tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91703840555379814632024-03-14T01:07:41.123+01:00What Am I Doing in France(hint: I have no idea)LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-35999679186884271242013-09-01T04:16:00.003+02:002013-09-01T04:16:51.664+02:00A Plus Tard...Toto, we really are not in Paris anymore.<br />
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Follow our new adventures at <a href="http://whatamidoinginbrooklyn.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">What Am I Doing in Brooklyn</a>. <br />
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I know, it's not the same. But the bagels are better. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-38195879744842699662013-08-24T04:04:00.000+02:002013-08-24T04:04:31.106+02:00Brave New WorldParis feels like a dream. I find myself thinking, "Was that really my life? Did we really live there? Did we really do those things, go to those places, speak French every day?" I can't spend too much time contemplating this transition because it makes me tear up a bit - and I simply haven't had the time to reflect. <br />
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Since landing in the US, we have found and moved into an apartment in Park Slope, Brooklyn. We bought a car. We have bought a lot of Ikea furniture. We have unpacked many boxes. We acquired US cell phones. I have reveled in the ability to strike up conversations with strangers, and to eavesdrop on the subway. Today I had my first playdate with a new friend (I mean, of course, that Nava had a playdate, with another baby we met in the playground) and the mom asked, "So what was Paris like?" <br />
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It was a difficult question to answer. What was it like? The things that were hard have already melted away into a layer of nostalgia. In my memory, it was gorgeous and sunny and smelled like rotisserie chicken and fresh baguettes. I miss the bread. And Parc Monceau. And my friends, and Max's friends, and our routine. I miss that my husband actually came home from work (hey, guess what, turns out the private sector lifestyle kinda stinks). <br />
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New York is an incredible city. We are going to have a lot of adventures exploring this place. It's just a different beast - I interviewed a part-time nanny candidate this week, and she asked whether I had particular flashcards or alphabet games that I preferred she use with my kids. I replied, "What are you talking about?! My oldest child is 2!" And her response was, "Wow, you really are different."<br />
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It is strange to no longer be unusual. I'm not the American-living-in-a-foreign-country, smiling broadly to make up for my ability to effectively communicate. It is no longer the case that any other mom speaking English in the playground is a potential friend. Okay, technically I suppose that is the case, but we are no longer guaranteed the commonality of expat status. <br />
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We have American television again, but it turns out there's really nothing good on. Something called "Honey Boo-Boo" happened in our absence, and I really don't want to know about it. I have to force myself to remember that I'm in the same time zone as friends and family, and that I can actually call people in the morning. <br />
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For the last two years, my identity was completely wrapped up in being an expat in Paris. I am not quite sure who I am now - I'm the same person, but I'm different. Our Paris has ended - it was a moment in time that will never exist in the same way again. The lasting impact it will have on our life is still unclear. Max already won't let us read or speak to him in French. We have sampled three baguettes here - two from "French" bakeries - and all were inedible. <br />
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I feel mournful for our Paris life in a way I hadn't anticipated. The magnitude of this transition caught us off guard. These two weeks in New York have felt so long. I feel grateful for the small things - that my kids are happy and healthy, that my in-laws came to help us move in, that friends are welcoming us to our new city, that it turns out that most people in New York are actually quite friendly, that Graeter's ice cream is available at the Fairway in Red Hook. Paris feels like a dream, and our new life is as yet unsettled. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-40291271115388256762013-07-06T23:12:00.000+02:002013-07-06T23:12:25.161+02:00No RegretsI wouldn't change a single thing about the last two years.<br />
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There were days when all I wanted was to go "home" but even more days when I reveled in all that was magical about this city. There were days when I was so tired I dreamed about a brief hospitalization for a non-threatening illness but even more days when I felt so grateful to be parenting in this sophisticated place.<br />
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I could make a series of lists. Lists of the countries we visited, the regions of France we explored, the wines we drank, the pastries we sampled, the museums we toured. But lists don't capture a life. Tonight my closest friend here made the point that back in the US, I will likely feel the way we used to feel coming home from summer camp. That sense of being back home, but missing your alternate universe. That feeling of everything around you being the same, but maybe you yourself are different. <br />
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Paris has been a magnificent teacher. She has taught me about love, friendship, children, courage, trust, confidence, ballet flats, bread, rain, humor, and patience. I am leaving this place feeling the most myself I have ever felt. That is a gift to cherish.<br />
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Tomorrow I will get on a plane back to the US - just me, two kids, two car seats, two strollers, two travel cots, four suitcases, and four carry-on bags. A week later I will meet Mr. Oil in New York, sans children, to start our apartment hunt in Brooklyn. I can't quite wrap my head around the idea that we aren't coming back to Paris.<br />
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I have no regrets about how we've lived the past two years. We are so, so lucky. <br />
<span id="goog_510811119"></span><span id="goog_510811120"></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max, July 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Villandry, Loire Valley, September 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6FwG0GufdfEhO6Ak1A7fMBPi5_i1R8QCC_Wphx_gCm5ZeuAWlv3mP3VYAFhcf9OXOFXK4Uq1R_DEuusPFl4zc8Ys6ImZekbDmtruqEazsGhHznq9O2txkj2L73HOeqq1tPh794l1nXE/s1600/DSC_7700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6FwG0GufdfEhO6Ak1A7fMBPi5_i1R8QCC_Wphx_gCm5ZeuAWlv3mP3VYAFhcf9OXOFXK4Uq1R_DEuusPFl4zc8Ys6ImZekbDmtruqEazsGhHznq9O2txkj2L73HOeqq1tPh794l1nXE/s400/DSC_7700.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parc aux Buttes Chaumont, Paris 19eme, September 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portugal, December 2011</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Versailles, April 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h-24cu3wVVsFZnTmo_lg12ECYjVu_VwfWbKTnLk6fo73WNEAPAep08sMzTpKazNbC5-ihF0ozn212w2-xNaMPKkkaqU0fdvt18cQIWENRCwW4M82j6iDa3AlIRrZ-VnzyLhcZjSkJxU/s1600/DSC_0645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5h-24cu3wVVsFZnTmo_lg12ECYjVu_VwfWbKTnLk6fo73WNEAPAep08sMzTpKazNbC5-ihF0ozn212w2-xNaMPKkkaqU0fdvt18cQIWENRCwW4M82j6iDa3AlIRrZ-VnzyLhcZjSkJxU/s400/DSC_0645.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Italy, May 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">London, October 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofdZKBhNaIgAXW4REvRIvXhm5NhPU6AycqX0i20CEu1k18iVEV-DWX885zRsy7eDhahB-hhY-24JlRrmvdrQ84WcAUntNi0P8S4brPp63M-35XSo1kbu6toiEF9lcEvOQIjIa7zFvvKM/s1600/DSC01534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofdZKBhNaIgAXW4REvRIvXhm5NhPU6AycqX0i20CEu1k18iVEV-DWX885zRsy7eDhahB-hhY-24JlRrmvdrQ84WcAUntNi0P8S4brPp63M-35XSo1kbu6toiEF9lcEvOQIjIa7zFvvKM/s400/DSC01534.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris swimming pool, December 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguueQBNI1TqoU08lQWpMNrB2mvSCX7NDuc5gyXn1dqql4aGDDS3hMhF5eyPSBpdyws4rif5F-U_7AxK2m-xW7atVqEOmzIUkTkt4Clj_dPzUL8nNHefSV3SRq3yINFMgity2EzIDCyDyg/s1600/DSC_3471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguueQBNI1TqoU08lQWpMNrB2mvSCX7NDuc5gyXn1dqql4aGDDS3hMhF5eyPSBpdyws4rif5F-U_7AxK2m-xW7atVqEOmzIUkTkt4Clj_dPzUL8nNHefSV3SRq3yINFMgity2EzIDCyDyg/s400/DSC_3471.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">8 months pregnant in Burgundy, December 2012</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9sNLz-nRR3qziPzRKZhphm-s6zl84LRpkFVozitp1sm_YTMyVjGDo0zSlXcwCPJG89tioAdGYJUnlmcWQR4NvoGDLhVPTe302OWWWkyD5htxG-yl9zFs6DwiyMzn-L86ulSoqaMyefI/s1600/IMG_1248.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR9sNLz-nRR3qziPzRKZhphm-s6zl84LRpkFVozitp1sm_YTMyVjGDo0zSlXcwCPJG89tioAdGYJUnlmcWQR4NvoGDLhVPTe302OWWWkyD5htxG-yl9zFs6DwiyMzn-L86ulSoqaMyefI/s400/IMG_1248.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nava Sylvie, born January 23 in Paris</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBjjMmm85BRgIImgtW3EVoF-DYk8TcGQihPrQz6qmC401k2tIjBeKfYcfiS8vXtq3uIJCzmDRnY1CeWHfokw3pz7u-fqeV_CPlIuG_Tb98QEKz_mfnnMM8TWnBUmWFPApFLf86aNMRVo/s1600/DSC_4554.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikBjjMmm85BRgIImgtW3EVoF-DYk8TcGQihPrQz6qmC401k2tIjBeKfYcfiS8vXtq3uIJCzmDRnY1CeWHfokw3pz7u-fqeV_CPlIuG_Tb98QEKz_mfnnMM8TWnBUmWFPApFLf86aNMRVo/s400/DSC_4554.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nava, March 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsy5DTR2uClLXfLhdJH6hC6EgLdKGhFJiKsaytjYmNYqSC-TDgGApZFgSAiyk37N6uF8evpu3LxybuKcve5I8zAAiQ8GYp0KSi4FQDBMNVNSa_n5pKgIgPgK2ZLx61yNCK3Sz_PYHwbo/s1600/DSC_5421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsy5DTR2uClLXfLhdJH6hC6EgLdKGhFJiKsaytjYmNYqSC-TDgGApZFgSAiyk37N6uF8evpu3LxybuKcve5I8zAAiQ8GYp0KSi4FQDBMNVNSa_n5pKgIgPgK2ZLx61yNCK3Sz_PYHwbo/s400/DSC_5421.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Giverny, May 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamcLMWWT-ECjwB7yr1F3D2FRvPy7PQ3hA9grC0jEJiHc2f8-JH_tQrJPBjsFP6116jhl3dhYN77PHok4nv3L-ZBqyMPwnYGV0hLHO84s2NuqF6dyQ65i4yOsSgbzI-yOV1EPBGZ9P8MU/s1600/DSC_5958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhamcLMWWT-ECjwB7yr1F3D2FRvPy7PQ3hA9grC0jEJiHc2f8-JH_tQrJPBjsFP6116jhl3dhYN77PHok4nv3L-ZBqyMPwnYGV0hLHO84s2NuqF6dyQ65i4yOsSgbzI-yOV1EPBGZ9P8MU/s400/DSC_5958.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Sebastian, Spain, May 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCmSs5etUXeSI2qHhXcHIAP5DqebX2DNhQ02w1VG0rOROyNW76tJTwYmzhO0B9_tdRaP3p7MxjNzVN7_nWfiGt1rj9TCS1ZdtGfonPjjgX2-7Sv9dIh7I37HEgdQEh6clfWTTcKSYc6Q/s1600/DSC_6571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCmSs5etUXeSI2qHhXcHIAP5DqebX2DNhQ02w1VG0rOROyNW76tJTwYmzhO0B9_tdRaP3p7MxjNzVN7_nWfiGt1rj9TCS1ZdtGfonPjjgX2-7Sv9dIh7I37HEgdQEh6clfWTTcKSYc6Q/s400/DSC_6571.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scotland, June 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgAWZr_kMIcSHbp1cXJPGYASDxfW5iqFZFgQaKKnhyeqQG4YTjKCvd2yjte1xXD3yEZ3Ok-7XfchwAvV4_QQMINozuL958_LJ6eWjcUt103wrBdZrROrj-kxNXGIA76dyuF2bSQLBBf8/s1600/DSC_6794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgAWZr_kMIcSHbp1cXJPGYASDxfW5iqFZFgQaKKnhyeqQG4YTjKCvd2yjte1xXD3yEZ3Ok-7XfchwAvV4_QQMINozuL958_LJ6eWjcUt103wrBdZrROrj-kxNXGIA76dyuF2bSQLBBf8/s400/DSC_6794.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nava in Parc Monceau, last day in Paris, July 6 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4l43rdx0zgGpJU-ZfsA1yKLt_gHyj8ZkyYo4mhLWpkmFLyFmYzHuOChllh9Fwya_fzoLtftwNzTQPQeRAWhx0jZ70XqoHTc71TeMKQO0CopZOYfLdhxx7LeaxZnqtNXE3-OZX1R_4ESs/s1600/DSC_6818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4l43rdx0zgGpJU-ZfsA1yKLt_gHyj8ZkyYo4mhLWpkmFLyFmYzHuOChllh9Fwya_fzoLtftwNzTQPQeRAWhx0jZ70XqoHTc71TeMKQO0CopZOYfLdhxx7LeaxZnqtNXE3-OZX1R_4ESs/s400/DSC_6818.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Max in Parc Monceau, last day in Paris, July 6 2013</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6Oft347HsAWqVkDPxwdphJ2Hop1IpWBbJJ5ETwx8oW1mCc3RaQzERrIfaBrEZ6bfWnurvPEqe0lJQHY5H5DKvTvB52Jx9hGUTzu_KFDRUWvq3_CoWae_SkrcVOTVFkqmxPllkcN9a3Q/s1600/DSC_6806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6Oft347HsAWqVkDPxwdphJ2Hop1IpWBbJJ5ETwx8oW1mCc3RaQzERrIfaBrEZ6bfWnurvPEqe0lJQHY5H5DKvTvB52Jx9hGUTzu_KFDRUWvq3_CoWae_SkrcVOTVFkqmxPllkcN9a3Q/s400/DSC_6806.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last day in Paris, July 6 2013</td></tr>
