakota.

And that’s about it. It’s time to take Rees to his afterschool soccer game. The sum total accomplished in my afternoon! I did enjoy the next couple of hours watching Rees play soccer, however. It was a beautiful day and he really puts his all into it.

Skiing with kids (sic)

2009-03-18T13:18:00.003-06:00

Call me crazy, but in my mind, if you take a day to go skiing, you should, well, go skiing. But I have to pat myself on the back for not getting too wrapped up in that narrow definition when we went for our first ski outing of the season last December.

Rees has a discounted pass to the Colorado resorts (the ski industry gives these passes to 5th and 6th graders precisely for this purpose: it gets their families out with them and gets them addicted to skiing) so we picked a place we’d never been, Breckenridge, rented equipment for Kadin, and set off the next morning. This was for the kids, I reminded myself, not for me. My ski season started in January when the kids were back in school. I’d save my skiing for then.

We didn’t leave late, but we didn’t leave super early either. The woman at the ski rental store suggested leaving at 5am. We opted for about 7, and a little over 2 hrs later we were at the resort. We parked, got dressed for the cold, and headed toward the kiosk. Halfway there I realized in my haste I had left my big gloves on top of the car. I went back, got the gloves, and double checked we had what we wanted with us. I would hate to have to come back to the car again. We got our passes (a fair piece of change, I might add) and headed up the gondola to the lifts. On the gondola we learned there were several stops and several mountains. The first mountain was all intermediate and advanced slopes. So we stayed in and went to the end of the line.

The kids were enjoying the gondola ride and talking it up a bit about how they wanted to ski blue and black runs (intermediate and advanced). Yeah, right. I have learned that as soon as we do a blue slope, it’s the last slope of the day. Rees has only been snowboarding a half-a-dozen times and Kadin had only been on the slopes twice, the last time over 9 months before. We needed to take it easy our first time out this season. Slow and steady and all that…

I checked my trail map and headed toward the lift that looked like it led to the nice, long, green (beginners) run the woman on the gondola had recommended. Once we got to the top, however, I realized that we had, disastrously, taken the wrong chair. Our only options to the bottom were blacks and blues. It was going to be a long run, and not in a good way…

The kids, complementary in personality, are also complementary in skiing style, but not in the way you might think. Rees on his snowboard is all about technique and form, quite cautious and in control. Kadin, on the other hand, is on skis and pretty much just goes down, come hell or high water. Kadin helps Rees go faster and Rees helps reign Kadin in.

Rees knows how to get down difficult terrain, so he was doing okay. Not as well as he wanted to be doing, but under control. Kadin, on the other hand, was hopeless. I could get myself down just fine, but am not skilled enough to do that and carry a 7-year-old as well. I don’t ski backwards, and I wasn’t sure I could hold him and guide him either.

Skiing for kids is just super different than skiing for adults. Some things that adults find hard, kids find easy, and vice versa. My strategy for getting down a slope that feels too steep for me is to (1) ski down in big zig zags or (2) side slip. Snow plow is something the kids learn, and they seem to be good at following leaders, so I told Kadin to snow plow and follow me and started out on a big zig across the slope. No dice. He followed gravity and started heading down and had his first fall. We tried a zag and another zig, but no joy. The tears started. So I tried plan B and showed him how to side slip. This was just completely incomprehensible to him. At this rate, a very long run was ahead of us indeed.

Salvation soon came when a ski patrol guy, “Tony,” came by and asked if we needed help. Boy did we ever. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll get you down the mountain.” My hero!

He introduced himself to Kadin and I went on ahead to find Rees. Rees was having a bit of a hard time, but coping pretty well. Tony showed us the easiest way down and Rees and I went ahead, then stopped and waited. Tony tried a bunch of different techniques, then handed his poles to me so he could carry Kadin, and Rees and I went ahead again.

We started having a really nice run. Rees found his groove and it was sunny and the slopes nearly empty. Ideal, really. After a good bit, we stopped and waited for Tony and Kadin to appear. We waited and waited…

Finally Tony appeared, but no Kadin. He had called in the toboggan, feeling that progress had just been too slow. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a ski patrol guy guiding a toboggan with Kadin riding on top, came down. Kadin was smiling and having a grand old time, so that at least was good. We got to the bottom, thanked Tony and friend profusely, and they directed us to the lift we should have taken.

Once on the green slopes, Kadin did fantastic. Though at almost every moment he looked like he was about to fall, he had not a fall for the rest of the day. His style is both terrifying and hilarious to watch. We did a green run, then Rees said he thought it was time for lunch. Already? I thought. He reasoned that the lift lines were longer now, and they’d be shorter if we ate early and came back when everyone else was at lunch. Couldn’t argue with that.

They love cafeteria food, but for myself, I had brown bagged it. They were having a great time. Kadin even said, “Thanks for a great day, Mom.” A great day? I felt like all we’d done was get to the slope, do one run, and eat bad food. But I realized to them, it was all a much bigger experience. Riding the lifts, riding the gondola, eating soup in a bread bowl, it was all good. To me, these were impediments. But I reminded myself, it was not about me.

After lunch, Rees said he wanted to go back to the car to get his hat. Go back to the car? That was at least half-an-hour and two gondola trips away. Yes, he wanted to go back to the car. It’s not about me, so we went back to the gondola, took it back down, and walked back to the car. By this point, we were quite warm, so we took off some of our outerwear, got Rees’s hat, and went back up the mountain.

Finally, back at the lift, waiting in line again, I suddenly realized a serious problem. “Kadin? Did you leave your coat in the car?” “Yes.” “Was your lift ticket on your coat?” “Oh, I guess it was.”

There was nothing for it but to go back to the car—again—and get it. Two more gondola rides and what felt like another mile of walking in ski boots later, we were back at the lift. Hours had passed.

Had a good run again—finally!—and suddenly the kids were ready to go home. Go home? Already? I still felt as if we had just gotten started. But it was not about me. I talked them into one more run and that was it for the day. Done. Finito. Back to the gondola and back to the car. They sure loved that gondola, I had to remember that!

We stopped at Starbucks on the way home, got stuck in traffic despite leaving early (I blame the long line at Starbucks), and the kids conked out in the car. So for them it was a big day. Was it worth it? I’m not sure. We didn’t do all that much skiing, but in the end they had a great time. There would have been little point in pushing them past their limit. I gave myself a little pat on the back for not getting too wound up about it, reminding myself: it’s not about me. And, oh yeah, I had a great time skiing with friends in January.

Mood magnet

2009-03-16T12:05:00.005-06:00

Went hiking with Rees and Kadin yesterday, which may have been a mistake, as the hike ended up a bit less light-hearted with them along. But, I did come away with a helpful new perspective! One exciting new option around here—that, alas, we didn't take advantage of—is they are fine if we leave them home alone. Well, mostly Kadin is fine with being left alone. He really craves/thrives on his alone time. Rees, not so much.

But, a big breakthrough last Thursday. Greg and the boys were supposed to go to Kung Fu and I had planned to go to a meeting. Then Rees came home after soccer and announced he had a big homework project due the next day, so he couldn't go to Kung Fu. I called a couple of his friends to see if he could hang with them and do his project, but no one else was home. We spelled out the options for him: stay home alone and do it, take it to Kung Fu and do it there, go to Kung Fu and do the homework later in the evening and again in the morning. Rees’s response to these options? None of the above. His ideas included: Greg take Kadin to Kung Fu and then come home and stay with him and then rush back to pick up Kadin, or, I cancel my plans and stay with him. Basically the gist of his ideas: everyone else rearrange their schedule to accommodate me.

He had some historical research he needed to do and then he had to prepare a two-minute speech, type it out, practice it, and time it. He had known about it for two days. He could have planned ahead better, but not too much. So we reluctantly left him home alone—this child who doesn’t like to be alone and has trouble concentrating—to do a multi-part project from start to finish. What were the chances? I figured either way, it would be a learning experience. Miracle of miracles, it was fine! When Greg and Kadin got home, Rees had it all typed out, practiced, and in his backpack. Milestone! He rose to the challenge! Yea!

