CHRISTIE BRINKLEY ON ROLLERBLADES 

Shortly after we moved here, I watched a gorgeous woman dressed in a small, just mid-thigh, golden silk wrap-around tie dress, with matching nylons and high heels, carefully, or should I say gracefully, bend over, as her dress was so short, take off her high heels and don rollerblades.  Then, like scripted in a movie, she flitted across the Pont d'Alexander, a beautiful ornate bridge covered with golden statues that crosses the Seine River.  She drifted in and out of crowds with her hair flowing behind, side to side, perfectly catching the wind that she herself was creating.  Side to side she flowed, hair in perfect synchronized motion, catching beams of sunlight that radiated from her golden dress, nylons and hair.

Every day, for months, I have been sporting my rollerblades.  Each morning, as I crouch on the single front step of our apartment, avoiding the most recent batch of dog poo, I think of that woman.  I have a small dress in my closet - not silk or gold, but it could work.  I have the nylons.  I dream of flitting flawlessly down the street, on time and with a smile, to Ian's school, never crashing, just weaving in and out of the crowd with golden statues in tow.  But then, somewhere on my path, my vision crashes along with me.  When it comes to the flowing hair, it is merely a pipe dream.  While hers shined and surfed, mine sinks.  My thin dental floss shag just spins and knots and pokes out.  As much as I'd like to feel scripted, I'm not.  As much as I'd like to flow seamlessly in and out of the masses, I'm screeching and dodging and bumping and drawing a different sort of attention.  Oh, I'm getting the stares alright for exactly all the wrong reasons.  And I'm even sure that a few non-judgmental people, maybe rollerblading novices, think that I'm a pretty cool mom.  But oh, if they could have only seen Christie Brinkley reincarnated on rollerblades!  Then they would begin to realize that I am a mere work in progress, even if the hair runs amuck.

SHHVINE!!

Thomas is a teenager.  He's been lobbying for the freedom to say what he wants... when he wants, and believe me when I say that fortunately most of it is minor.  But as a mom I do my mom job, reminding him to tone it down.  "Holy shoot,"  "Oh frack" -- really the same as saying it in my book, so I tell him.  He wants freedom he says... freedom to choose all his own PG-13 movies (not bad), freedom to speak, freedom to stay up late and play his PSP in bed, it's all about the freedom these days.  So, I'm giving it to him.

While we were skiing in Austria this year, our instructor shouted a curse that I adore to an errant, or should I say erratic, skier.  The man was literally wrecklessly flying down the mountain and passed so close to me that I almost felt like a quivering gate in a downhill ski race.  The flying man just brushed my shoulder, as he zipped by.  As he did so, my instructor tossed out this word, like you'd toss a Frisbee -- he shouted shhVINE! (Swine with a V, but you have to throw it like the Frisbee, emphasizing the V!)  I'm giving this to Thomas.  I've told him it's all his... he can use it as often and as loudly as he'd like.  "Are you kidding me?" he retorts.  "No!" I reply.  Take it and run with it, it's all yours!!  Try it on.  So, he and Ian, and Sadie and Leo have thrown ShhVINEs around at random.  It strikes me so funny that I laugh out loud just thinking about it.  It so works for me. Not so much for Thomas.  But I've also given him free reign of all PG (not the PG-13) movies!  He thinks I'm nuts... and I am, and at least we can laugh about it together.  I still like to be the boss... Thomas is slowly humoring me into letting him be the boss.  But I'm not quite ready to relinquish... Oh shhVINE!