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<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-82821328922060861372013-06-30T21:57:00.001+02:002013-06-30T22:02:44.266+02:00All the Lasts It's time for the lasts. The last Sunday afternoon in the park. The last day picking Baby Oil up from halte garderie. The last time having friends over for an afternoon gouter. The last visit to our favorite patisserie (okay, maybe we'll squeeze in one more). The last time making foie gras burgers. <br />
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Yet even as the lasts pile up, there are firsts. First time Baby Oil eats pate (he liked it!). First time Mademoiselle rolled over. First time Baby Oil sang a French song.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoVCnZLM5-l49F_QxKzKHjhi3ZxNvYm6otA7kl4L7r9PLxVmlB2G4eHYVrvfQBKtOibhxh49NVONp6BbbSVHMyZENrQ7QL3D1svWXFymPzOPzYP3RPsYENLHf8S_jw9N9L-KQWivTkYA/s1600/IMG_1480.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoVCnZLM5-l49F_QxKzKHjhi3ZxNvYm6otA7kl4L7r9PLxVmlB2G4eHYVrvfQBKtOibhxh49NVONp6BbbSVHMyZENrQ7QL3D1svWXFymPzOPzYP3RPsYENLHf8S_jw9N9L-KQWivTkYA/s400/IMG_1480.JPG" width="347" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, that is pate on a hamburger bun.</td></tr>
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And then there are the everyday occurrences, la vie quotidienne. Looking from our balcony onto a gorgeous sunset. Listening to Baby Oil say, "Baguette, s'il vous plait" at the boulangerie. Explaining to Baby Oil the concept of "chaqu'un son tour" - everyone takes a turn - at the playground. Running to Monoprix to pick up diapers, and of course pausing to check out the adorable baby clothes. Recognizing the elegance and beauty of our street:<br />
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Loving that our neighborhood sandbox can double as a set for a fashion shoot:<br />
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Realizing that no matter what I wear to the park on a weekend afternoon to walk with my family, it won't be this:<br />
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Nor will it be this: <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lNVOnBG8OznsvPR-fEky8SSLaGmkm2baTvfWbUze6PRhRQ_bbXrogBmVeZWOKwm8PbM45a61OWP5QTPixxpEXUQPYPJ1l45NoTeNTMlfaBhU8M_D9TFn4hmF04rmmLKadlGfuJ278io/s1600/IMG_1469.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lNVOnBG8OznsvPR-fEky8SSLaGmkm2baTvfWbUze6PRhRQ_bbXrogBmVeZWOKwm8PbM45a61OWP5QTPixxpEXUQPYPJ1l45NoTeNTMlfaBhU8M_D9TFn4hmF04rmmLKadlGfuJ278io/s400/IMG_1469.JPG" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think these would be called "muscle leggings". </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeojo_22Mkb8LKzLu8FPzt5i3oe-fGWOoXnX2jx9tP2sdTjx1rrRIuAZV1Khgkjq84UWu7N3AdWIqfP_rfBngOdYkXWVQV_WOLRfcKi7LmVhcNLspK7nzFctNdwVo1cj3RZL55eTxu_dw/s1600/IMG_1471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeojo_22Mkb8LKzLu8FPzt5i3oe-fGWOoXnX2jx9tP2sdTjx1rrRIuAZV1Khgkjq84UWu7N3AdWIqfP_rfBngOdYkXWVQV_WOLRfcKi7LmVhcNLspK7nzFctNdwVo1cj3RZL55eTxu_dw/s400/IMG_1471.JPG" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, muscles. In case you weren't clear above. </td></tr>
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Enjoying sweet sibling moments:<br />
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On the one hand, it is hard to believe that this life we currently lead is just days from being over. On the other hand, it is hard to believe that this has ever been our real life to begin with. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-85444203737089051812013-06-22T20:51:00.000+02:002013-06-22T20:51:39.108+02:00Sticky Toffee PuddingI can't get enough of the UK. I am in nation-love. There are the accents, from the rarefied posh London accents to the heavy Cockney accent to the cheerful Scottish brogue. There are the weekly magazines, of which Hello! is my personal favorite. It's like US Weekly, but with dukes and earls and tiaras thrown in. There is the fact that there seems to be some regulation requiring every establishment to have a changing table. There are the child-friendly museums and palaces featuring costumes and/or toys for little ones to play with. There is the Duchess-formerly-known-as-Kate Middleton. There are the high street shops like Reiss, Whistles, Hobbs, and LK Bennett. There are scones and clotted cream. There are fish and chips. There is excellent beer. There is amazing Indian food and even Thai food. There are the hundreds of years of history. <br />
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So perhaps I've developed a bit of an obsession. Our recent trip to Scotland - our last trip of our European sojourn - only solidified my love for the UK when I met Sticky Toffee Pudding.<br />
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The name alone sounds delicious. The actuality is simply rich, caramely, sticky, and incredible. It is quite basic in a way - a cake, usually made with dates, covered with toffee sauce, and typically served with vanilla ice cream. Toffee sauce is the stuff of dreams, and all I can really say is that when our server walked by our table approximately 2 minutes after placing the sticky toffee pudding in front of us, the plate was empty. She even exclaimed, "Didn't I just put that down?" Slightly embarrassed, we stuttered over several statements of "It was so good...we were sharing...it was so good...".<br />
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Naturally, I also found Sticky Toffee Pudding ice cream at the well-regarded B. Janettas in St. Andrews. Scotland has fantastic ice cream, and while sticky toffee pudding is better in its regular form, the ice cream was not too shabby.<br />
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Scotland is the second country we have visited in the past few years that made us both feel, almost immediately, like we want to come back. The first was Portugal, and we still talk about wanting to go back to Lisbon and head north towards Porto. But without hesitation we both agreed that five days in Scotland was simply not enough to do justice to this incredible place. <br />
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The country is absolutely gorgeous. When have you ever seen a cliff like this in a public park in a major city? Holyrood Park in Edinburgh is the only one I know of.<br />
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On a picture perfect day like we had, I better understood why golfers trek from around the world to places like St Andrews, Scotland to golf on the oldest golf course in the world.<br />
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The fishing villages of East Neuk were quaint and charming, everything a fishing village should be, with the added bonus of Scottish accents, the occasional kilt, and a wide selection of Scotch at the local pub.<br />
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Every Scot we encountered was genuinely friendly, from the girl at the Scotch Whisky Experience who gave us a list of places she loved to visit in Edinburgh as a child to the jovial, large-bellied man making flirtatious jokes with me when we asked for directions to a gas station near the airport. Of course, this was after we mildly traumatized Baby Oil by taking him on the barrel ride at the Scotch Whisky Experience - like an amusement park ride, you sit in a "barrel" and are escorted through a virtual distillery. The problem was that your "host" for the trip was a ghost. And it turns out that 2-year-olds are not big fans of ghosts, no matter how friendly and Scottish they may be. Furthermore, try as I might, I have to admit that I just don't like Scotch. The only exception is when that whisky comes in the form of fudge. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ghost</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The traumatized toddler</td></tr>
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The first day we tried to tour the Palace at Holyroodhouse, no visitors were allowed because the Duke of Rothesay was in residence. Who's that, you say? Oh, nobody much, just Prince Charles - the Duke of Rothesay is his title in Scotland (because why stop at one title when you can have four or five?). The next day, when we were able to visit, I basically felt like I was hanging out with Charles and Camilla as I strolled through the dining room where they had eaten the day before. Much appreciated were the sample menus laid out for visitors to see of actual formal meals previously served at the palace. It is a bit crazy in this day and age that there are still people with palaces, and that they can just call up and say, "Hey, we're dropping by for a few days - could you please have the chef whip up some of that lemongrass and ginger marinated duck breast?" <br />
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I wouldn't want you think our trip was all royalty and whisky. We also
toured Scotland's Secret Bunker (or as Baby Oil would say, "Scotland's
Secret Plunker"). For 40 years, this was a top-secret location that
housed all of the equipment and supplies necessary to serve as a
headquarters for Scotland's government in the case of nuclear war. When you approach it, it looks like a typical Scottish farmhouse. Except for this:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm going to go out on a limb and say this wasn't here when it was a secret</td></tr>
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Conveniently, we happened to stay in a town boasting a restaurant that has been named the UK's best fish and chips. We may have eaten there two nights in a row. It was really that good. <br />
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Scotland, I love you, and I'm not just using you for your sticky toffee pudding. After all, look how happy you make my kids:<br />
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<br />
My 2.5 year old has visited 8 countries in the past 2 years (France, US, Portugal, Italy, Denmark, UK (England and Scotland), Belgium, and Spain). My 5 month old has hit four countries already (France, Belgium, Spain, and UK). I hope they're okay with being stuck in the US for a while...LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-41777045978708670212013-06-05T22:33:00.000+02:002013-06-06T06:27:31.740+02:00One Month LeftWe leave Paris on July 7; the movers come on July 3. Every day we grow increasingly nostalgic about our Parisian experience, and every day I get a tad more anxious about all of the unknowns ahead of us.<br />
<br />
We are moving "home." Home in that it is our home country, the place in which we have both spent our entire lives living, with the exception of study-abroad during university and these past two years. Home in that we will be in the same time zone as our family. Home in that English will be the language of business, and I won't feel like a tongue-tied moron in the vast majority of my daily interactions.<br />
<br />