So back to the hiking. It was a beautiful day and we wanted to go for a short hike. Thought the kids would like to get out in the woods. Rees kind of wanted to go, Kadin really did not. I could tell Kadin wanted to have some alone time, but at home Rees kept pestering him to play soccer, have a nerf-gun war, etc. Rees, in true form, said he would only go hiking if Kadin went as it would be boring without him. Nice that he wants to be with his brother—and they really do get along well—but too bad his brother is an introvert and he is not! If Kadin didn’t go, Rees said he’d stay home too. Thinking a change of scene would do everyone good, we insisted Kadin come along and offered a post-hike lunch at Chipotle as a consolation.

They did okay—Kadin going a bit slow at times, and being incredibly negative and anti- everything as can be his way—but they went along. (And, as is also typical, today, the day after, Kadin recalls it as a fun hike! We have learned not to take his negativity to heart.) At one point, Rees and I were ahead and Rees was complaining that “Kadin’s laziness” had infected him, and it was Kadin’s fault that he couldn’t go faster. Since we had been climbing steadily uphill for quite a while, I thought that was a likely reason Rees felt slow. But he didn’t see it that way at all. “Kadin’s mood has infected me, it’s all his fault!”

I hate it when Rees does this. I find it incredibly annoying and almost pathological that Rees often blames other people for his moods. I wasn’t going to play the blame game, so I just repeated Rees’s statement back to him: “You feel that Kadin’s mood has infected you, and you don’t like it.”

“Yeah, it makes me feel bad.”

“You feel bad. You don’t like this mood.”

And then it hit me. Maybe instead of a pathological blaming of others and lack of healthy responsibility, maybe Rees was right. Maybe Kadin’s mood really HAD “infected” him. I call Rees our resident mood magnet. He is very sensitive and empathetic and quite easily takes on other’s moods. Sometimes this serves him well. It’s what makes him so great at interacting with and engaging people whom others find difficult to engage with. Sometimes, though, it makes a stressful situation doubly or triply stressful. It’s what makes life around here so interesting!

He is very perceptive and can take in a lot of detail, but one of the reasons he often has difficulty concentrating is that he doesn’t know how to filter all this input. He sees it all equally. He attends to it all. It could very well be that he was absorbing Kadin’s mood because he didn’t know how to shield or filter. Seeing it this way made me less angry. He doesn’t yet realize he can choose which moods to pay attention to. I was excited about this new approach so talked with him a while about how, whether he knew it or not, he could choose which moods to absorb. It’s something I myself have only recently been experimenting with. What power! What potential!

Of course, he poo-pooed it all and didn’t share my enthusiasm. And, as we were engrossed in the conversation, we forgot to wait for Greg and Kadin at a critical fork and didn’t realize they didn’t know where to go until much later… But, as with a lot of parenting, it is mostly planting the seed. And then just as his mood was lifting and we were reaching our beautiful, climactic destination, we realized our mistake at the fork. Oh calamity! Confusion! We'd arrived, but we're torn. Should we stay or should we go back? Will we ever find them? This could take hours... As we're debating, who do we see coming up the path? Greg and Kadin! They found it! There’s hope!

Serial remodeler (sometime in 2007, about a year after our remodel was finished)

2009-03-06T16:57:00.001-07:00

I want to do another remodel. I miss the whole creative process and project.

I dreamt about redoing a gazebo I found in the backyard. How come I had never noticed it there before?

Dark wood. 159 years old?

Lots of ideas. Lots of fun planning. The architect and I bounce ideas off each other.

Lots of nice old wood and thoughts about how to reuse it.

Then the cost: $150,000. The dream dies.

Then I dreamt about a perfect apartment where we had everything done and painted just so. It was the perfect location. For some reason we moved out. Too small? But it was perfect. Visited the person who had moved in and envied how perfect they had it. They just needed to order one more piece of furniture for the west wall, then it would be truly done.

Another friend (Anushe?) had bought the lot next door and planned to build a house there. It seemed the perfect plan. But instead she was going to sell it and move elsewhere. Why?

Caribbean color

2009-03-03T12:25:00.014-07:00

It's that time of year when we could all use a little more color. Here's a photo collage from our Caribbean trip, the first days of 2007:

Cruise Diary II: on the ship (don’t say “boat”!)

2009-02-20T16:20:00.002-07:00

(First days of 2007)

About the ship, I don’t have as much to say, except that it was just great. Really, really nice. Everything was easy and accommodating. We were treated like royalty. We lived in luxury. We have many food options available 24hrs a day. It was so perfect I have little to report. One nice thing was that the crew was incredibly international. From just about every country you could name. They were young and seemed ambitious. They worked hard, but it seemed that they could really use this job as a stepping stone to see the world, meet others from all over the world, and get paid a decent wage. It felt like a giant melting pot with all these 20-somethings from so many countries. It felt like it really could contribute to more international harmony in it’s own small, grass-roots way.

One day, while eating at a window by myself in one of the dining rooms I hear the person next to me say:

“The ocean has a very unique beauty. Very, very beautiful.”

Is he talking to me?

“You could really loose yourself out here.”

He is talking to me. It seems so poetic and clichéd. Is this a pick up line? Just to be social, I nod, or acknowledge agreement in some way. He continues:

“There are no skyscrapers or landmarks. So it is hard to get oriented.”

Okay, so we’re being very literal. I point out some flying fish, my contribution to the beauty of the scene.

"I bet they taste good," he says.

Okay, so very, very literal.

This guy is in his twenties, and I’m beginning to understand that he is developmentally delayed. The cruise is a perfect place for a vacation for someone with disabilities. It is easy and safe with lots to see and do, all nearby. It can easily accommodate our large group with diverse ages (ranging from 2 to 84), interests, and abilities. The kids are happy, the teenagers are happy, the senior citizens are happy, the baby is happy, I am happy.

So I ask this guy next to me how many cruises he had been on. Six or so, it seems. Perfect for him and his family. Then he tells me that the big event that he is looking forward to is the upcoming release of the Transformers movie. He asks if I like the Transformers. It’s not that I don’t like the Transformers, but to be honest, I tell him that I have difficulty making sense of them, that I haven’t really paid attention. Well, he is going to help me with that. So he explains the backstory to his long-held interest. There are the Autobots who are good and the Deceptron who are bad. The Deceptron are trying to get the Autobots’ resources, their oil and energy sources. There is something about worlds colliding and getting caught in suspended animation for 1000 years. It’s definitely an insight into a new world for me!

Another night, we stay up to see some of the onboard entertainment. It is a sort of Broadway Musical smorgasbord/medley of songs. It was so serious and so intently done, that it was almost comedic. Felicity asked if one of the songs was from Spinal Tap. If only! But no, I'm afraid "sex bomb" was deadly serious.

Did help me to appreciate Queen more, though.

Roatan
Small island, very Caribbean looking. Brightly colored side gallery houses. Poor too. Almost desperate seeming. Ursula got us two cabs to airport for our rented car. Aeropuerto is closed. No rental cars available anywhere. Avis is quiet. Not a soul. Ursula bargains and bargains with taxi drivers arranges for them to take us to beach and back for $40 per car. We do this.

Take a drive around the island. See lots of desperate poverty. Cabinetmakers too. The people were not starving, but their dogs were. A small island, very rocky and hilly, with little room for cultivation. What do you do? Where do things come from? Where do they go? That is probably why they invested in the huge Cruise Ship dock. An influx of money from outside. Corruption? Desperation. Beautiful beaches. Pollution. How do they survive?

Nice black and white pottery from Honduras. Looks very fragile. Take only pictures.

Costa Maya
I like the newspapers they used to wrap up the stuff. I like the bent wire frames covered with colorful plastic tubing that they used to display their T-shirts and dresses, I like the colorful and striped plastic bags they put purchases in. All the stuff, the mall feeling, I am less into.

Belize City
Belize City is actually a city and I am reminded that in this part of the world that means crowded living conditions and, in former British colonies, open sewers. My big find is the hardware store Simon Quan and Co., "You name it, we have it!" and a good selection of tablecloth material. Buy that and dustpan and rags. Cool. But know I am a wimp and that that is about all the cultural immersion I can handle. Return to tourist area tout suite.

People friendly, no hostility here.

Cozumel
Much more development here, but still a lot of shabby (i.e. real) underside. The bluest water ever. So beautiful. Visit a church, a supermarket, a bookstore, and Los Cinco Soles.

All these places are great to visit, but they also make me so happy to live where I do. Great for the kids to see other places, though, even in this highly artificial way.

My skin is doing its tropics thing. Yuk.