DEVOURING FRANCE

So, in a mere 21 days....we hiked the Eiffel Tower four times, (ate) got lost in the Louvre four times, (ate) toured Sacre Coeur/Montmartre twice, (ate) visited the Musee d'Orsay three times, (ate) hiked the Arc du Triomphe three times, (ate only pastries this time as opposed to our typical nibbles, lunch, cheese then followed by pastries and more dessert cheese!), toured Versaille twice, once by foot, once by bike, (ate -- It's BIG there -- needed energy), toured Notre Dome twice accompanied by world famous ice cream cones behind the cathedral, descended down the steps into underground caverns filled with 6 million bones - the Catacombs, (warranted eating spree to compensate for the sheer horror of that many dead bodies in one spot!!) cheered at the Paris 1/2 marathon in the pouring rain (ate beaucoups of hot food to warm up) visited St. Chapelle twice, made a couple of airport trips, did our duty visiting a few markets to share native fruits, cheeses, meats, breads and pastries, finished up most of these events in cafes to literally share the local flavor - eating breads, cheeses, pastries.  Need I say more?  Paris is a veritable feast - literally all around, and we are literally all a little round!!

Speaking the Language

Dropping into a new country and a foreign language, where nobody really cares about what you are used to -- your rules, your language, what you know -- is an altering experience.  It's one that I am a fan of... shaking up your comfort zone.  It's good to struggle, even at the embarrassment of my husband and children.  It's a miniscule reminder about immigrants everywhere in our world, immigrants who are willing to pay a really big price for a different existence.  I've chosen a year of fun, they've chosen a life of change.

Because my French doesn't flow, I often find myself using sign language, pantomime, charades, sounds-like techniques, pointing shamelessly actions, and a plethora of other obscure tactics to make myself clear.  I find myself launching into a higher pitched voice when I try to speak, interspersed with sort of broken Franglish --  example, "... you like fromage avec pan?"  My kids look at me humiliated about my pantomime act, intermingled with my indiscriminate use of blended French and English!  Sometimes I throw in Spanish and Italian, just to mix it up a bit -- to keep the French on their toes!  My kids gawk and squeal like they are being tortured, or they just plain bust up laughing.  Sometimes, I join in... other times I'm exasperated -- the pantomime has physically worn me out!   I consider myself a pretty good sport, plus, I know this is a one year gig!  In the end, I turn to the kids and they translate... The old dog, new tricks phrase, takes on profound new meaning.

$10,000 dollars and nine months later, we have our Visas, and so much more.  We can now officially stay in this country until next January.  But the real score has been the process, relatively easy, but trying and difficult for us, impossible for others.  We've stood in line after line, had our chest x-rays for tuberculosis, gathered our financial information, our health insurance details, our birth certificates, marriage certificate and medical records, we proved that we don't want to take French jobs away from others, that we actually have a place to live and that shockingly we both had parents, grandparents, great-grandparents!  We've shown that we plan to return to the U.S. and that we actually have a place to return to in the U.S., and all sorts of other thorough details that the French bureaucracy have deemed important.  I have the documents, I have the time.  I think I have the energy for a year of Franglish (The verdict is still out here).  But what if life never handed you a birth certificate?  What if you can't produce the documents, time or money, or grasp the language?  What if the pantomime weren't for only one year?!

BIFOCALS 

I'm seeing France with new eyes.  Everything is amazing.  After weeks of agonizing about whether or not we should work to stay here for an additional year, we've decided to head home. Now, even the piles of garbage and sidewalks of dog poo are endearing in some sort of strange, "I can't leave all this..." way.  The Eiffel Tower sparkles brighter.  The sun hits the side of old buildings more perfectly.  I linger longer in cafes... it is love at every site.  The emotions are taking over.

Sunday Sadie sang in a jazz club in Paris - what a rare opportunity!  Of course, I was snapping off dozens of photos of all the other participants, so excited about capturing the memories.  But then, Sadie took the stage.  She started to sing calmly and beautifully, Tom and I froze, then teared-up.  I didn't take a single photo! ... Not a single a photo of my own adorable daughter!  While I didn't literally capture the moment, the memory is unforgettable.  I can't capture every moment here, because I'm busy loving and living the moments.  It's loving and living the memories that is making Paris so special.  It's those moments, where I am immobilized by emotion, that indelibly imprint in my memory.  