On another level, though, it's not home at all. New York is a new city for both of us, but even more, I've realized that I don't know how to live my current life in the US. When we moved to Paris, Baby Oil was just six months old. In the past two years, I have learned how to parent (or at least, how to parent in the infant and toddler phases). I am learning now how to parent two children at once. I know when the park is crowded, what to wear to the playground, how to take kids on the bus and the metro, and how to conduct my daily stay-at-home-mom life here in Paris.<br />
<br />
I have absolutely no idea how to do that in New York. All of the cultural norms around parenting that I've absorbed are informed by expats in France and the French themselves. I know when behavior is too rowdy (in the park, essentially never), I know how far away it is acceptable to sit from your child in the playground (really, really far - the moms sitting closer are always expats), I know which boulangeries give a free piece of baguette to your child when you buy something (the one on Rue de Rocher). But in the US, there will be other cultural norms. And as much as it is my home country, I am a foreigner in the world of American parenting.<br />
<br />
The classes are what put me over the top. There are so many classes for kids in America! Just in Brooklyn, it seems you could skip preschool altogether and just escort your 2- or 3-year-old from yoga to art to music to dance to science class. If your child doesn't take Sustainable Art (this class is actually offered at the Park Slope YMCA - the brochure explains that your child will "learn to make art that cares about the environment"), will he be shunned as an outsider? <br />
<br />
Baby Oil will have to wait until he is 3 to be old enough for the Action Heros - Boys Only dance class offered at one Park Slope dance studio but he can start combined yoga-and-swim classes immediately at the Y. Due to conflicts with his preschool schedule, we won't be able to enroll in the Brooklyn Design Lab's Paint Studio in which "we delve into alternative painting techniques and experiment with tools and materials of our own creation." I wasn't aware alternative painting techniques for 2-year-olds even existed. Classes for toddlers simply don't exist in France. The expectation is that your child is at creche, or home with the nanny. Or, in the case of many expat kids, spending long afternoons at the park with a frazzled, lonely mommy eavesdropping on anyone who doesn't look like a nanny in hopes of making a new friend. <br />
<br />
It is quite possible that Brooklyn, or maybe all of New York City, is going to be a parenting experience unto itself. I'm beyond excited at the thought of actually having places to take my kids when the weather is crummy, but I am also intimidated at all that I don't know about being a NYC parent. One month left - Mr. Oil has taken to buying caramel au beurre sale in a jar and drizzling it over ice cream, in between trying to sample all of the multitude of French yogurt options available in our local grocery store. I'm doing my part to buy at least one fresh baguette every day. I recently tried to tell Baby Oil that there are no baguettes in New York. His response? "No baguettes in New York. Baguettes in the boulangerie!" Poor kid is in for some serious culture shock. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-63989349060061325272013-06-03T13:53:00.000+02:002013-06-03T21:27:57.941+02:00A Day For MeI knew many things had changed in my life since our son arrived back in January 2011. But it was a bit of a surprise when I realized a few months ago that I had not spent a single night completely alone in almost two-and-a-half years. I've had nights with just my husband (3, to be exact), and nights with just Baby Oil. But never a night alone.<br />
<br />
Feeling the urge to reclaim some alone time, I mentioned to Mr. Oil that I would love to go to London for a day by myself, do some shopping, and sleep in a hotel. He did not understand why going alone was appealing, but with some positive reinforcement from my stepmom, he gave me the best Mother's Day gift around - 30 hours alone in London. And yes, we noted the irony that the best Mother's Day gift involves no mothering duties.<br />
<br />
Saturday morning I set out for London. It's an easy train ride from Paris, and I was in London, with my bag dropped at the hotel, by 11:30. My agenda for the day was straightforward - no plans. Walk around. Do some shopping. Get my hair cut (it is difficult to do this when you have a baby attached to you all day long!). Do whatever I wanted to do.<br />
<br />
I thought about my kids, and my husband, throughout the day. I still noted every construction vehicle, and if I passed a nice bakery I thought, "Mr. Oil would like that place!" But I enjoyed every moment of the utter privilege of thinking only about what I wanted to do. Did I want to try on <a href="http://www.lkbennett.com/shoes/aw13preview" target="_blank">LK Bennett</a> shoes at Selfridge's? Yes, please. Did I then want to try on more shoes at <a href="http://www.frenchsole.com/" target="_blank">French Sole</a>? Yes , please. Did I want to walk into three different locations of the same store (<a href="http://www.reiss.com/eu/?gclid=CID79anpx7cCFdDJtAod23QAVA" target="_blank">Reiss</a>) and try on clothes at each one? Yes, please. Did I want to sit and have a latte at a time when some people would insist we eat "real" lunch? Yes, please. Did I want to spend 20 minutes exploring the wonder that is Boots (a pharmacy chain - think CVS on crack)? Yes, please. <br />
<br />
I hit the big London shopping spots - Selfridge's, Oxford Street, Regent Street, Harrod's, and Kensington High Street. I managed to pick up some tea at <a href="http://www.fortnumandmason.com/" target="_blank">Fortnum and Mason</a>, and of course grabbed a new train for Baby Oil at <a href="http://www.hamleys.com/" target="_blank">Hamley's</a>. I got my hair cut at the posh <a href="http://www.danielhersheson.com/" target="_blank">Daniel Hersheson</a> salon. At the end of the day, I swung by Ottolenghi and bought a fantastic flourless orange-almond cake with chocolate frosting to bring home for Mr. Oil.<br />
<br />
Eight hours later, I virtually collapsed in my hotel room at the lovely Lancaster London Hotel, with views from my room overlooking Hyde Park. Tea + sweets + clothes + shoes + toys = a heavy load by the end of the day! I went to eat in one of the hotel restaurants as I had learned the hard way that even a trusty pair of flats can wreak havoc on your feet after five miles of walking around London. After the hostess went to find an appropriate table for my party of 1, a couple standing behind me said, "Excuse me, but won't you be bored by yourself? Would you like to join us?"<br />
<br />
Now, according to Mr. Oil, nobody actually wants to be taken up on these sorts of invitations. But in a moment of awkwardness, I said, "Oh...sure." And that is how I ended up spending an hour and a half eating dinner with a nice couple from Australia who had just finished a week long garden tour of England and Wales. They are from Warwick, about 2 hours southwest of Brisbane, where they garden on 3 acres. My favorite part of the evening was when, after the husband had gone on for about 15 minutes straight with many details about the gardens they had visited, the wife, said, "Wow, I'm impressed. I thought you just slept through the tour."<br />
<br />
The best moment of the day came when I crawled into the king-size bed in my room, all by my lonesome. Nobody to feed in the night, nobody needing a drink of water, nobody at all. Just me, asleep. In the morning I forced myself to stay in bed until 8am, took a relaxing bath, and headed back to the train station.<br />
<br />
There were certainly moments when I wished that my family was with me. And there were moments when I was a bit bored being by myself. Overall, however, having this day to be completely myself, all by myself, was wonderful. It is not easy to find the balance of having an individual identity while being a stay-at-home mom. And I know my husband will never quite understand the value of what he gave me this weekend. Not only did I come home refreshed and relaxed, I came home to a clean home and two happy kids. Major points for Mr. Oil. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-73730050900837681902013-05-29T21:37:00.000+02:002013-05-29T21:37:08.975+02:00Everything ElseI would be remiss if I did not chronicle a bit more of our trip to Basque country. The food alone is certainly blog-worthy. The Basque have their own version of tapas, called pinxos (pinchos). At lunch and dinner time every day, the countertops of all the bars in every town are covered with platters of pinxos. You wander in, pick up one, two, or three, and enjoy the tasty morsels with a glass of sidre (hard cider), beer, or wine. Somehow the bartender knows exactly how many you've eaten, even if there are 20 other people standing alongside the bar with you. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinxos in San Sebastian</td></tr>
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<br />
Pinxos tend to revolve around either fish or pork, which in general are the two most common food categories in the region. I cannot possibly tell you what is actually on any of them as they are all combinations of tapenades, vegetables, fish, etc. The first day we ate pinxos for lunch, I said to the bartender, in my best high school Spanish, that we had never eaten pinxos before and we were unsure how to eat them. What I meant was that I didn't know whether we ordered specific items, or if it was an all-you-can-eat situation, etc. The bartender took it to mean that I was a total idiot, and looked at me with a strange expression on his face as he replied, "Put them in your mouth." <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More pinxos in San Sebastian</td></tr>
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<br />
The best part about pinxos is just the camraderie and ambiance in the bars. Don't let the word "bars" make you think this is just for adults - strollers were everywhere. I have never seen so many grandfathers taking care of their grandchildren, and on top of that making sure to enjoy a drink and a pinxo with another grandfather-nanny. On Sunday afternoon in Bilbao, we stumbled across the Plaza Nueva, a square lined with bars and restaurants serving pinxos and drinks to hundreds of families, 20-somethings, grandparents, and everyone in between. Many of the bars had hand-printed signs stating, "Hay calamares", explaining that they were also serving hot fried calamari. This was clearly the most popular dish with the Sunday afternoon crowd judging by the number of people we saw popping calamari bits into their mouths around the plaza. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bilbao</td></tr>
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With its location on the rough Atlantic coast, fish of course plays a huge role in the local cuisine. On Saturday night, we headed to the seaside town of Getaria for dinner. After a drink in one of the bars (with two other strollers present, and one pregnant woman drinking beer), we headed to dinner at <a href="http://www.restauranteelkano.com/" target="_blank">Elkano</a>. We didn't realize at the time that some of the most renowned chefs in the world <a href="http://blog.travelchannel.com/anthony-bourdain/read/2010/11/" target="_blank">have eaten here</a> and declared it the best fish restaurant in the world. We also didn't realize that it was a pretty fancy place. Nonetheless, we showed up with our baby and toddler in tow. Unfazed, the hostess supplied us with a booster seat for Baby Oil - apparently it is commonplace in Spain to bring very young children to very expensive meals! <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getaria harbor</td></tr>
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<span id="goog_879660598"></span><span id="goog_879660599"></span><br />