Sad there are only two more days on the ship…

Cruise diary I: getting to the boat (last days of 2006)

2009-02-18T11:45:00.004-07:00

We change our flight to avoid the coming blizzard. Really don’t want to miss the boat (a wonderful family trip that is a gift from Greg's father)! Rushing to get everything done 24hrs earlier than planned. Tension over "list" and what needs to get done. Table Mesa park-and-ride is full. We drive on to Broomfield park-and-ride. Hope our car won't be buried when we get back! Arrive at airport many, many hours in advance. Hang out near shops. Buy jibbitz, see Crocs boots and "hiking boots." Eat sandwiches. Was pleased to use up most of the perishables in fridge in sandwiches.

Kids enjoy playing on escalators and moving sidewalks. Board flight without incident. Flight takes off just as flakes begin to fall…

Tampa airport area
Baggage claim 12 at Tampa airport. I call La Quinta and they say to go to the door labeled Red One and catch a white van with lettering on the side that says The Blue One. We did. Watched the weather channel to see shots of Denver's blizzard. Walk across the “street” (read: huge, pedestrian-unfriendly, complicated, multi-lane intersection) to the "International Plaza." Rees says, "I hate plazas, I hate everything about them." Discovered the field we thought we were walking through turned into a lake. It was warm. The grass was green. I remember: we're in Florida. Hmmm. Might there be alligators in the water? Sure enough, we stumble across a sign: Warning, alligators may be present. Yes, we're not in Colorado anymore…

Find a food court. Kids are starving. I had eaten the last sandwich while waiting for the shuttle. Rees eats two 6" Subway sandwiches. Kadin eats his own sandwich then half of Greg's teriyaki chicken and sesame green beans.

Sleep well. Wake to have the hotel breakfast (avoiding some of the scary stuff and having a hard boiled egg, a banana, and an orange, which last me pretty well). Then back to the mall for haircuts and some sort of herbal concoction to stave off the cold Greg thinks he's getting. His plan: to work for the day at Starbucks. My plan: to amuse myself and the kids for the day. While waiting for the haircut place to open, we surf the web and find our originally scheduled plane had been canceled due to the storm. Phew! We are warm and happy, only a few miles from the boat that departs tomorrow. I look for info on public buses online. Find one site that says: the only people who take public transport in Tampa are those who have no choice. Hmmm.

Can't find an easy way to the Dali Museum across the bay in St. Petersburg, so instead, take the bus into town. We do okay, and even though the bus comes only once every half an hour, we only need to wait ten or fifteen minutes. I ask a girl who came to wait at the stop how much the bus costs. She snarls at me, almost like she couldn't believe I wasn't abusing her. I ask again, and she answers guardedly. It was clear she didn't want to talk to me or to any stranger.

We get a similarly harsh response from the driver and then we find out that for the kids to get the kid’s rate, they need ID. Kids? ID? And I just took their passports out of my purse this morning… So whatever, I pay the full rate for all of us and buy three day passes so we can take public transit at will. A man on the bus sees that we are here for the day and suggests that once we get into town, we take a trolley to Ybor city and walk around. That sounds like it would be suitably fun for the day. We transfer at the next mall to get the bus downtown.

We pass fast food restaurants and bail bond places and other marginal establishments. There is something called "The People's Church" where a bunch of people get on. Another guy asks some other passengers how to get to the Salvation Army. Then he launches into his story of his DUI conviction and how he had only had one beer. Everyone at the football game was drinking. Yes, he had refused the breathalyzer test, but that was because cops made him nervous and he didn't want to do what they said. He said it was about $700 to get his car back. Other passengers contributed their opinions, for example, that DUI was serious. That that was bad. Another woman, who I think got on at the church, told the guy that the only way for him to kick his addiction was through love of Jesus. Yes, that was the only way.

Tampa
Downtown Tampa turns out to be a typical downtown: skyscrapers, office workers, luncheon places. I could see there was not going to be much to interest the kids. So we find one of the yellow trolleys and inquire. As luck (not) would have it, this particular trolley (there are 3 trolley lines and 1 streetcar line that are separate from the busses) was the “Hooters Express,” a free service from downtown to Hooters at lunchtime. Hooters in Tampa was just about the last place I wanted to go, but it was free. I perused the trolley brochure on board, and discovered that there were other places to eat near Hooters as it was in a complex called the Channelside development.

Channelside was near the aquarium and the pier our boat would leave from AND the streetcar that went to Ybor City. In the end, it seemed a fine place to go.

When we got to Channelside, it was past lunchtime. I had promised the boys we could eat at McDs or Burger King and amazingly, though we had passed several on the bus, we could find not a one anywhere near downtown Tampa. A good thing, really, but at this moment, for once, I wouldn't have minded.

We settled instead for a large, noisy Bennigan's. The food was not any better than McD's but about twice as expensive. The up side was that we got to sit with a nice view of the harbor and the docks.

After Bennigans, I thought we'd take the streetcar into Ybor City, have an ice cream, then return to the hotel. The kids had had enough and wanted to go back to the hotel right away. I was still thinking it was time to find IT, the cool part of Tampa. But even ice cream would not sway them. Just before we hopped back on the Hooters shuttle (ughh!) Kadin got a blister and stopped being able to walk. I remembered a CVS near the bus stop. We bought bandaids and sunscreen and waited for the bus back.

Some more interesting characters were in the park waiting for the bus. The wait this time was longer. The highlight came when we discovered there are tons of lizards in Florida, running in the grass, the bushes, and up trees. Salvation!

A person who wore a shirt with a restaurant logo—The Office—and JESUS tattooed on his arm was also waiting for the bus. He told me when he thought it would come. A couple walked by in full Penn State regalia and she even had blue and white painted fingernails. It was then I began to realize something was truly up, there didn't just happen to be more than a few Penn State fans in Tampa. The guy at the bus stop told me they were playing Tennessee that weekend in the Outback Bowl in town.

Ride back was relatively uneventful. One bus this time.

Get back to find note from Greg that he is at mall (plaza) with EET LT DST J and E. Wow! They're all here already!

I try to nap to Cartoon Network. Jack comes by. We go swimming. Greg comes back. We plan transportation to the ship the next day. We hear that Fe and Dan got on a plane from Denver to Chicago. It is good, but getting late. Where to eat? I check out the hole in the fence at the back of the hotel. Ruth Chris Steakhouse on the other side of hole looks formal and pricey. Figuring we'll have plenty of good food and fancy meals on the boat, we decide instead on a light meal ordered in from a local Italian place.

Next morning, Saturday, I had read about an open market in Ybor City. I want to try again. It is not far from the pier where the boat departs. I decide to go on my own and meet Greg and the boys at the pier.

Saturday, the buses only come once an hour. I walk from stop to stop, thinking I'd rather be walking than waiting. I hear the Penn State (or maybe Tennessee) marching band playing in a nearby hotel parking lot. I finally get to a bus stop that has a schedule and find that the next bus doesn't come for almost twenty minutes. When the time gets near, I find a stop and wait. As has been typical, a couple people show up just as the bus is supposed to arrive. This guy and his friend (brother?) are very drunk and suntanned/burned. It is only 11am. They ask me what time the bus comes and where it goes in town. I tell them they are lucky as the bus only comes once an hour and they hit it right on. I tell them it doesn't go to gaslight park in this direction because Kennedy is one-way there, but they could get off just across the bridge into town at Ashley. It's almost as if I really know what I am talking about. They are really out of it. I am counting the minutes until the bus comes. They keep talking about how stupid they are. Sad as it is, I have to agree (silently). One shows me his scar from the first Gulf War. He had been in the Marines. They seem so rudderless.

We get on the bus and after a little bit, it again stops near the People's Church, or Church of the People or some such. One of the women who gets on looks weather beaten but also strangely young and beautiful. She says hello to the guys from the bus stop. I gather that they recognize each other from where they were all sleeping at some underpass. "I had to leave when you guys started drinking" I hear her say. One of the guys says something about how, yes, he does recognize her and she had lent him two dollars. She starts talking about Jesus and how she was on the straight and narrow path now. It is all very interesting.

I get off the bus in town to transfer to the streetcar. Not sure it is faster, but it is more scenic and it runs just as often on Saturday. The streetcar is not part of the regular bus system, but much more tourist oriented.