While I missed one photo moment, I made another just outside the jazz club with eyes that could see so much more clearly... eyes that were more focused on the reality that moments like this are here, and there, and everywhere, when you know that you are only staying for a mere moment in time.

Farewell to a Favorite Friend...

Einstein 1993-2009

New Year 2009 - Loire Valley

We send you our warmest wishes for a peaceful New Year.   

Dashing!

         CHANGING SIZES

It's all about the purple in Paris.  Or I should say a dash of purple - purple scarves, handbags, boots, hats and essential accessories.  The fundamental fashion style, which seems to be nicely taylored fitted clothes mostly in blacks and browns with essential short skirts and all styles of boots, seems to have remained the same.  But it is the dash that is hot.  A touch of purple here and there is what it all seems to be about.  And I'm not joking when I say that everyone seems to have a dash.  A few people don't seem to get the dash or have chosen to go wild with the dash - I saw one woman on the subway this week drenched in purple and, it wasn't dashing!   She had enough purple to outfit the entire Metro car -- a purple barret, purple jacket, purple scarf, purple nylons and all sorts of other patches of unmatching purples.  I think her motto was - if some is good -- the most must be better!  I even saw a perfectly purple Parisian pooch this week.  The poor poodle dog was decked out in a purple suede jacket with lamb's wool lining.

Shortly after I moved here, I ran out to re-wardrobe.  I had changed sizes.  This has happened before, when I have made a big change, shed baggage and added new muscle and I no longer fit into the same size.  I ran off to the hip and inexpensive Promod clothing store to find clothes that would fit the new, and of course improved, me!  I was looking for the dash, and oh so much more.  I snatched up an armful of sweaters, jeans and shirts and headed confidently into the changing rooms.   I donned outfit after oufit shocked to see again and again that none of these new sleeker sizes fit the new sleeker me.  Here's the thing, I've done this before.  I have moved and made a big change in my life and I am confident that I'm not the same size...  I don't fit into my old packaging.  But the truth is, while I'm changed - I've added those dashes of purple - my fundamental core and literal size, unfortunately, remain the same.

I thought moving to Paris would make me a cook and cleaner and fluent in French and European history.  I thought my children would get that clean slate and miraculously erase their very few annoying behaviors.  But upon arrival, the same pile of clothing that haunted us in Salt Lake City showed up under my kids' bathroom sink in Paris!   The same study habits - or lack thereof - emerged.  I found myself stymied by the choices of fruits, vegetables, meats, cheeses and breads.  I'm not quite sure where to begin with the cooking - maybe a pot.  Osmosis hasn't worked for the French language or the history, but I'm waiting patiently.

But, here is what is working.  While we don't need a purple wardrobe, and probably couldn't find one in a single year, we are searching for and finding meaningful dashes.  While our core is the same, we feel the dashes.  One child is spending unsolicited hours on the piano.  Another has written an 80-page novel.  Some are painting and learning good handwriting.  Others throw paper airplanes out the window of our fourth floor apartment and then race down the stairs to get them.  One knows that Vincent Van Gogh wrote a book about an insecure small clown that mirrored Van Gogh's own self image.  One can count in French, not English.  And - I know this will impress you -- one can write his own name in French - it's L-E-O in cursive with an accent over the E!  We eat, sleep, play and tour together.  Each person is emerging from their experience, sculpted a little differently.  We feel grounded and yet accessorized!   The same, and yet so different.

Postscript: I have purchased a purple purse.  It fits oh so nicely!

LOOKING PHAT IN FRANCE!

Today, I caught a glimpse of the 14-year old daughter that we do not have!  Leo woke up whining and saying repeatedly that he was so bored and couldn't go to school.  Finally, I told him that I didn't think he was bored and that I didn't think he actually knew what bored meant.  I said, "I think you're tired."  His reply, "tired AND bored."  "What does bored mean?" I asked. "It means I can't take it!" his reply.  After several roundabouts, we headed toward the door for school.  I grabbed two jackets, as it is cold.  Upon putting on the second one, he stopped with a frusterated look on his face.  "This coat makes me look fat!"  I must have shot him the most shocked look I could muster, because we both looked at each other and burst out laughing.  We laughed the whole way to school, while he repeated over and over, "I look fat!"