And then we found out about kokotxas. Kokotxas, a Basque specialty, is part of the chin or throat of a deep-sea cod called hake. At Elkano, they offer kokotxas served in multiple ways - lightly battered, grilled, and with "green sauce" (seemed to be garlic and butter). Rocked. Our. World. And our mouths. Both of us took one bite, looked at the other and said, "I have never tasted anything like this before." It was, simply, awesome. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1K8Rzu6ymoFmsb6_RdJJEPb-vzGX1TQBX7wTXX_m0xQMNvBIIOzDQTUxmPrWuwcPBjhU6YOjNXIQCp5K7REsIVxlB_2eDw6OgJK1F5lliRRglbnYudaeOuNyGkuZ18B2IXg4sYG_qdw/s1600/0261%25280339%2529-kokotxas-l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd1K8Rzu6ymoFmsb6_RdJJEPb-vzGX1TQBX7wTXX_m0xQMNvBIIOzDQTUxmPrWuwcPBjhU6YOjNXIQCp5K7REsIVxlB_2eDw6OgJK1F5lliRRglbnYudaeOuNyGkuZ18B2IXg4sYG_qdw/s1600/0261%25280339%2529-kokotxas-l.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kokotxas three ways</td></tr>
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The grilled hake was also some of the best fish I have ever, ever eaten. So fresh, so tasty, so perfectly prepared on the outside grill located on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. Baby Oil and Mademoiselle were also perfect - though Baby Oil declined to eat anything but bread, and we decided we would forgo caring about his nutritional needs for one night - so we successfully pulled off eating one of the nicest meals we've had in Europe with two small children. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0CxQ2B9fBuHQJztxFXn1KUMc4VUen5d_VjMNj9v-ZTHp9GMtz2n_ZcVTG6ArMWzMpg7MpNyTjgq0MsQZg7e_QYknGZ1HPr3ElFO1WRbzxhruLX-W8Eq59yN2mtnLBm0zUzgcceGVL8M/s1600/DSC_6059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0CxQ2B9fBuHQJztxFXn1KUMc4VUen5d_VjMNj9v-ZTHp9GMtz2n_ZcVTG6ArMWzMpg7MpNyTjgq0MsQZg7e_QYknGZ1HPr3ElFO1WRbzxhruLX-W8Eq59yN2mtnLBm0zUzgcceGVL8M/s400/DSC_6059.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They are cute small children!!</td></tr>
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On the French side of Basque territory, the food is more...French. We chose to focus on desserts, which are vastly superior in France compared with Spain. Paries and Adam are probably the two most well-known patisseries in the Pays Basque. Paries features mouchous, which are a type of macaron with no filling, and kanougas, which are caramels (unclear if anything is actually different or unusual about them). Adam features one simple macaron - one layer, no flavors save traditional almond. The Adam macaron is chewier than Parisian macarons but it is seriously delicious. Both shops offer touron, which is made of honey, sugar, and almond paste. Frankly we found the tourons too sweet for our tastes, though we tried a few flavors. Since it was raining for 2 days straight while we were in St Jean de Luz, we decided to spend most of our time eating. <br />
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We also sampled quite a bit of gateau basque, or traditional Basque cake. Again this features an almond filling - they really have a thing for almonds down there in Basque country - but in a delicious crust, and the traditional kind has cherries in it. A great gateau basque is excellent. Our favorite one was from a small bakery in the town of Espelette. This little town in the foothills of the Pyrenees is most well-known for piment d'Espelette, a specific type of chili pepper used in many Basque dishes. In Espelette, you can find everything with piment d'Espelette, from cheese to chocolate and anything else you might want.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7a7PVrTRUM3TV-aohbXH5NoRdGmqZ2vBtsFj0hOdYRQlD2gYRSGkBDLpMq4FCRfKLTt122sWNgU-rpLX6DMPC4qrQulZNHYaqNDYYg7ao3HXHDwFEJZxi4fMmrP3YOgTaU9oleMSRGQ/s1600/DSC_6017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn7a7PVrTRUM3TV-aohbXH5NoRdGmqZ2vBtsFj0hOdYRQlD2gYRSGkBDLpMq4FCRfKLTt122sWNgU-rpLX6DMPC4qrQulZNHYaqNDYYg7ao3HXHDwFEJZxi4fMmrP3YOgTaU9oleMSRGQ/s400/DSC_6017.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sheep's milk cheese with piment d'Espelette, in Espelette</td></tr>
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In addition to the food, I should also briefly mention the bright and beautiful world of Basque textiles. <br />
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Ubiquitous throughout the region, ranging from cheap touristy items to upscale fabrics, you can find towels, tablecloths, robes, napkins, bags, portfolios, and much more in these lovely patterns. Our favorite shops included <a href="http://www.artiga.fr/en/" target="_blank">Artiga</a>, <a href="http://www.tissagedeluz.com/" target="_blank">Tissage de Luz</a>, and <a href="http://www.euskal-linge.com/" target="_blank">Euskal Linge</a>. <br />
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While the beret is a worldwide symbol of France that you never actually see in Paris, it turns out that the beret is a Basque symbol of victory in the world of <a href="http://whatamidoinginfrance.blogspot.fr/2013/05/boulder-pulling.html" target="_blank">Basque rural sports</a>. We almost bought a Basque beret for Baby Oil but instead just took this photo. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHXB7Tr7Xbv3PGRQ9GADhuPZws47MpMDEAlYr2SC5EtvVoNRtMLK_fTuniXi-XjUiG4mGjJJVl6gDuVYVazMF39ksT_QH5zSSPHkY03B19aF2MsJ-a2pkqX1ds-kyZt2FzPj7s7KwdVc/s1600/DSC_6035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimHXB7Tr7Xbv3PGRQ9GADhuPZws47MpMDEAlYr2SC5EtvVoNRtMLK_fTuniXi-XjUiG4mGjJJVl6gDuVYVazMF39ksT_QH5zSSPHkY03B19aF2MsJ-a2pkqX1ds-kyZt2FzPj7s7KwdVc/s400/DSC_6035.jpg" width="267" /></a></div>
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Despite some feelings of loyalty toward France, I have to say that the Spanish side of the Basque region felt significantly more Basque. The French side felt more like France with a Basque veneer, and better desserts. I am truly glad we decided to explore this part of Europe, even if we ended the week declaring that we would never go on vacation again with small children. Which is why we are headed to Scotland in two weeks. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-37984895481714000562013-05-26T08:53:00.001+02:002013-05-26T08:53:25.816+02:00Boulder PullingAs you drive through Spanish Basque country, the landscape feels rugged and wild. You feel isolated, seeing few people but many sheep. This quiet wilderness is turned upside-down once you experience the life in Basque country, where the people are warm, welcoming, and live life to the fullest in their remote corner of Europe.<br />
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No experience better captured the vitality of Basque life than watching the gizon proba in Deba last weekend. Gizon proba is one of the traditional Basque rural sports. It literally translates as "man test", and consists of 8 men attached to a metal harness dragging an almost-2000-pound "boulder". For a set amount of time (about 30 minutes), the men pull the weight back and forth across a proscribed distance. The number of lengths is recorded on a scoreboard as hundreds of locals cheer on the men. When the first group is done, their competitors warm up and attempt to best the first team's score. <br />
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The idea of 800 or more people standing around in the rain on a Saturday afternoon, shouting and cheering as a bunch of guys lugging a giant weight for half an hour sounds crazy and even a bit boring. The reality is certainly unusual but completely engaging. The home team, from Deba, went first. Almost the entire crowd was from Deba, so the cheering at each turn, and the encouragement as the task became increasingly difficult, was deafening at times. Local kids watched with the same intensity as American kids watch the NBA finals. 20-somethings stood in the back, alternately cheering and drinking. A quartet of EMTs were on hand in case of injury. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCd0MRRzxfSaFWQa7CMBW9-G5Ql-p3kl78zR5-tMSOLAaF0BeMP0QksRF6y90NXKXNNZW8WKm4jTGFg2vHQqscCkeE9UrrChhD6pLiCvoP-CBuursHRiFRmw4Uxmi0BFLD260OTMc3MQ/s1600/DSC_5714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoCd0MRRzxfSaFWQa7CMBW9-G5Ql-p3kl78zR5-tMSOLAaF0BeMP0QksRF6y90NXKXNNZW8WKm4jTGFg2vHQqscCkeE9UrrChhD6pLiCvoP-CBuursHRiFRmw4Uxmi0BFLD260OTMc3MQ/s400/DSC_5714.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And they're off!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbd10ExvULjdG4GZT76NRLkb-2DOYV5qXgLPJAWI_luOYCJdoq_6igFezpyGBYuig1VcQARWLynF_9cy3PUZhNUeduS70CrqBXCqiU4RM9y8CvRg9d2fbwEnM8mG0YbNnio8kVtzQClQ/s1600/DSC_5719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxbd10ExvULjdG4GZT76NRLkb-2DOYV5qXgLPJAWI_luOYCJdoq_6igFezpyGBYuig1VcQARWLynF_9cy3PUZhNUeduS70CrqBXCqiU4RM9y8CvRg9d2fbwEnM8mG0YbNnio8kVtzQClQ/s400/DSC_5719.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The coach keeps them going strong.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is serious stuff. </td></tr>
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The first 20 lengths or so come across as child's play. Soon enough, however, it becomes clear that this thing they're pulling is really, really heavy. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGk7FgjD5YvUoLaaETOkmuEuSwc0CCTyssCVklwm7AbL75QDHrARUoRuYywmbls2rKR24qJpMaCFRxA5W06vU1cAEsFMOmtN-WZ14Gh0UjdFjJO2tuLuGXU2bXCu8M3e2dDMMoBT12yE/s1600/DSC_5729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcGk7FgjD5YvUoLaaETOkmuEuSwc0CCTyssCVklwm7AbL75QDHrARUoRuYywmbls2rKR24qJpMaCFRxA5W06vU1cAEsFMOmtN-WZ14Gh0UjdFjJO2tuLuGXU2bXCu8M3e2dDMMoBT12yE/s400/DSC_5729.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, this is hard. </td></tr>
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And finally, time is called. The team literally collapses in relief. <br />
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Then the next team warms up. They were from the neighboring town of Mendaro, and could not hold a candle to our Deba team (we stayed in Deba, so of course felt a natural affinity for the home team). The man we rented the apartment from later suggested that the event was rigged, but I think it's hard to give anything but your most in this environment. Plus, I was there and both teams were working hard. Deba won, 40-35. <br />
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I have never experienced anything like gizon proba before. Not just because it was so foreign to us, but because we felt we really experienced an authentic community event, the kind that regularly marks the lives of the Basque people. Afterwards, we walked back to the center of town with what felt like every person who lives in Deba, and we ate at the restaurant in the town square with dozens of other families and townspeople, all basking in the excitement and energy of the feat of strength we had all witnessed. <br />
<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-29300976675972528202013-05-24T21:21:00.000+02:002013-05-24T21:21:32.263+02:00Ce n'est pas des vacancesWe arrived back in Paris today after 9 days in the Basque region of Spain and France, seriously questioning our sanity in taking this trip with a 28-month-old and 4-month-old. It turns out that traveling with kids is not actually a vacation - as one French woman we spoke with in Biarritz said, "C'est du travail!" - it's work! Good friends of ours who also recently had a second child are planning a trip to Club Med in Turkey in a few months, and throughout our trip, we thought, "Gee, that sounds like a good idea."<br />
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Basque country is a fantastic place to visit, even with kids. And I will write much more about the trip. At this moment, I am just too exhausted to do anything but pen this note about our questionable decision-making, and about how we spent most meals trying to ensure Baby Oil didn't break anything at the restaurant, and maybe ate something besides french fries. Only one meal got to the point of embarrassment, after breaking a glass, a plate, and rolling a baseball around the floor. The silver lining was that seated near to us was a French family with a little boy a few months younger than Baby Oil. At first I thought to myself, "Great, I will now watch this child happily devour spinach and cod and vegetable soup, while mine tries to jump out of his booster seat." <br />