Ybor
Ybor City has some charm and the architecture is more interesting, but it doesn’t feel alive. It feels like a smaller, less happening version of the French Quarter. I think what bugs me about Tampa is that nothing seems really genuine. Things that are “nice” are sort of done up and revamped and “revitalized,” but there doesn’t seem to be any deep roots, any heart. Ybor city comes close, but it seems a has-been and it too had an attempted “restoration.” The Iguana bar was the one place that looked traditional and genuine. It had a bunch of oversized bikers out front in serious leather.

I meet up with everyone (including Dan and Fe who made it out of Denver!) at the pier and we “check in” in a massive hall, get our boat IDs, have our passports checked, and walk the long gangway to the gigantic cruise ship. We made it and all 17 of us are together. So glad we didn't miss the boat.

Wind and marshmallows

2009-02-17T13:36:00.003-07:00

(Early Summer, 2005, 4 years ago)

Kadin, who is usually very calm and stable and seems to have a sort of steady, internal rudder, is irrationally afraid of the wind. I say irrationally, because he is afraid that "everything" is going to blow away. And the more you reassure him and tell him calmly not to worry about it, the more he thinks he has to take on all the responsibility and worry about it for everyone.

If there is a piece of garbage that is about to blow away, he just has to run after it and retrieve it and put it in the garbage. And cleaning up litter is admirable, not something I really want to discourage, but we (that would be myself and a screaming, terrified child) have cleaned up the school playground several times now. Why does it always seem especially windy on Fridays when the teachers send home all the papers? And he will run out of the house, terrified, to catch flying plastic bags and such. I do not know how to save him from this internal burden he carries to keep things from blowing away. I have tried talking to him about the wind as the earth’s way of breathing. How is it refreshing and freeing. How it will come and it will go. How the wind helps birds soar and dandelion seeds disperse. And even if garbage does blow away, it may not be pretty, but it is really not that much of a tragedy. But he is clearly unconvinced of it’s positive merits.

And so when he came running home the other night terrified and in tears and it wasn't windy, I wondered what was up. He had gone over to the neighbors’ with Rees to make s'mores. S'mores are one of those American things that my kids have yet to be exposed to.

These are the same neighbors who reported back to me that Kadin refused an Oreo. They thought he was deprived. Okay, so I don't buy Oreos, but I could use the excuse that they don't have them in England. Then, when they mentioned that these were orange and black Halloween Oreos, it all sort of made sense. I mean, if they looked like poison and all... So when the kids had asked if they could make s’mores, I said sure!

I find s'mores sickeningly sweet and messy and always not quite perfect. But they bring back fond memories. Not just of camps and campfires. When we first moved to England some friends sent us a care package for the Fourth of July. It had silly stars-and-stripes hats, graham crackers, hershey bars, and marshmallows. We dutifully indulged. S'mores are cozy and comfy and silly and half the fun of them is that they don’t really make sense.

So when Kadin came running home, crying and terrified, I couldn’t think what the problem was. "Mom!" he cried through red and angry eyes, "they're taking marshmallows and…putting them in the fire!" As far as he was concerned this was just a horrifying thing to do. These gentle white fluffy balls and you stick them in an inferno! Injustice! So I went over to see what all the fuss was about. Sure enough, there were all these little devils sitting around a gas fire, blithely roasting innocent marshmallows and in the process waving flames around. They were actually HAVING A GOOD TIME! The nerve! Kadin was beside himself with vigilance. A little four-year-old alerting people to overly-brown marshmallows and commenting on and redirecting every wayward flame. Once again, it seemed it was his burden and his burden alone to police the event. Everyone else was so calm and relaxed! Insanity! He would have to redouble his efforts to keep the world safe and orderly. Poor, poor marshmallows...

It took some doing, but eventually, when his head wasn’t buried under my arm, he started to relax a little. [Many a campout later, I can report that he is now able to see the fun in s’mores. It took a bit longer (like several years) for him to finally come to terms with his wind phobia, but what a relief that’s been!]

Making do and the underdog (2006)

2009-02-16T11:31:00.003-07:00

Wanted to share two small houses from our trip last summer (now almost three summers ago, 2006!) to Norway. The red one is a 20th century house from a small village that is now in one of Norway's outdoor museums. The yellow one is the guardhouse at the palace. I like them both. Which one is more authentic? Which one is more classic? Which house is more artistic? Which house deserves more attention? Which house is more alive? Which house should be preserved? Okay, enough with the art history questions that I ALWAYS get wrong! For some reason, I think I am supposed to like the yellow house more. I think it would be called the "better" house. The yellow one was likely designed and built by professionals and, this being part of the palace, money was not a major limiting factor. The red one was probably designed and built with limited funds by the self-taught. The yellow one is well-maintained, the red one is not. I would guess that both buildings were probably built around the same time. Both are charming, but I am in love with the little red one. I will choose folk over elegant every time. Why? I love that the red house is so funky and expressive and built with love on limited resources. I love it's faded color. It has a story to tell. It has personality.

On our more recent trip to the Caribbean, there was all this hype and publicity about shopping, and where to buy the best diamonds and tanzanite and how to collect fine art. This did not appeal to me at all. When I ventured out to the tourist shopping areas I liked the newspapers they used to wrap up the stuff. I liked the bent wire frames covered with colorful plastic tubing they used to display their T-shirts and dresses. I liked the colorful and striped plastic bags that they put purchases in. And I realized that I liked the "make do" stuff, the creative ways that people used what they had on hand. To me, that was where the life was. I enjoyed most my trip to the supermarket in Cozumel, the bookstore, the little shrines in the church we happened upon. I loved the cheap variety store in Belize City with the motto, "You name it, we sell it!" That was where I bought bright cleaning rags, a red tin dustpan, and tacky vinyl oil cloth printed with red and green fruit and gingham. No diamonds for me, please. Forget the palace. I like whittled wood and brightly painted houses, country music, and wine in a tin cup. I am rooting for the underdog. For whatever reason, I am happiest when I am making do. When things are too easy, something vital is lost.

Tetris

2009-02-09T09:55:00.002-07:00

(From probably about two years ago…)

One of Rees' friends gave him a handheld Tetris game for his birthday. I have co-opted it and am a bit addicted. Again (after a serious addiction in the '80s). I don't know what it is I love about the game but there is something so elegant about the five kinds of shapes that are made of four squares and trying to fit them together in the most efficient way. Efficiency, I love it! (See post Open, press, scoop, stir for more on this topic.) Or maybe it is addicting because the way the game is set up: you go along fine for a long time and then at the end usually everything goes haywire all of a sudden, so of course you have to try again. I don't know what the best strategy is, but I do have some thoughts about the game I'd like to share. Actually, I have specific feelings about each piece and specific purposes for each one. This is just a tad too nerdly to share face to face, but that is why this blog is so freeing.

The line
This has just got to be everybody’s favorite piece. Made of four squares in a line, there is never a time when you can't fit it anywhere. It will almost always be used vertically to fill in a hole, but I see it as a good sign when I can use it horizontally and I’m not desperate to use it to fill a hole. In fact, I try not to have too many deep holes to fill while waiting for those all-too-rare lines. Prevention is better than cure. Avoid the deep pits. Opportunities are made this way. If you depend on the line, you will be forsaken. But if you do fill a pit with one, it is the only shape that can get you four lines in one fell swoop. That sure feels good.

In games where you try to complete as many lines as possible in two minutes, it is definitely a waste to use the line vertically. In these games, I strive to keep things low and horizontal.

The T
To me, this is the next most friendly shape. It is bilaterally symmetrical and has one friendly square coming off of three sides. The final side is nice and flat and three squares wide. You can almost always find a nice place to slot in your T. If you don't have any steps, then you likely have nice flat space where three in a row will fit nicely. Symmetry, simple steps, a nice broad flat side, these are good qualities in a shape.

The Z's
The Z's can be a really friendly shape. Their good quality is that they also have just one square jutting out so usually there is an easy fit. But there are two bad qualities to the Z's. First, they are not symmetrical, so there are two different Z's. Because there are two, it is sometimes difficult to determine that a Z will fit and you don't always get the Z you need. The second difficult aspect of Z's is that they have no flat side. If you don't have any steps to sit them on, then you are forced to leave a gap. This is not usually a big crisis, but it can be frustrating.