SPARKS FLY FOR TALK OF THE TOWN!

Every night on the hour, the Eiffel Tower sparkles.  Thousands of white stars sprinkled along the 1,063  foot high tower blink, wink and be-dazzle the crowds.  We needed a little bedazzling.  It was Ian's 10th birthday dinner - and in our family that means the talk.  Some experts suggest you tell kids the facts when they are eight, before the whispers start at school.  But even at ten, we looked at Ian and put off the dinner for months, just like we did with Sadie and Thomas. Although, truly Ian now looks and seems about half the size of Sadie and Thomas when they had the talk.   Ian dressed in his best, got ready for a big night out -- the special dinner with mom and dad.   He had been talking about it excitedly for days, because he remembered that Sadie and Thomas each had their own special dinner with mom and dad.   He knew we were doing something a little extra special, and he couldn't stop talking about it.  Behind his back, Sadie and Thomas rolled their eyes.  We asked Sadie and Thomas if they wanted to brush-up on the facts, since we knew they were probably shell-shocked when we had the talks with each of them the first time.  Both gagged and shockingly, each offered to tend Leo.  Ian had no idea what he was in for -- Sadie and Thomas gave him "death hugs" and said things like, "bye my innocent little brother."  Ian, oblivious headed into the lights, the literal lights.  We headed up the Eiffel Tower in the dark, a quest we had never made.  As we approached the tower and as we summited, the flashing lights lining the tower went off, the sparks flew.   I couldn't help but make the connection that maybe the lights would go on for Ian within the following hour, as we ate our special dinner and talked about our special subject.   Of course, we'd had had this discussion twice before... we have four children...and still, the words didn't flow.  Those big brown eyes stared back at us a little bewildered.  I didn't see sparks -- just a few twinkles of embarrassment.  I'm glad we started the evening with sparks, because it may take another evening out for the intended lights to go off!

**POSTSCRIPT MAY 5:  Ian came home from school today, and said he had to..."talk about the talk," and he, "didn't want to talk about it!"  Ian's class has started a much more detailed equivalent of what we call the Maturation Program in the U.S.

OFF TO THE RACES

Ian has this uncanny ability to make friends, even in France, without being able to communicate very well.  He is surrounded by a plethora of French friends.  It's a talent long in the making.  When he was just a little guy - say 4 or 5, we'd head to McDonald's to play on that sanitary gift of an indoor winter playground.  By the end of a session, when it was time to leave, Ian would be saying good-bye to kids, many twice his age, like they were long lost friends.  He'd call each by name -- see you later Jake, bye Tom,  I'll catch you next time Susan.  It never ceased to amaze me.

This year, before Ian dons his rollerblades for our journey home from school, he stops in the boulangerie - bakery - for a treat.  While he's queueing, I wait outside on a bench in my rollerblades.  One by one a couple of little boys who are Ian's classmates who are walking home from school grab free magazines out of the nearby rack, roll them up like swords and hide in nooks and crannies surrounding the bakery.  Their eyes sparkle, and they wait for their unsuspecting victim.  Ian comes out, donut in hand, and it's war!  They have surprised him again!  They chase him up and down the street, he grabs a magazine to fight back and they are all thrilled.  This game repeats itself a couple of times a week.  Then Ian puts on his rollerblades and we head home.