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But no, it turns out that French toddlers may not all live up to their reputation. I watched this French child eat apple juice with a spoon, stick his hand in his water glass, and then only eat his fries. I felt much better about life after this. <br />
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The genuine delight and exuberance expressed regularly by Baby Oil did add to our enjoyment - how long has it been since you were thrilled to the point of shrieking at the sight of a crane? Or a dump truck? Or a really big car carrier? He quickly latched on to saying "hola" around Spain, which never failed to elicit a smile. <br />
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We did learn some important lessons about travels with children. For instance, now we know that snaps on pajamas from DPAM will set off airport metal detectors, but Petit Bateau jammies do not. We know that there are really big sharks in San Sebastian's aquarium, but an outside seal pool at the aquarium in Biarritz. We know that after two days of rain in a beach town, your toddler may very well resort to poking his little sister in the eye as a new fun game. We know that Spanish formula makes Mademoiselle spit up even more than normal. We know it matters less whether the town you stay in is historic, scenic, or charismatic - the real issue is, how good is the playground? <br />
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So we traveled Basque country for 9 days. We ate incredibly well, and felt like we really got a feel for the region, particularly in Spain. It was a great trip - but it was not really a vacation. <br />
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More to come...LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-71018315561217609792013-05-08T21:03:00.001+02:002013-05-08T22:01:05.885+02:00CanariesJust when I think this city is done surprising me, I learn something new.<br />
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Today I learned that in Paris, canaries are priced by how well they sing. Which leads to so many questions, such as who is the judge of quality, and what if you disagree with your bird's abilities?<br />
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I also thought I was done with pregnancy-related anecdotes. And then a friend went to her last appointment with her ob, three days before a scheduled cesarean. The doctor informed my friend that the baby looked ready to go, and he was concerned she might go into labor. "Please, do me a favor," he says. "Take a cab home, and lie down for the rest of the day. I have a reservation at a really nice restaurant tonight so I don't want to be interrupted by you going into labor."<br />
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Right now every interaction and experience is colored by the reality of our impending departure. I have been eating so many baguettes in anticipation of no longer having ready to access to them that I may actually be baguette-d out. (I say this every day, and it hasn't actually stopped me from eating one yet.) We have a bucket list of things we'd like to do before we leave, and we're heading on our last big exploration of France next week, when we go down to the Basque Coast. <br />
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I feel some regret about leaving just when Baby Oil is starting to speak French, and that Mademoiselle will have had so little time in her country of birth. For a long time, it felt like our life here was simply a time-out from our "real" life in the States. Somehow, along the way, this turned into real life. <br />
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I get two more months of life in this city of sliding-scale canary prices. Two more months of watching 10 year-olds zoom by on their scooters, holding tight to the baguettes under their arms. Two more months of elderly Parisian women going ga-ga over Mademoiselle in the grocery store (seriously, this happens often). Two months to prepare for life in New York, a life about which we know nothing except where Baby Oil will go to preschool. Which in New York, it turns out, is a major accomplishment given that we missed every application deadline. Who knew that they were so deadly serious about preschool? The acceptance letter we received read like a university admissions letter - "We are pleased to inform you that [Baby Oil] has been accepted into our program."<br />
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Two months left. What do you think we still need to do here? LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-87837145954689757022013-04-23T20:55:00.002+02:002013-04-23T20:55:57.081+02:00Feeding BebeMademoiselle is 3 months old today! But what really made me have one of those "oh, this time goes so quickly" moments (cue the cheesy music, please) was when our pediatrician told me that in just one month, it would be time to start introducing food to our petite fille. <br />
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Food? Already?!<br />
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But let's back up a few steps, and talk briefly about Mademoiselle's nutritional journey to date. For the first month of her life, she was breast-fed, with just a very few small bottles of formula given by Mr. Oil when I was truly desperate for sleep. <br />
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At her one-month check up, the pediatrician asked if I was nursing, and I said yes but mentioned that she had been given a few bottles of formula. "Wait," said the doctor, "what country are you from?"<br />
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"I'm from the US," I replied.<br />
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"But Americans do not do this. Americans are very serious about the breast-feeding. They never give a bottle. Where did you come up with this idea?" said the doctor, quite shocked about my un-American behavior (he is French, of course). <br />
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"Um, I was really tired?" I replied, a bit confused. Was he going to chastise me? Where was this heading? <br />
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"This is so French!" he exclaimed. "Of course you get tired, and it is better for your own milk if you get some rest. This is very good!" Phew. <br />
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Anyone with a child, or who has any friends with children, surely knows that there is a great and ongoing discussion about the benefits of breast-feeding. And there are significant amounts of judgment that go along with your decisions in this area. I have no plans to expound on any of this here, and while I think the judgment exists just as much in the American expat community in France as in the United States proper, the French have a different outlook. While nursing is encouraged, nobody is expected to nurse for very long. In fact, one of the informational sheets I was given when I left the hospital with Mademoiselle stated explicitly that "long-term breast-feeding is not normal in French culture, and if you choose to do this, it will be difficult." As an example of this, an American friend was at a dinner party here in Paris. She was still nursing her child, who was about 13 months at the time. An older French woman who had never met my friend before said to her point-blank, "What, will you still be nursing him in university?" <br />
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When Baby Oil was born in the US, I was visited by lactation consultants in the hospital and had several follow-up visits with the on-site lactation consultant at the pediatrician's office. In France, when I asked a question about nursing to one of the maternity nurses, I was told that the best resource for information on nursing was Message, the English-language expat moms' group of which I'm already a member. <br />
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I stopped nursing 3 weeks ago, and it was absolutely the right decision for me. Mademoiselle is thriving and smiling and happy, and I'm much happier too. So right now I'm quite grateful to have had a baby in this country where women are not expected to subjugate their body to their child for months if not years on end (not that there's anything wrong with nursing, and yes I know that breast milk is best, and yes I know that the American Association of Pediatrics says blah-blah-blah). I told the pediatrician at the three-month check-up that I stopped nursing and he gave me a blank look, as if to say, "why are you even bothering to mention such a trivial matter?" <br />
<br />
So at 4 months, we are supposed to start introducing food to Mademoiselle on a fairly regimented schedule. While at least one American mom here has told me that she would ignore the French approach, I tend to agree with the pediatrician who explained that every year, a new set of recommendations comes out that changes whatever was recommended the year before. But at the end of the day, we mostly end up doing what our grandmothers did, because we know that worked. <br />
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At 4 months, we are supposed to give formula + rice cereal in the morning. Then at "midday", give vegetable puree followed by formula. At 4:00pm, fruit puree followed by formula. In the evening, formula + rice cereal. <br />
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The best part is the 4:00pm piece, because that implies that I am feeding my baby at precise times. What happens if it's 4:30? Will I anger the French food gods?<br />
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At 6 months, by the way, we give formula with cereals that contain gluten. At midday, it's vegetables and meat or fish, followed by milk or "milk-based dessert" (because a 6 month old totally needs a 3 course lunch that includes dessert - good thing I bought those mini cocottes at the Le Creuset outlet - creme brulee is a milk-based dessert, right?). More fruit and formula at 4:00pm. <br />
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These decisions may have to moderated based on the fact that, as it turns out, our sojourn in France is about to end. In July we will return to the United States for good, and in August settle into a new life in Brooklyn. This has happened rather quickly and while it was something that presented itself to us rather than us searching for a way to get home, we are excited to be heading back to America. Though I'm not sure what our American pediatrician will say about milk-based desserts and 4:00pm fruits! <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-33821712222763932812013-04-07T21:47:00.000+02:002013-04-07T21:47:31.758+02:00The Sky Is BleuIt's a funny thing raising an accidentally bilingual child. Suddenly I have a much greater appreciation for immigrant parents in the US who send their children off to school and quickly become unable to help them in many respects.<br />
<br />
Baby Oil has been attending a French nursery school (glorified day care, but nursery school sounds better) for about nine months. It's a few hours every morning, and a fair amount of time is spent playing with toys. The <i>halte garderie</i> is private and serves a significant number of expat families (five kids from our area's expat 2011 baby playgroup attend). We are still mostly unclear about how much French Baby Oil understands while he's there, and how much he actually speaks. <br />
<br />
Yet in recent weeks, his French has started bubbling to the surface. There was the day he came home and pointed out that "the sky is <i>bleu.</i>" For several days thereafter, if you tried to tell him anything was the color blue, he would correct you, and say, "No! <i>Bleu.</i>" <br />
<br />
There was the week the school dedicated to animals. After that, we were summarily instructed to say "<i>elephant</i>"<i> (</i>"eh-lay-foh") instead of elephant, and "<i>girafe</i>" ("ghee-rahf") for giraffe. <br />