I have found a really good use for Z's, though, and that is in helping to fill in the deep holes. I used to try to wait for a line, or barring that, use the long side of an L, but it turns out that Z's are even better. If you use an L to fill in a deep hole, its cap will almost always be left on top, blocking the gaps underneath. But, if the rest of your game is “tight” (no gaps), and you can put a Z into a deep hole, only the bottom half needs to disappear to keep the gaps below exposed. If you do this, your hole gets shorter, doesn’t get capped, and stays open so it can still be filled or “Z-ed” down to oblivion.

The L
The L I find slightly annoying. Like the Z’s, there are two different versions, which can be confusing and frustrating. Also, it has this long tail that can be great for filling in shallow holes, but can also really get in the way. Still, it does have a nice, short, flat side that’s two square wide, and a longer flat side three squares wide. These can be used to bridge gaps to complete a line, especially if the nose/tail does not get in the way and block gaps underneath. Also, the little nose is a nice one step that can often fit into spaces on flat surfaces. But when I have trouble is when the L's just keep coming. It can be hard to find place after place for an L. It has its purpose, but is best in small quantities. Not as friendly as the line, the T, or even the Z’s.

The box
The box is a tight little bundle of four squares, completely symmetrical all around. It is easy to comprehend and easy to place, if you have a place for it, that is. When you do have a double space, it is a great way to fill it in quickly and compactly, but if you don't have a double space, only steps, it can be trouble. It can also be a real problem when one box comes quickly after another. The temptation then is to build the dreaded tower. So, it is good to keep a double space ready at all times for the box. You will be glad you did and you will be able to quickly fill it in when the box arrives.

So here are some of my key strategies:

1) Don't create deep holes. Two squares is plenty deep.

2) If you do get a deep hole, try to fill it in with a shape that will disappear immediately, even if it doesn't completely fill the hole. This beats waiting for a line.

3) Leave a double-wide space whenever possible. This keeps your options open.

4) Don't build towers. This limits your options.

5) Don't panic.

While I prefer to have a “tight” pattern with few holes, I am currently investigating ways to use pieces to complete lines even when they leave a gap. It is often a better investment to have the piece disappear in a completed line and be rid of it than to fit it in somewhere that has no gaps but leaves a tower or a hole. I am trying to get out of my compulsion to “fit.”

If you found this readable (and perhaps even interesting) and have thoughts/strategies of your own to share, let me know, I am all ears! What is your favorite Tetris piece? What is your best Tetris strategy???? Together, we are stronger...

TrueJune

2008-10-27T19:35:00.003-06:00

Kate visited at the tail end of the summer and introduced me to etsy.com, a fabulous site with all sorts of handmade items for sale by their creators. There are fun ways to search the site: by color, by location, by how new something is, by how popular, etc. (or should I say etsy?).

So, I opened my own etsy shop at TrueJune.etsy.com. You'll see the TrueJune link over on the right---->. Check in from time to time and see what's new, and also enjoy browsing all the other selections on etsy.com. Comments, suggestions, special orders most welcome...

Diet odyssey II

2008-10-23T10:59:00.003-06:00

I felt great when I stuck to my diet, but over time, I lapsed, thinking maybe I was better, maybe things had shifted again. Also, I realized it was annoying to eat out with me and all these restrictions made me a difficult house guest. Not that there isn’t plenty of good food out there that is gluten/corn/dairy/soy free (like, for example, all fruits and vegetables, rice, potatoes, millet, buckwheat, quinoa, chicken, beef, lamb, etc. etc.), but if you are not used to it, you are not used to it. I didn’t think my “sensitivity” to these foods was a good enough reason to refuse eating something someone had made for me. If I was only “sensitive,” having a little every now and then wouldn’t hurt, right? It’s not like I would go into anaphylactic shock.

Meanwhile, I had been hearing more and more about laboratory tests for sensitivities to different foods from several different sources. I decided that if I was going to stick to a restrictive diet, I had to know for sure and have a good reason for my food choices, otherwise, I would waver. So I got tested through enterolab.com for gluten, soy, dairy, egg, yeast, and human antibodies and had the genetic test for celiac (they didn’t offer corn).

It was last May that I got the results: elevated antibodies to gluten, soy, and, to a lesser extent, dairy and human proteins. Wow. Pretty much what the chiropractor had told me. I also had a gene for celiac and a gene for gluten sensitivity. And there was evidence that the gluten had damaged my small intestines, as it will if you are celiac.

Though it is a shock to me, it looks like I am celiac. I was stunned at first, but then it dawned on me that this is really a good thing because there is something so simple and harmless I can to do to feel good: stay away from soy and gluten. I don’t have to take any medications, there are no side effects, I just have good health to look forward to.

I started a renewed gluten/soy-free diet, and within a few days, the eczema that had recently flared up disappeared. My skin cleared up. I felt more energetic and less bloated and inflamed. I feel overall healthier now that my body is not working so hard against these subtle yet chronic irritants.

So I guess that is where this Boulder diet odyssey leaves me. I no longer eat gluten (wheat, rye, barley) because it starts an immune reaction that damages my intestines. Even a small amount is detrimental. I avoid soy as it does not sit well with my digestion either. To a lesser degree, I try to avoid dairy and corn. I don’t find my new diet that much of a burden, on the contrary, I find it of great benefit to my health, but if I’m “weird” about food, now you know why. My intestines thank you.

This has gone too far...

2008-10-23T10:05:00.002-06:00

I guess I like to experience the best a place has to offer. In England, their forte was history and scenery and milk fat. There were just so many kinds of wonderful cream and butter to explore! So little time!

In Boulder it is fitness and alternative medicine. Certainly these can be healthy pursuits to explore. So the family has launched into what can only be described as a diet odyssey.

It started about a year and a half ago when Rees began throwing up at night. About once every other week he would wake up, say he felt bad, then throw up, then feel better. The first couple of times we thought he was coming down with a stomach bug, but he was a new person in the morning, completely recovered. Then we thought it might be something he ate, but it would happen even on nights when his diet remained as monotonous as ever. It was a mystery.

I thought about going to the doctor, but what would they do? They could do blood tests and allergy tests and put him on an elimination diet, but that all seemed very intrusive and exhausting to me. It was likely to be expensive and possible they wouldn’t come up with anything.

Instead, I thought I’d take him to this chiropractor/naturopath I had heard about to see what she thought. She might at least point us in the right direction based on her intuition. If it worked, great, if not, there was no harm done.

She looked Rees over and did some adjustments, tested him a bit and said that he needed to avoid five foods: banana, pepper, tomato, egg, and soy. I was surprised. I had been thinking wheat and dairy were the culprits, and since he is a vegetarian, I was concerned about his protein intake. To avoid wheat and dairy, I had been slipping egg and soy into anything I could get him to eat. I slipped it right out again and he stopped throwing up.

One day he absentmindedly grabbed a big fresh tomato Greg had used to make a sandwich and ate a few bites. That night, he threw up. Another time, after a morning bike ride and breakfast outing with some friends, he threw up again. When asked what he had for breakfast: French toast.

He hasn’t thrown up since.

At the same time, Kadin had some eczema on the inside of his elbows. I thought I’d see what this chiropractor/naturopath had to say. She said he needed to avoid peanuts and soy. He had been having peanut butter on a rice cake every morning. When he switched to almond butter, the eczema went away. A few months later, when it recurred, it turned out he had been having peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at school for lunch. When he stopped, it went away again.

Easy! Well, easy except for the soy. I started reading labels and we’re not talking just avoid the tofu and the edamamé here, we’re talking soybean oil, soy lechithin, hydrolyzed soy protein, it's in everything. It’s cheap! It’s available! It’s widely used: salad dressing, chocolate, crackers, deli meats, even some frozen fruit.

Given the success with Rees and Kadin's health, I thought I’d give it a go too. Driving to my appointment, I felt I could eat anything, that I had an iron digestion. I was going to be pleased to find out that I was as solid as a rock. But I was the worst of all: no dairy, no soy, no wheat, no peanuts. What???

Well, it couldn’t hurt to avoid these foods for a time, so I launched into a new diet. I felt much better. After a month or so, I felt things were shifting so I returned to the practitioner. Now she said dairy was okay, but gluten wasn’t, soy wasn’t, corn wasn’t. So it was no wheat, oats, rye, or barley for me. Soy, too, was difficult to avoid. But when I stuck to the diet I really did feel better: my skin cleared up, my digestion moved smoothly, I had more energy.

