Bootstrap Wednesday, 1 Sep, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.