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Somewhere along the way, Baby Oil started a gimick in which he would ask, "Tap?" and then attempt to smack Mademoiselle. This was confusing because tapping someone is not necessarily hitting, and we didn't know what he meant by wanting to tap her. But I mentioned this recurring scenario to a friend and she pointed out that "<i>taper</i>" in French can mean to slap or hit. Point to the nursery school for teaching my toddler to ask if he may hit his sister in French. <br />
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Interpreting toddler-speak is not easy in one language, and certainly gets more confusing when the toddler has access to a second language, and the parents don't know what he's learned in that second language. Baby Oil's love of "<i>gateau chocolat</i>" has been clearly documented, and his big sentence in French revolves around that love - "<i>Tu as fait du gateau?</i>" (Did you make a cake?)<br />
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The only word we use for pacifier in our house is <i>tetine</i>, both because that is what the school calls it (though Baby Oil does not take his out of the crib these days, for the record) and also because frankly I don't like the word pacifier and I really don't like the term binky. On occasion, Baby Oil has referred to his <i>tetine</i> as a <i>tetifier</i> - a combination of English and French terms. <br />
<br />
If Mr. Oil or I try to talk to him in French, it usually falls flat as he expects English from us. And sometimes if he picks out a French book to read, and we begin to read it in French, he will stop us and say, "No! Read it!" Because apparently reading in French is not actually reading. But when a friend who is French - though is always speaking English around us, of course - reads to him in French, he happily soaks up every word and appears to follow the story. <br />
<br />
Most of my friends here are raising children in bilingual households because one of the parents is French. They have their own set of stories about specific items or phrases coming out only in one language, or emerging preferences for one language (usually French) over the other (usually English). Parenting is often a humbling experience, but so far one of the most significant realizations of my own limitations is when my son says a word that I know means something in another language, but I don't know what it means. Or when he nods along with a story that I can barely follow. Or simply knowing that he spends more than 15 hours each week in a French-only environment whereas I spend none in such a world. At the same time, I also feel fortunate to be able to give my son this gift - even if its only temporarily. <br />
<br />
The sky is <i>bleu</i>. I wonder what we'll learn tomorrow! <br />
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<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-49482203201652912442013-04-03T21:40:00.000+02:002013-04-03T21:40:28.620+02:00All About the FriesHere's a tip - don't go to Belgium and ask for French fries. Definitely go to Belgium, however, and eat a lot of fries. And chocolate. And waffles, unless you are traveling during Passover.<br />
<br />
We spent two days in Belgium last week - one day in Gent and one in Bruges. Both are small to medium-sized towns about a 3 hour drive from Paris, and 30 minutes from one another. Both boast beautiful Flemish architecture and winding canals.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tdpGzsDOLGpAn1KUTAg2nBpairox3RncJQ9cZOrYJIuDNDE-nHewm3uwJhGxa4wbbwFHShUeqC4gSTRQGleLmSvTmxtWhcZu5fLxJuGzZ6T_jdFrpqXfpTYL4B3x0WO8cRENiIiGYpY/s1600/DSC_4912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6tdpGzsDOLGpAn1KUTAg2nBpairox3RncJQ9cZOrYJIuDNDE-nHewm3uwJhGxa4wbbwFHShUeqC4gSTRQGleLmSvTmxtWhcZu5fLxJuGzZ6T_jdFrpqXfpTYL4B3x0WO8cRENiIiGYpY/s400/DSC_4912.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gent, Belgium</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXT68WGsPJ-Bi_gcMQXbwO1jSs09W0DCRiuFQnw8viosohSDzduAHOJLe61tYpF6W7nBWg7wdOF8k3FSM6HK_yoljDMJmOegZRM8jVg9SrOlTfpNbEJyZeme_t3RZ1rfR4WEIx0lQqHo/s1600/DSC_5063.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJXT68WGsPJ-Bi_gcMQXbwO1jSs09W0DCRiuFQnw8viosohSDzduAHOJLe61tYpF6W7nBWg7wdOF8k3FSM6HK_yoljDMJmOegZRM8jVg9SrOlTfpNbEJyZeme_t3RZ1rfR4WEIx0lQqHo/s400/DSC_5063.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bruges, Belgium</td></tr>
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<br />
Our first activity upon arriving to Gent was lunch. We picked the first place we came across, with a full menu of salads, omelettes, toasts, pastas, etc. What most of our crew really wanted was fries, but when we asked if they had any fries, the woman said no.<br />
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"No?" we asked incredulously.<br />
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The woman explained that they were not licensed to serve fries because in order to do so, they would be required to have a specific fry chef and be a "real" restaurant. We looked around and saw tables, chairs, tablecloths, and the full menu. This is not a restaurant in Belgium? And what on earth is a fry chef? <br />
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The mystery was only furthered when we stopped at a fry shop and were duly served by a sullen 20-something girl who most certainly did not appear to have any kind of chef credentials. She was the only person working in the shop. Outside there was a sign indicating that this shop has a "master fryer" but apparently he (or she) was not in the greasy shop populated by teenagers.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjHz9xRXVZS7QRxpRSz-KikB6WvkO71KQwF6hLsfdiQ8mLTnxjMSbnWjmkplFiw6rXGVJAr88IAg5H-gCnYao714vspG5G9EUDvOm4feoUXiCBeYfv1Opw_GPCHkAcRaxdgMHlD-qKN8/s1600/DSC_4952.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBjHz9xRXVZS7QRxpRSz-KikB6WvkO71KQwF6hLsfdiQ8mLTnxjMSbnWjmkplFiw6rXGVJAr88IAg5H-gCnYao714vspG5G9EUDvOm4feoUXiCBeYfv1Opw_GPCHkAcRaxdgMHlD-qKN8/s400/DSC_4952.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What's more delicious - Belgian fries, or Mademoiselle? </td></tr>
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Even the Friet Museum (yes, a museum entirely dedicated to fries) in Bruges did not answer this question, though it did offer more information about the potato than you could possibly imagine. For instance, you can massage potato slices on your nose every night to help get rid of shiny skin. Also, potatoes were once considered a food of the devil because they came from the ground. Belgian fries are, according to the Friet Museum, the best fries in the world. That is possible, and equally possible is that the Friet Museum is the only museum in the world where in addition to a gift shop there is a fry shop. And your entrance ticket gives you a discount on fries!<br />
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One important lesson we learned during this family vacation is that we are actually terrible at caravaning. We had two cars, and theoretically one car would follow the other. On the first day in Gent, we lost each other before we exited the hotel parking lot. And my visiting family did not have a working cell phone. The hotel clerk had told us generally where to park in the city and although that parking lot was full, we managed to somehow find each other anyway. That was lucky, and we resolved to do much better the next day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8xCyFq_H8a6gw-elW99YzyTUzQPWW8_QuXexzFIsrVjbHUxmhta_0C7WIQWh6NtToeKRbz5DiipKkfPWiO_x9F0sYTD8wIKU56tuQ5j2ebCjMzB-wUSQYuAGGo9yG481W4z9U3KbcoE/s1600/DSC_4946.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji8xCyFq_H8a6gw-elW99YzyTUzQPWW8_QuXexzFIsrVjbHUxmhta_0C7WIQWh6NtToeKRbz5DiipKkfPWiO_x9F0sYTD8wIKU56tuQ5j2ebCjMzB-wUSQYuAGGo9yG481W4z9U3KbcoE/s400/DSC_4946.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Oil and his uncles explore the Castle of the Counts in Gent</td></tr>
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So when we left for Bruges the next morning, we naturally lost each other before we left the parking lot. Again. This time the meet-up did not go as smoothly, in large part because the other car did not actually have a map. We were supposed to meet a tour guide in the market square at 10:00am. But my family never showed, and at almost 11 we decided we would start the tour without them.<br />
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Through some remarkable coincidence, we happened to walk over a bridge next to Bruges' famous "Lake of Love" when a boat tour cruised by on the canal. We looked at the boat, and there was my family! Our afternoon was thus spent all together as any afternoon in Belgium should be - touring the Chocolate Museum and the Fry Museum, and eating copious amounts of Belgian chocolate and Belgian fries. It's not like French chocolate is anything to sneeze at - it's amazing. But simply crossing that border gave us free rein to indulge in the not-exactly-exotic world of Belgian chocolate (which according to the Belgians, naturally, is the best chocolate in the world).<br />
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Our hotel was in a glamorous spot just off the main highway into Gent, and across the street from some sort of industrial factory. It probably produces chemicals or detergent or something really boring, but Baby Oil pronounced after examining the factory out the window of our hotel room that "it is a factory making chocolate for [Baby Oil]!" Ah, the optimism of youth. <br />
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On the third day, my family went on to Luxembourg and we headed back to Paris via Fresnoy-le-Grand. If you've never heard of this town, you are in good company as it is squarely in the middle of nowhere. But it is home to the Le Creuset factory and the Le Creuset factory store. After driving for a good 30 minutes on country roads surrounded by quiet, lush fields, a number of World War I cemeteries, and remarkably little civilization, we found Fresnoy-le-Grand. Turning onto the Rue Olivier De Guise, I was not at all convinced we were in the right place. But then we saw a really big building that could pass as a factory, and at the end of the street was a small white house. <br />
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From the parking lot, this is what you see:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN1YiU3PdPbiDGOk-pN9HUChqcHpGa8mRiwxxss52-c7xQnhPr8ZJkispithnBVS5Y1gp4PMK03IlxZG0xZ3dQfwVeT4ALSrdjC-IkUVIdk8L4sr2_5QeuNpUUURrXuiNWV7WePHJHyc/s1600/IMG_1348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuN1YiU3PdPbiDGOk-pN9HUChqcHpGa8mRiwxxss52-c7xQnhPr8ZJkispithnBVS5Y1gp4PMK03IlxZG0xZ3dQfwVeT4ALSrdjC-IkUVIdk8L4sr2_5QeuNpUUURrXuiNWV7WePHJHyc/s400/IMG_1348.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And this is the store:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMEyb9OkET8UzX510_kS6yIWVGkyIsrV6kdf9NSorlK9Y9rFVgZUw2ygVD-q-cCY8AQetGnTdkgsETK3ez9_NBXOJ4sbfuedmDmu2uXdxawVdOqFbVcDgq5nXHjnsQ80IargrGPg6AAg/s1600/IMG_1347.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMEyb9OkET8UzX510_kS6yIWVGkyIsrV6kdf9NSorlK9Y9rFVgZUw2ygVD-q-cCY8AQetGnTdkgsETK3ez9_NBXOJ4sbfuedmDmu2uXdxawVdOqFbVcDgq5nXHjnsQ80IargrGPg6AAg/s400/IMG_1347.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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But then you walk in the incredibly inauspicious doors:<br />