About the same time, the cats started seeing a new vet who made house calls. Whenever I took Rex to the vet he would suddenly transform from lovable goof and sweetie pie into attack cat. The vet hated him and wouldn’t even examine him, so what was the point? With the home-visit vet, appointments went from stressful and useless to gentle love-fests on the couch. Much better. She is also a wholistic vet and so gave me some information about a more natural diet for the cats. They too needed to eat better food and she left me with a handout of helpful suggestions that I put on the fridge.

When Greg came home one day and found a list on the fridge labeled "diet suggestions" that included things like "raw meat," he thought I'd gone off the deep. “This has gone too far!” he declared. I reassured him that it was for the cats. Well, okay then. Just shows you how far the diet odyssey had gone at that point.

Dog days of summer

2008-09-04T09:44:00.001-06:00

It's been HOT and we've had a serious outbreak of flat cat. Here's what it looks like around here:

87º

87º

90º

90º

91º

92º

92º

92º

93º

Norway, two (2!) years ago last June...

2008-07-15T12:54:00.002-06:00

(Sequel to Oxford, only a year—or two—late...)

We met my parents at Heathrow and exchanged stories. They had flow 3,000 miles from Yerevan and had brought some food from the Armenian market. We had a few things from Sainsbury's, but the Sainsbury's apricots, though a deep golden color, did not compare in flavor to the Armenian ones. I sampled the sheep cheese and flat bread my mom had brought. The cheese had a very definite animal flavor to it, tasting very much like the way a barn smells. An acquired taste, I guess, so I only had a small bit.

Why my parents were interested in watching the Queen's 80th birthday celebration instead of the World Cup, I have no idea. The England/Trinidad game was going to be on just exactly during our flight.

Grandma and grandpa could only get their seat assignments at the airport, and since the plane was full, they were not sitting together. Great! I jumped at the chance to get my own seat and mom sat with Greg and the kids. I had a wonderfully uneventful flight. As we were standing, about to disembark, the flight attendant announced the score as “nil nil.” Oh boy, the game should be over by now. Then, just as the line out started moving, another announcement: England had won 2 nil. Everyone cheers.

Luggage took awhile since mom's suitcase did not arrive. The airport was small and pleasant and we enjoyed the little glass windows in the floor that had tiny dioramas and scenes behind them. The guy at the baggage claim saw no reason to be concerned and thought the bags were still coming. But they didn't, so mom went to the customer service desk to find that her bag was still in Heathrow. It would arrive the next day.

Oslo
We debated about the options to the hotel: bus v. train, and took the SAS bus in. Oslo struck me as a big, messy city. We had some difficulty getting the elevator to work with the security system. Tempers (especially mine) were short, the kid's bed was not made. Don't remember what we did for dinner, but probably picnicked in the room. I was tired.

Next morning we all gathered for breakfast, except mom whose stomach was not well. The sheep cheese. The rest of us set off for Akershus and the Viking Museum. At least that was the plan. The cousins were having a great time, but Kadin still couldn't walk. We finally told the rest of them to go ahead and Greg and Kadin and I could go at our own pace. We came across the Resistance Museum, and Greg and I enjoyed that. Kadin tolerates most things. Don't think we would have attempted that with Rees at all as it is a bit disturbing.

Decided to walk to another neighborhood that was billed as "hip" on the way to the Natural History museum and look for a grocery store for lunch on the way. No grocery, so we settled for a 7-11 type of deal of hotdogs and hot pockets. It was not a great lunch and cost us $40(!) We were now on Karl Johann's Gata, a walking street. We enjoyed the human statues there. The nearest bit of green was the lawn at the DomKirke so we stopped there to eat our sandwiches. There was some kind of protest about Afganistan going on, but we couldn't read the signs (in Norwegian) and just ate our lunch and Kadin used the outhouses. We walked a bit farther, towards the hip neighborhood and Natural History museum, but never made it. Just before getting back to the hotel, we found a grocery store. I bought more provisions, found a good calzone place, and that was dinner. Later we learned that our lunchtime picnic site protest was a hunger strike, of all things. How terrible of us!

The next morning we were off to the airport again and then Lillehammer with the tour group. Only Greg and the boys had just finished the 4th Harry Potter and had nothing else to read. We had about 20 minutes to find an English version of the 5th book before we got on the bus. Miraculously, we made it. We asked where there was a large bookstore and were directed to Karl Johann's Gata again. For the life of me, I couldn't understand the name of the bookstore. Finally, when we thought we were near it, we asked again. Then asked the name of the store. "Eeeaiirk" is what the reply sounded like, with about 5 syllables. Turns out, the store was called "Ark." They had the book. In English. Wow. Success.

We boarded the bus to the airport with tour guide Lisa Christine and driver Tor Arne. As Lisa said, no one in Norway has a middle name. Either they have one first name or two first names. I guess that because the selection of names is relatively small, you can be distinct with a distinct combination of names.

We got to know the airport very well this time. The plane was delayed, then the people joining our group took forever through customs, over 2 hours after they were scheduled to arrive. We snacked and amused ourselves as much as possible. We met Laurie and her two grandsons, Chris and Ian, who had flown in from Chicago that morning. They were very tired and jet lagged. I was glad that we were all over jet lag and able to wait in relative comfort. We finally all got on the bus after picking up two more grandmothers and their two granddaughters: Kay, Pauline, Sarah, and Natalie(?). Tor Arne made a wrong turn, and we detoured a bit before getting on the correct highway to Lillehammer. Lisa Christine and Tor Arne argued about which side of Lake Mjosa was the most beautiful: the "right" side or the "correct" side. Tor Arne was from Hamar on the East, "right" side, the seat of the bishop, and Lisa Christine was across from Hamar, on the West (left/correct) side. This was the bread basket of Norway with lots of farms.

Pretty soon Tor Arne said something cheerily in Norwegian to Lisa Christine, she then cheerily said into the mic that we would be pulling over shortly because of engine difficulty. Just like the delays at the airport and the wrong turn, it all sounded so friendly and innocuous in this benign environment. Help would soon be on the way.

It was unusually hot. There was no shade and we had pulled over onto the tiniest of pull-outs, not the greatest or safest place on the busy highway. And we waited for the imminent help.

There were eight kids on the bus who were understandably restless. Without the air conditioning, the bus was like an oven. We all had to get out. Everyone but dad did. He stayed on the bus, as is his way, dressed in full suit.

Most of the kids dealt okay. The four Knuth boys found games to play that were reasonably safe. Ian and Chris did their own teenage sort of thing (game boy). The girl I’m calling Natalie wrote in her journal. Sarah was the most put out. For her and the older boys it had been a very long day indeed. "Why can't we go?" "This isn't fair." "I don't like this," and so on. Eventually we ransacked Tor Arne's store of beverages: water, Coke, Fanta, and sparkling apple juice. That raised morale a bit. I regretted not filling my water bottle for what was to be a short two-hour bus ride.

Finally, a German tour bus stopped to help. We had the fan belt we needed and they helped install it. Finally, finally. We were there for about 4 hours in the end. All I can say is that the acronym for the Norwegian Automobile Association/Forbunding—NAF—was more than accurate. We got on our way, then stopped at a gas station for water and fuel. Kevin discovered that he could get a kroner for each empty bottle from Tor Arne's stash. Excitement.

Lillehammar
We arrived at the hotel in Lillehammar about 8pm for dinner. Luckily it was a buffet and luckily it was meant to be late. I was starving. I don't remember much of the evening except being exhausted and hungry and feeling like we had to take advantage in the morning of the pool and the miniature golf and the town and we only had a few hours. Whew! How to take advantage of all these luxuries?

Once again, we managed fine. We had a nice buffet breakfast. Julie and I walked down to Lillehammar center, though it was Sunday and everything was closed. We found a shop to buy some snacks and food for the trip to Brennabu (must be prepared, anything could happen…). Played a little mini golf on the disappointingly maintained course, and Greg went swimming with the boys. We met at Maihaugen, the open-air house museum, for lunch with my parents. Kadin was being a real pill and refused to walk anywhere. His foot did hurt and he was still limping, but what to do at the open-air museum? Fed up, I finally asked at the desk if they had a stroller or a wheelchair we could rent. They provided us with a wheelchair. Kadin happily rode in that.