Strangely this week, I spotted what I thought must have been one of those warrior boys walking a ways up in front of us.    It was far from Ian's school, where another school was just letting out and I was surprised that this boy could be so far from our school.  Ian was rollerblading up ahead of me toward the child.  When he got near the boy, the two burst into a full on uphill race -- Ian blading, the boy running as fast as they could go.  They raced long and hard and finished out of breath with a good laugh.  When I reached him, I realized that I had never seen this boy.  Asking Ian about it, he said, "Oh I don't know him -- I just gave him the challenge eye."  Ian rolled up alongside him -- raised his eyebrows up and down and they were off.  They had never met before and it's unlikely that they'll ever meet again, but they shared a friendly challenge that all started with a lift of the eyebrows!

FOREIGN CURRENCY

Our persistent debater has a point. Thomas receives five euros a week for allowance, which amounted at one point to about $7.50.  Not bad for spending money in France.  But now that the dollar is growing stronger and Thomas is saving for a long term purchase back in the United States, he's trying to re-negotiate his allowance with foreign currency insurance.   After a few discussions with his Dad, I suggested maybe Thomas should e-mail the head of the foreign money exchange company for ideas, where Thomas' dad sits on the board.   A big grin on Tom's face hinted that Thomas may soon be getting his allowance in dollars!  I can guarantee that our young debater will not let up until he's satisfied!

END OF DEBATE!

Daniel asked Sadie to her first French disco at school.  She called me panicked, knowing that we must have plans that night.  We didn't.  I suggested she tell Daniel that she's too young to date, but she'd meet him at the dance and save a dance for him.

Daniel and Sadie are great debaters.  Apparently the two of them go head to head in English class.  Both have strong opinions, and are unwilling to back down.  Topics include things like does TV make you more or less creative.   Sadie was incensed that Daniel couldn't see her point of view on this issue.  According to their professor, the two of them can really, "hold their own!"

Sadie arrived at the dance in jeans, a t-shirt and v-neck sweater.  She looked adorable.  Most of the other girls arrived in low cut, tight fitting, short dresses with high heels.  And boy, could they move!  By Sadie's own report, she sat and drank a lot of Orangina, feeling a little self conscious about her dancing skills.  We have to admit we were fans of the Orangina, since Sadie described the dancing as "pole dancing without any pole!"  (I'll have to discuss with her where she learned this phrase!!)

Daniel never danced with Sadie, and for some reason, which is disappointing to Sadie, he will no longer debate with her either.  Oh he is there for the debates, but now he sees Sadie's point of view clearly.

MOCKERY AND NEEDLEWORK

My sister just visited!   Inbetween shopping for zee leetle cheeldren, we were unfortunate enough to unexpectedly visit a unique bridge, where prostitutes and unfaithful woman were tortured ages ago, while, and I quote here, "onlookers mocked and did needlework." Needlework will never have quite the same meaning for me.  I'm quite sure that moving forward, needlework and mockery will always be inextricably linked.  The image makes me chuckle.

POLITICALLY CORRECT CHRISTMAS!

In France, many families put a creche out for the holidays.  It includes the typcial Mary, Joseph, Jesus, Kings, wisemen -- but then there can be some others -- say the town mayor, political figures, celebrities or a gypsy or peasant.

On Christmas Eve, many families attend Messe de Minuit - Midnight Mass.  After the Midnight Mass, Christmas dinner begins -- at midnight!!!  It's called Le Reveillon -- a word that comes from the verb reveiller - to awake -- it is symbolic of the birth or awakening of Christ.  The meal lasts, as French meals typically do, for a good length of time.   It ends with a cake -- le buche de noel.   Children put their shoes on the fireplace for Pere Noel - Father Christmas - or the Christ child to fill with small treats and goodies.  Pere Noel has a counselor or sorts -- a stern travelling companion, Pere Fouettard, who tells him whether the children have been naughty or nice -- whether they deserve treats, or a spanking!  Pere Fouettard holds the children accountable.  The French government holds Pere Noel accountable.  A state law from 1962 requires all letters to Santa must be responded to with a postcard!

Bonjour!

Bonjour from Paris!

OPEN OBAMA RIVALS 

OPEN DOM!