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to this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtl8kGsOF6pQ4NsYNOLpY39QGAwKrYGxYzCIG7u3quEIXgT5pPtlFtiZC287XoJqgQe7AIHkOmUN_JAgJ4voIhNyUWpSPHXF5bY-63qfjs82KYb66Im1b5xHDtME5rvU_5DwPXXNowVI/s1600/201003-w-outlet-creuset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtl8kGsOF6pQ4NsYNOLpY39QGAwKrYGxYzCIG7u3quEIXgT5pPtlFtiZC287XoJqgQe7AIHkOmUN_JAgJ4voIhNyUWpSPHXF5bY-63qfjs82KYb66Im1b5xHDtME5rvU_5DwPXXNowVI/s320/201003-w-outlet-creuset.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Hello Le Creuset! Everything in the store is 30%-50% off. And if you even try to suggest that these are the same deals that can be found at other Le Creuset outlets (I have no idea if this is true or not, but Mr. Oil foolishly brought it up), I will strongly argue that you are wrong. Regardless of facts. And now I have a beautiful Le Creuset pot bought just feet from the factory in scenic Fresnoy-le-Grand, France. Well, it's possible I have a beautiful large pot, 4 beautiful smaller pots, 4 beautiful mini pots, 1 beautiful serving dish, and some really nice spatulas. I may have gone a tad overboard (no comment, Mr. Oil, if you please). <br />
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Fries, chocolate, and Le Creuset. That is my kind of trip!LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-81186243547748106802013-03-27T12:01:00.000+01:002013-03-30T21:35:36.241+01:00My Last Trip to VersaillesThis weekend I went on my last trip to Versailles. I say "my last trip" because almost no incentive in the world could entice me to go to Versailles again.<br />
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It is not the palace's fault. It's not the town's fault, and definitely not my family's fault. It was just the universe converging in an annoying - for lack of a better word - way.<br />
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My family (dad, stepmom, and three brothers, who you may recall from our 2011 <a href="http://whatamidoinginfrance.blogspot.fr/2011/10/norman-tastic.html" target="_blank">adventures in Normandy</a>) is in town to spend time with Mademoiselle, and celebrate the Passover holiday. So we went to Versailles for the day since my brothers had never been.<br />
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First clue that I had upset the universe in some way was the woman who yelled at me on the train. We sat down in a virtually empty car to travel from the Gare St Lazare in Paris to Versailles. I was saying something to one of my brothers across the aisle and, sure, I have a loud voice. The French woman who had boarded after us, and chosen to sit directly behind us despite the numerous empty seats, said rudely that I was being too loud.<br />
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My first thought was, "I'm not in a library, am I? No, I'm on a train. An <i>empty</i> train." But the woman continued to berate me - though to be honest, I understand about 30% of what she said - and finally I said, in French, "You could just go sit somewhere else." Which cause her to exclaim something I did not at all understand - in fact, a word I had never before heard but whose meaning I think all of us could guess.<br />
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This was a big outing with Mademoiselle, especially as Mr. Oil was staying behind to work, but as an experienced mom, I was fully prepared. Diapers, burp cloths, a spare outfit, bottles for the baby; diapers, snacks, water bottle for Baby Oil. You name it, I had it.<br />
<br />
But about five minutes after we entered the palace, I realized the Baby Oil's water bottle had leaked all over my bag, completely soaking the burp cloths, spare outfit, several diapers, paper towels, and tissues. Awesome. While trying to dry out my bag in the corner, Baby Oil spied the Goldfish crackers I had brought as a snack and insisted on eating them throughout the palace tour. Needless to say, you are not allowed to eat in the palace of Versailles. But every time we tried to pry the crackers away, screaming ensued. Instead, I made sure to place myself between the munching toddler and any guards we saw.<br />
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Finally we sat down to lunch in one of the garden restaurants. It was a medium-chilly day, the kind where you can sit comfortably as long as you keep your jacket on. My stepmom was holding Mademoiselle when wham! - baby poop explosion.<br />
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Which is why I had brought the spare outfit. Oh, right, but now it was soaking wet. As a result, we had to strip my poor two-month-old baby naked in about 45 degree weather, wipe her clean, wrap her in a t-shirt and a fleece jacket, and try to get her to stop screaming her traumatized little head off. In the middle of lunch.<br />
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And here's where my day got really awesome.<br />
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If you have had a baby, or spent time caring for one, you know that when the baby is screaming, you start babbling to try to calm her down. Most of the time, you couldn't pay me to tell you what I am actually saying. It's a stream-of-consciousness-thing designed to soothe the little one with varied success. On the empty table behind us, I was attempting to get Mademoiselle into the Ergobaby carrier both for warmth and comfort. While doing this, I was engaged in the aforementioned babbling.<br />
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Suddenly, an American woman about my age sitting a few tables down looked over and said rudely, "Excuse me, but some of us are trying to eat lunch here."<br />
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Thinking she misunderstood what I was doing, I said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm not changing a diaper or anything, I'm just trying to get her in this carrier."<br />
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She replied, "Well, you are announcing to all of us that your baby pooped through her clothes while we are trying to eat."<br />
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Taken aback at this - since a) I had no idea what I had been saying and b) is this girl for real? - I replied, "Well, maybe one day you will have a baby and then you'll understand."<br />
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Now, I realize this is not a terribly politically correct thing to say. It's patronizing and makes all sorts of assumptions, but to be honest, the baby was still screaming and I really didn't understand why this woman was acting like a total b*tch.<br />
<br />
She responds, "Actually, I am a child psychologist."<br />
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Apparently, this is meant to imply that she does understand. And therefore, that she is in fact simply a b*tch. (Because if I replace the letter "i" with an asterisk, I am definitely not using profanity.)<br />
<br />
My come-back? "Well, then it's too bad you don't know how to be nice to adults."<br />
<br />
And then I exited the restaurant as fast as possible. I'm not known for my confrontational abilities.<br />
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Mademoiselle finally calmed down and slept the rest of the afternoon. Baby Oil actually had a great time exploring the grounds of Versailles, and we all made it back to Paris in one piece. Nonetheless, between the two different verbal attacks, the wet bag, and the poop disaster, that was my last trip to Versailles if I have any say about it!LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-85902865673815595502013-03-19T11:15:00.000+01:002013-03-19T11:17:14.303+01:00NYT FailThe New York Times loves a good article about Paris. They even have a regular Paris correspondent, Elaine Sciolino, who has an <a href="http://www.elainesciolino.com/about" target="_blank">incredibly impressive resume</a>. That said, the NYT's eagerness to report on the intersection of Paris with an always-popular Jewish theme has sorely missed the mark this week.<br />
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I'm referring to the article titled "<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/20/dining/solving-the-passover-puzzle-in-paris.html?pagewanted=1&ref=elainesciolino" target="_blank">Solving the Passover Puzzle in Paris</a>." The article presents a seriously limited picture of what it is like to prepare for one of Judaism's biggest annual holidays (and certainly the one that requires the most effort) here in Paris.<br />
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It is true that the French have a remarkable ability to compartmentalize their religious identity such that it is difficult to ascertain the average Frenchman's religion or level of religious observance, that most synagogues are located within unmarked or minimally-marked buildings, and that a neighborhood's kosher market may look like a regular store from the outside. Yet this does not mean that it is difficult to prepare for Passover, nor that the only options, as presented in the article, are a trip to the Marais or to Rue Richer.<br />
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We live on the border of the 8th and 17th arrondissements. Within a fifteen minute walk of our apartment are three kosher butchers, a kosher bakery, two kosher markets, and multiple kosher restaurants. There are even Passover products available in the chain grocery store down the street, and the kosher markets carry much of the standard Passover fare one finds in the US - matzah ball mix, frozen gefilte fish, potato starch, largely-tasteless Passover cake mixes, and more. <br />
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Even better is that several of the kosher restaurants in Paris - of which, by the way, there are well over 100 - remain open during Passover. Last year's <a href="http://www.mangercacher.com/liste-restaurants-cacher_pessah_2012.html" target="_blank">list of kosher-for-Passover restaurants</a> includes over 15 businesses.<br />
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Do you have to find out where to shop for specific products, or where your local kosher market is located? Sure, but that is no less true in Teaneck, New Jersey than it is here in Paris. Are there many more Sephardic-approved products here that you must be aware of if you follow Ashkenazic traditions with regard to Passover food? Sure, but they are clearly labeled as such.<br />
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So listen, New York Times. I know that people love to read about Paris (really - I love to read about the city, and I live there!) and I know that Jewish-themed articles invariably end up on your most-emailed list. But next time you want to write about how to find or eat kosher food here, or celebrate a Jewish holiday in Paris, please consider talking to someone who is either a) actually Jewish, or b) has a wider view of Jewish life in Paris than Ms. Sciolino.<br />
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The anecdote about the pork-filled duck is cute, but I promise it is much easier to simply walk to the kosher butcher who can provide the same array of products minus the pork. I also realize that this post is a bit of a deviation from my normal style, but what can I say, my apartment is already filled with matzah and this article just pushed my Passover buttons! <br />
<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-29409802489222176302013-03-12T09:54:00.000+01:002013-03-12T09:54:01.088+01:00Forget Fondue<br />
Forget fondue. Really. All you need is a Mont d'Or, one garlic clove, and a little white wine. <br />
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Mont d'Or is a French cheese that comes in a round wooden case, much like a camembert or brie or many typical French cheeses, originating from some of the mountains on the Swiss border. However, Mont d'Or is a seasonal cheese that is only available in the winter. <br />
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We were completely ignorant about this cheese until David Lebovitz <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/2013/03/vacherin-mont-dor-cheese-fromage/" target="_blank">blogged about it last week</a>. As usual, we followed his instructions to the letter, and we were not disappointed. <br />