There was a lot to see and not much time, it seemed to me. First we saw the inside exhibit of the history of Norway. It turned out to be really good. Starting with a cold ice cave it chronicled the ice ages up to the present. The kids enjoyed it and we learned a lot. Kadin related everything to the game Civilization (bronze age, iron age, etc.). I was glad we took the time to do that. Then we went outside to meet our tour guide. This was okay too and she explained things and let us into a house and told us about the customs and traditions. This was good to hear, but I felt we only got a taste. Soon it was time to get back on the bus. A new bus.

Something happened where Kadin went to the bathroom and took forever and we were really late and everyone on the bus was waiting for us and I felt rushed and guilty. We all rushed on the bus and drove to the ski jump. Lisa Christine told us we had only 20 minutes at the jump before we had to leave again for Brennabu on yet another bus. Rush, rush, rush, I was getting tired of this. I was determined to see some of the ski jump. I went down to the top of the lower jump with Rees and we walked very fast up again. Then I wanted to take the ski lift down. Finally we got word that Lisa Christine has miscalculated and we had an hour and 20 minutes. So we ended up at the bottom waiting and waiting.

Brennabu
Lisa Christine said her goodbyes and we were joined by the mother-in-law of our host at Brennabu, an outdoor education center. She would be our guide on the drive. She was very interesting. She had been the original owner of Brennabu, and now it was run by her son and his wife, Elizabeth. The drive was longish and I worried again that it might turn out to be much longer than planned. I always refilled my water bottle at this point. Bjorn was our driver from Valdres, the region we were going to. We stopped briefly to see some petroglyphs along a river of Alg (moose). Got to Brennabu and it was wonderful. Not a sort of deteriorating elegance like the Lillehammer hotel, but a charming, clean, Scandinavian feel. We were served dinner, a whole fish, I believe, but I managed to find something to eat. I was ready to settle in, only to discover that I had left my camera on the bus. Ughh. Bjorn, would we see you again?

We explored our new accommodations and the boys quickly became the “troll patrol,” hunting trolls and chasing them away. We found a “Speise stue,” the eating room; a “Piese stue,” a meeting room in the attic; the “Corner stue,” Corner room; and the “Torkerrom,” or drying room. Drying rooms are a very important part of a Norwegian house.

Turns out this was the perfect way for everyone to be together, have a Norwegian experience, and also have lots of fun. We didn’t have to decide what to do and we didn’t have to decide where to eat. It was beautiful and relaxing. A quick summary of activities:

Day One
We hiked to some boulders to do some rock climbing. Canoeing on the lake after lunch.

Day Two
Rock polishing and horseback riding.

Day Three
A drive in the bus with Bjorn (camera returned, yea!) to see fjords and glaciers and an awe-inspiring thousand-year-old stave church, all the while accompanied by the music of Peer Gynt.

Day Four
Archery and midsommar games.

Day Five
Open-air museum in nearby town.

In addition to the owners and their parents, I most vividly remember Ardun, our indefatigable leader who would entertain the children and “groundups” alike, and Anne, the cook who made the most wonderful berry jams. We were able to visit Ann’s house and her amazing weaving studio where in the winter she wove fabric into traditional patterns to be sewn into traditional dress. And we also got to tour her family’s traditional summer farm, where they took the livestock to new pasture up higher on the mountains.

I took a hike one afternoon with Greg and Julie, startled a European moose (Alg), and it was gone in a flash. And I remember the stunning drive back from the glacier, the miles and miles of mossy landscape well above treeline, both haunting and inviting.

The finder

2008-07-14T11:57:00.003-06:00

(From just about a year ago...)

I am obsessed with finding things. I want to know where things are. I will search relentlessly for things. I hate not knowing where things are.

I don't think the kids get this. I think they have learned to be afraid of telling me they can't find something. I will ask them over and over again what they were doing when they lost it, ask them to retrace their steps. I will ask them to clean up. I will lead them on an intense search. I don't see how they can be so uninterested, remember so little about what they were doing. They probably can't stand how determined and single minded I become. "I can't find it, but don't tell mom," I imagine them saying.

If the tape is missing from the kitchen drawer, I'll say, "Did anybody use the tape?" More often than not, "no one" will have used it, there are no recollections whatsoever. Utter blankness. And then I, who have never touched the tape, haven't seen it used, have no consciousness (sub or otherwise) about it whatsoever, will go and find it, clearly used, and then come the revelatory nods, the "a ha's" and "oh yeah's" like a miracle has occurred. Wow, what do you know, it has appeared, out of thin air. Oh yes, you are right, I did take it to make a paper hat. I remember—now.

This summer I was struck by just how good I am at finding things when the dad of one of Rees' friends called to ask if his son had left his gecko fleece jacket at our house. He couldn't find it and they were leaving on a trip. No, I hadn't seen the fleece, I didn't think it was at our house, but I would have a look.

I was pretty sure I would have noticed it if it was here. But I wanted to help him, so I thought back to the last time this friend had been over. I thought about the weather and if he would have likely brought a fleece. I remembered a cool day that week and remembered his mom saying he was going over early to another friend's house. I mentioned this other friend to the dad. He thought a minute and then said, "Oh yeah, I see it now, I put it on his backpack when he was going out that day, then he decided not to take it and I put it back in the closet, just where it should be. I didn't think to look there."

I think I should start a finding business. I hadn't touched the fleece, I had no idea where it was, it didn't involve me in any way, but I helped him find it. There has got to be good money in this.

Update 7/14/08: I have started making the effort to notice when the kids do find things. "You're the finder!" I'll proclaim. Cheers all around. And, just to reward myself (because nobody seems to value this skill as much as I do) when I find something, I'll let my zeal spill over not into a "see, I told you..." tirade, but instead: "I'm the finder, Mama's the finder!" It seems to be raising the interest in finding things around here. Finally.

Wine store

2008-06-30T12:23:00.002-06:00

I try not to take the kids on too many errands, a few stops is usually their limit. So I was surprised when Kadin seemed okay with going to the liquor store after the bank. He waltzes right in and picks out a bottle of red called, “Woop, Woop,” a name we had laughed over at home.

Kadin (age 7): “Here’s the Woop, Woop, Mom”

Me: “Oh hey, thanks, sure, let’s get that. But I prefer the Fairvalley Pinotage.”

Kadin: “That’s right over here, Mom, here’s the Fairvalley.”

Whoa. What is this kid doing? I was trying not to turn red. It looked like this was a daily occurrence or something. I know a few months ago he came down here with Greg, and apparently they had had a really fun time with it, Greg involving him in every decision.

Kadin: “Did you want a chianti? There’s a fruity one in the middle row.”

A fruity one in the middle row. Okay, we’ll get that too. Honestly, we only go to buy wine every few months, but this was looking really bad. Or really good, depending on your point of view. When I go into a wine store, I can barely remember what I bought, what I liked, where in the store it came from, etc. etc., but Kadin obviously remembered the whole thing in great detail. I might just take advantage of that skill of his and bring him along more often…. It was one of the best mixed-cases we’ve ever bought. A future sommelier in the family?

Bear update

2008-06-29T12:47:00.002-06:00

(from backlog, this happened just about exactly a year ago…)

I had heard rumors of the bear. After seeing a man in the back yard with a gun and encountering a visiting grandfather who had seen the bear (see original bear post here), I got my turn. We were sitting downstairs watching a movie. You know how sometimes in your peripheral vision you will think you see something big and hairy, the proverbial monster, but when you turn to look it is a robin, or a squirrel? I glimpsed something out the corner of my eye, turned to look, and it WAS a big hairy monster just cruising through the back yard. In no way did it seem predatory or interested in diversion, but it was BIG, strong, and powerful. Awesome. We ran upstairs for a better view and all saw it out the bedroom window. I immediately called the neighbor whose yard he'd gone into, and her husband ran out with a camera, which startled the bear who ran away down the path to the next street over.

I called to report the sighting (which we are told to do, but, I'm learning, might not be in the best interest of the bear). That night I saw ranger trucks with big lights out looking for it. I learned later that it was a 350-pound male and had been tranquilized the next morning and moved to a more remote location because they felt it was getting too used to people.

That was a first for me. I finally saw a bear in the "wild." I am thrilled. There is a surreal feeling to seeing a large, wild creature like that trotting by the kids' swing set and trampoline. The lawn just seemed so wrong.

No personal sightings since but rumors of more bears and a report last week of a mountain lion at 10:30 pm a few blocks away. A few weeks ago, the new family from Scotland took video of the fresh bear scat on the sidewalk just around the corner. Heard some loud sniffing outside the window the other night, but when I went to look, nothing there. Could have been a dog, a raccoon, a fox, or...