   Leo is excitedly spotting France's latest fixation -- "Open Obama" (Barrack Obama) as he now squeals, more often than his former favorite icon, "Open Dom" (Notre Dame.)

ARE WE THERE YET?

Like we needed a kick in the pants, our flawless, brilliant, morning ritual, which includes four happy kids gliding into four schools with perfect homework and healthy lunches in tow, at precisely the same exact moment, ready to contribute in meaningful ways to their respective classes, crumpled today.   Well, to be perfectly honest, if probably crumpled the day we arrived!  We knew Metro line 6 would be under construction, but OUR French told us it wouldn't effect us.  WE WERE WRONG! Thomas, who left first, called us from the middle of somewhere in Paris, he didn't know where, after some metro workers tried to help him re-route.  After calming talk (on both ends of the line!), we spotted a McDonald's, by phone, and we walked street by street to familiarity!   He did an amazing job.  I am a fan of kids with cellphones!!!!  Sadie, who also left, before we realized what was happening, spotted two of her teachers as she worked to re-route her Metro path and followed them to school... So  SMART!!

LAPIN (Rabbit) LUNCH

We're working to empower our kids with choices.  So Leo picked out the juice boxes for our first day of school lunches.  He made what appeared to be a brilliant choice - colorful orange boxes with little bunnies hoping across the front.   French Rabbit, they are named.  See here ..

I praised Leo up and down for such a cute choice, without even looking very closely.  Turns out, they were Chardonnay!!

STILL STANDING

In case you were wondering, after five months, Leo hasn't moved.  Tom who once boasted 6'0" is now a mere 5'10".

BUILDING HISTORY

We are realizing how much the present is built on top of and next to the past.  They are so visibly and intricately intertwined in Europe.  So many cities have ancient anchors.  Many surround medevil cathedrals with gargoyles that have observed centuries of history and continue their gaze as history continues to unfold.

Here Carol peers out of the tower of a Cathedral in Chartres that was built in the 12th and 13th centuries.   It is believed that Charles II (the Bald) presented this city in the 9th century with what was believed to be a tunic of the Virgin Mary.  When the tunic miraculously survived a fire in the previous church, an outpouring of religious fervor led to the rapid construction of this cathedral, which still houses what was believed to be that original tunic.  

Below is a picture of the tedious work to restore blackened stained glass windows in the Cathedral.

This Roman arch below, Porte Mars, dated in the 3rd century, stands in the center of a busy intersection in Reims.

Also, in a former school room in Reims is the "Surrender Room," seen here.  It was used by General Eisenhower as headquarters for the allied forces during World War II.  It was here, on May 7th, 1945, that General Alfred Jodl signed the German surrender and fighting officially ceased the next day.  Original maps and war documents still line every wall. 

This Gothic art cathedral in Strasbourg is made of pink sandstone.  Construction began in 1176!  Maintaing this piece of history is tricky!

Another 12th century tribute in Metz, carved out of yellow sandstone, native to France's Alsace-Lorraine region.

Nestled between buildings, around corners, down narrow alleyways, history stares at you.  These tudor style buildings directly below were built in the 1600's in the Alsace-Lorraine Region.

The beaches of Normandy in Northern France are a remarkable reminder of the recent past.  Bomb craters still line the shores and the flags of allies who turned the tide hang from war ravaged houses, churches and schools that have been re-built.

If you don't spot the old and new right off the bat, sometimes the French will help you. Take for example, this exhibit by American pop artist Jeff Koons, which is currently on display at Versaille.

I love this dog, but I understand that the Friends of Versaille are a bit up in arms about it.  And I don't think any of my immediate relatives love it either.

FALL FAVORITES

An amazing visit with Woobie and Carol.  

A trip to a glass blower's workshop.

Fall leaves that remind us of Utah.

Swans that court with heart shaped wings.

    

      Vineyards.

 Lightning McQueen and racetracks in Germany!