Backlog

2008-06-29T10:30:00.000-06:00

I haven’t been posting much, but am inspired to update the last couple of years.

Yes, really!

I have many posts that have just never gotten up, most from a year or two ago. It will be a bit scattered time-wise, but every day or two, along with current events, I’m going to try to clear up the backlog. And I’ll try to give you a hint about when it happened.

Summer dreams

2008-06-27T15:58:00.002-06:00

I’d been having some odd dreams about a month ago. I felt a bit possessed. First there was a dream where I had to be at the airport for a flight that left in 30 minutes. From our house, there is no way to get the airport in less than 45 minutes. Still, I was going to try to make it. Or maybe I’d given up on that flight, but thought I could get on the next one. But first, I had to stop at the school to get something. And, as I was on my way out, I noticed that one of the burners on the stove was on and someone had left a potholder there that had just caught fire. I turned off the burner, wondering how that had happened.

For some reason I went out the back door instead of the front and there I saw the hose running, so I turned that off too. Who left the hose on? What if I hadn’t seen it? Would it have run for a week?

At this point I woke up glad it was a dream and fell asleep again.

This time there was a couple of feet of snow on the ground and outside our front door was the school carnival/festival with various booths and activities. I had four gloves with me and I kept dropping one. Nothing I could do would keep them all together. I kept searching in the snow, and as soon as I found one I would get distracted again, then notice another one was missing.

I woke again. What was my mind trying to do? I felt it had been hijacked by every possible distress. I thought back. I had started taking vitamin B supplements and I wondered if they were helping my brain to grow, but in all the wrong places! Anxiety was not something I wanted to cultivate. Still, I was starting to enjoy the show. Where would my twisted mind take me next?

This time a dream about the cat. Only it was the cat vomiting a huge vomit, a mass bigger than the cat itself. Somehow, I heard myself volunteering to clean it up.

Luckily the streak of disturbing dreams ended. I chalk it up to the transition to summer with its unpredictable schedules and masses of roaming children. Now, I’m happy to report that daily, I find the hose running, the cat vomiting, and it doesn’t seem to bother me at all. I do keep a close eye on the stove burners, though.

The day everything came to a head and then resolved again

2008-04-01T21:43:00.002-06:00

The skiing at least goes very well. It's a beautiful sunny day. I feel I ski much better when it is sunny. Before I set out on the mountain I talk to Greg from the lodge and hear that he is once again on the right IV antibiotic and that all is well. By lunchtime I talk to my mom and hear that Greg is out of surgery, that it was successful. I am enjoying the skiing, but absolutely fuming about the morning’s events in between runs. The poor souls who ride the lifts with me get an earful. I am furious! Boiling!

When I get home I have a follow up message from the doctor I called this morning (old number 13) reassuring me that he consulted with the infectious disease specialist and Greg’s surgeon, talked to Greg and my mom, and that all was set straight and Greg is on the right path again.

Around dinnertime I talk to Greg. He is doing well, but still has not been sent home. They are giving him another slug of the IV antibiotic and have given him a prescription for “expensive” orals after he leaves the hospital.

He goes “home” (to my parent’s house) that night. Late at night, the doorbell rings. It is his lost bag. Now he has the books to read, the DVDs to watch, the pajamas to wear, all the things that he had selected to recover in.

Somehow, the return of the bag is the sign that I needed. All is going to be set right, things are coming back together again. And the new “expensive” antibiotic turns out to be half the price of the “useless” one. Phew.

I did try the next day to talk to our regular doctor and get some satisfaction. It was not to be. I don’t know what I wanted, but an apology would have been nice. She did listen, she did explain, she did take her time with a very uncomfortable phone call, but she was also defensive. The practice had circled their wagons. They would admit no wrongdoing. It just made me sad. Time to move on.

Since then I have moved on and signed up with another doctor. Fingers crossed this one will be there when we need her.

Epilogue:

Greg continues to do well and recover. He is back home and his PHT levels are back down near normal. We spent last week in Steamboat Springs on spring break. He leaves for Italy on Thursday for fieldwork. He wasn’t able to get a follow-up appointment with the infectious disease guy before he left, so he is going without any antibiotics in his pocket. I guess they have healthcare in Italy if he needs it. We don’t really have a family doctor at present. No one person has followed this, so no loss in starting fresh.

Rees finished his antibiotics and came down with another bad sore throat. This time the strep test was negative. Maybe a virus this time? Maybe end-of-school-year-itis?

Kadin managed to get a tooth abcess the day before we left for spring break and right after he finished his antibiotics, but that too seems to have resolved itself. The dentist is not concerned. I’m not going to dwell on it. It’s a baby tooth. This too shall pass.

Don’t know why everyone is getting sick, but am determined that will end soon too.

Tuesday morning

2008-03-18T21:36:00.001-06:00

Greg has flown to California. He arrives at the hospital at 5:30am this morning. Except for the airline losing his bag (in it most of the $300 pills), he is doing well. At 7:30am, just before he is wheeled into the OR, he calls me. The doctor there has told him that oral vancomycin is useless. It only works in the gut. It does not get into the blood. He wants me to call the doctor who prescribed it and get it sorted out.

I call back the practice and ask them to page the doctor. They say she’ll get back to me. Ten minutes later the phone rings. It is yet again ANOTHER doctor. From my count, this is the 13th doctor we have talked to about this. “So, tell me the story,” he says. I can’t believe it!

“This is the deal,” I say while trying to get the kids out the door for school, ”My husband is being wheeled into the OR in California and he just found out he is on the wrong antibiotic, that the one he is on is ineffective. I want you to consult with an infectious disease expert and find out what antibiotic he should be on and get that antibiotic to my husband. He is at Stanford Hospital under the care of Dr. Jeffrey Norton.”

He asks me if I have the phone number at Stanford. I don’t, but I tell him that he could look it up on the internet, that it is a very well-known hospital. I give him Greg’s cell phone number and my mom’s cell phone number, they’re both at the hospital I tell him.

I am so furious! I don’t want this to ruin my day. I have my make-up ski lesson today. My ride comes in 5 minutes. I don’t want their mess up to impact that as well. I don't want to sit home angry and worried all day.

I think back. It was something I didn’t question, I didn’t double check, and that was wrong. Always question, always double check, do your own research. This is so fundamental to getting good health-care these days. I was asleep on the job on this one. I just so wanted it to be simple.

Signs I had that the antibiotic was wrong:

The ER doctors ALWAYS consulted with infectious disease specialist before using any antibiotic.

The ER doctors talked (to each other, I overheard) about going onto two oral antibiotics.

My mom had IV vancomycin and when she switched to orals it was a different antibiotic.

There was no evidence that the family doctor also had expertise in infectious disease.

The Target pharmacy didn’t carry it because it is a seldom-used drug.

Sunday morning I had a sudden flash that maybe it was too simple, the oral vancomycin might not be right. Before I called the doctor to double check, I reassured myself that of course it was right, it was the same medication, it seemed so consistent.

WRONG.

Cathy picks me up and we drive up to El Dora. I vent the entire way.

The new plan

2008-03-16T21:31:00.001-06:00

The new (again!) doctor presents us with a simple plan. Greg wants to leave for California on Monday night. So, on Sunday we’ll start the oral vancomycin to give it a 24-hour trial before he sets off. We’ll keep up with the IVs, but with home administration all day on Saturday.

We like her, this new doctor, we are thinking we’ll have two or three “regular” doctors, maybe that is the way to beat the system and at least have some continuity of care.

Saturday morning all goes well with the home care. This is working, except for a minor blip when I flush his IV and realize that I got a little air into his vein. Instant death like in the movies? I call the nurse and she assures me this is okay.

Saturday afternoon I go to the ballet with the boys and stop to pick up the prescription for the oral vancomycin at Target. They don’t have it, so the pharmacist calls around and we can get it at King Soopers.

I pick it up, but am a bit shocked by the price: $300! For 10 pills. Oh well, they said it was powerful stuff. If it works, it’s worth it.

Saturday night, all goes well again with the IV at home. After he is done we gleefully remove the IV ports in his arm.

Sunday we stay home, no one comes to administer anything, we have no doctor’s appointments, Greg takes one pill in the morning and is done with it. We are normal people again!