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When we purchased our Mont d'Or at our neighborhood fromagerie, Mr. Oil asked the sales clerk how to prepare it properly. She looked at him as if he had just asked how to breathe air, and replied, "White wine." Evidently, we had shocked her with our uneducated queries. <br />
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Our next stop was of course the wine shop, where upon explaining that we planned to eat a Mont d'Or that evening, the man simply nodded and without hesitating sold us a bottle of white wine from Savoie. <br />
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At home, we duly sliced a garlic clove, made small openings in the top of the cheese, pushed the garlic slices into the cheese, wrapped it in foil (top open), and poured on a small amount of white wine. We then placed it in the oven for about half an hour.<br />
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Mont d'Or is a creamy cheese to begin with, but when it warms up, mixed with the garlic and white wine, and you slice a fresh baguette that you dunk directly in your bubbly, warm, oh-my-I-just-went-to-cheese-heaven confection, it is an entirely new cheese experience. <br />
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It is the second week of March, and it is snowing here in Paris. Part of me is dismayed because I very much want to spring to start already, but another part of me is thinking - time for another Mont d'Or! <br />
LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-8529939827344222262013-03-11T13:49:00.000+01:002013-03-11T13:49:13.280+01:00Thick or ThinI'm not sure why it took us a year and a half to discover French honey, but it did. But now that we've found it, there is so much to learn.<br />
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As with everything, honey is not simply honey in France. There are an infinite number of kinds of honey, from the thin, syrupy type that you might pour in tea or use in cooking, to honey thicker than butter that you spread directly on your toast. We finally visited La Maison du Miel, which, while touristy, is certainly worth a visit for no other reason than you can taste a lot of delicious honey for free. The store has been around since 1905, so they certainly know their honey. And if eating honey isn't enough for you, there are honey candles, honey lotions, honey candy, and more. <br />
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Lavender honey, rosemary honey, rhododendron honey, mountain honey, lime-tree honey, acacia honey, fir tree honey - and that's just the tip of the iceberg. Some tasted almost smoky, some had a bitter after taste, but all of them have a unique flavor. We came home with a thick, spreadable lavender honey that even Baby Oil has been requesting on his toast. <br />
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Most of my life right now consists of feeding Mademoiselle (you know, when I'm not feeding myself). In France, you only visit your pediatrician a full month after you leave the hospital. During that month, and the months following, however, most people visit their local PMI (Protection Maternelle et Infantile) at least once. Each arrondissement has a PMI office, which holds daily "pesees-conseils" (weight advice sessions) during which you simply drop-in, weigh your baby, and can discuss with the staff whether your baby is gaining enough weight, how often they are eating, etc. You can also take care of immunizations at the PMI if you prefer - and all of this is completely free of charge. <br />
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Mademoiselle was a bit underweight at her one-month check up, so I went to the PMI to check on her weight for each of the last two weeks. So last Thursday I showed up, they weighed her, recorded her weight in her carnet de sante (portable health record that the parent keeps), and calculated how many grams she has gained each day on average. Baby Oil played with the excellent selection of toys available while I chatted with the PMI workers. <br />
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The next day - Friday - my phone rang around 5:45pm. It was the woman from the PMI, and she explained that the previous evening she realized she had made a mistake in calculating Mademoiselle's weight gain per day, and she wanted to correct it in our records. This error bothered her so much that she was standing outside our building, wondering if she could come up for a few minutes to correct the mistake. <br />
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I said yes, of course, but was mostly flabbergasted by what was happening. To be honest, I hadn't even looked at the number she had written down - I paid attention to her actual weight but wasn't sure I had to care about the grams per day business. The woman walked in with white-out in her hand, whited-out the calculation from yesterday while explaining that upon realizing her error, she had been unable to sleep all night. She then filled in the correct number, and told me that now she could rest easy for the weekend. She also told me that she hoped I would not hold this mistake against the PMI and that I would continue to come and partake of their (free) services. <br />
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I don't know if this is typical or not - frankly, I'm guessing not - but it certainly was impressive! LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-67963395415948704552013-03-02T18:57:00.002+01:002013-03-02T18:57:34.707+01:00Goat CuddlesA new Chagall exhibit opened last week at the Musee du Luxembourg. We wanted my mother-in-law to feel like she had done something in Paris other than play with Baby Oil and rock Mademoiselle to sleep, so we headed to the small museum just inside the Luxembourg Gardens.<br />
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It turns out that Chagall is fantastic for a toddler, mostly because his art features a lot of farm animals. For instance, take Chagall's well-known "Midsummer Night's Dream":<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXkqM43QYFV-l0y3f9Dt6Kr8uV4BHa1wLv-A5wqvdPBS4R1EEIqr9y7Py8K-CYezeNpFRCAfku8khHzpJCjnUxcga7w2S5BhRpeROu6Zs5KlWF7MUAQg-_fqLbHEvODcsdpFsii06ymw/s1600/chagall_midsummer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXkqM43QYFV-l0y3f9Dt6Kr8uV4BHa1wLv-A5wqvdPBS4R1EEIqr9y7Py8K-CYezeNpFRCAfku8khHzpJCjnUxcga7w2S5BhRpeROu6Zs5KlWF7MUAQg-_fqLbHEvODcsdpFsii06ymw/s400/chagall_midsummer.jpg" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Credit: Marc Chagall</td></tr>
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Baby Oil took one look at this painting and declared, "Goat cuddles!" And really, that does look like one cuddly goat. <br />
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We also spent quite a bit of time studying "The Dance" - rather than consider the bright colors and possible biblical symbolism, we mostly discussed the chicken. And the violin. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCogqTPB0hgQRJ9e2YSmy3FDzU6OuRzSl601vMF3BOzgt5nnqDEuPqX7uEmpYS5eGAW0scy40ZDNhl_1z4DmtKJBzKDLqHSAsMYAQbqJyZ_8azR4j9eX1bFwPJPYHy7Hum5ypFGdihIw/s1600/marc-chagall-painting-the-dance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsCogqTPB0hgQRJ9e2YSmy3FDzU6OuRzSl601vMF3BOzgt5nnqDEuPqX7uEmpYS5eGAW0scy40ZDNhl_1z4DmtKJBzKDLqHSAsMYAQbqJyZ_8azR4j9eX1bFwPJPYHy7Hum5ypFGdihIw/s400/marc-chagall-painting-the-dance.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Credit: Marc Chagall</td></tr>
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Mademoiselle thoroughly enjoyed her first museum (it was also her one month birthday!), and celebrated by sleeping soundly throughout the visit.<br />
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Winter is long in Paris. Maybe not every year, but definitely this year. It is now March, and I can barely remember when the world was not gray and cold. It makes venturing out with both kids significantly less appealing, to say the least. One of the few bright spots (besides the whole new daughter thing) has been our discovery of an amazing patisserie/boulangerie just north of Place Marechal Juin on Avenue de Villiers in the 17th. This is not actually near our apartment at all. It is 3 metro stops or over a mile walk away. Yet we've managed to get there at least five times since Mademoiselle was born in order to gorge ourselves on the best raisin bread ever, or the spectacular desserts that rival any to be found in the big-name places around town. Given that there are at least 8 boulangeries within a four block radius - and untold numbers within a three metro stop radius - you must believe this one is something special. Winter has its silver linings, and when it gets really cold and dreary, there's always goat cuddles to keep you warm...LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-65490375232741979442013-02-21T13:36:00.000+01:002013-02-21T13:46:48.451+01:00Dropping the BallYou know what is the same in France as in the US? Sleep deprivation.<br />
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The blog has been silent for the past few weeks as I've been immersed in the 24-hours-a-day life of caring for a newborn. This part is really the same no matter the country or continent. I would say I'm sorry for dropping the blog ball, but the truth is I mostly have no idea what day it is, or what time it is, or what my own name is. <br />
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Speaking of dropping the ball, another thing that I have to believe is the same is the adjustment of the older sibling to the baby. Overall, Baby Oil is very sweet to his little sister, who I'll be calling Mademoiselle here - except, for instance, when he dropped a soccer ball on her head quite purposefully, then tried to claim that the "ball fell down" and it was an "accident."<br />
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I had a follow up appointment with my ob 12 days after the birth to get the bandage from the c-section removed. Imagine my surprise - and chagrin - when at the end of the appointment, the doctor asked me to step on the scale and record my weight. I'm not even pregnant anymore! Why do you need to know how much I weigh?! And to top it all off, his response to the number I gave was, "Well, that's a bit high." Thanks for the confidence boost less than two weeks post-birth, doc.<br />
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Today we officially submitted the paperwork at the US Embassy to establish Mademoiselle's US citizenship and apply for her passport. This meant that earlier in the week, I had to get passport photos taken of a four-week-old baby. It being Paris, naturally it turned out that French passport photo requirements are a different size, so there are only a few places you can go in order to get US passport photos. The photo shop I went to was just blocks from the fashionable Rue Faubourg St-Honore, so of course the other customer in the store was an actual fashion model picking up new photos for her lookbook (thank you America's Next Top Model for the appropriate vocabulary). I'm standing there, recently declared fat by my doctor, with my little munchkin, next to a stick-thin, dressed-entirely-in-chic-black, unbelievably gorgeous model. Oh Paris, you always provide amusement. <br />
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We are starting to think about spring/summer travel plans so there are sure to be some adventures as we figure out how to traipse around Europe with two kids...LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-56568531587177134152013-01-30T18:03:00.000+01:002013-01-30T18:03:38.150+01:00Hospital Living The nuts and bolts of having a baby in France are the same as the US, and probably as pretty much anywhere. What was most different, at least in my experience, was the food. And the baths. <br />
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Food first. Frankly, I don't remember anything I ate at Sibley Hospital in Washington, DC when Baby Oil was born. Mostly I recall people bringing us take-out from restaurants we like (oh Thai Chef, I do miss you). Yet the first thing that both Mr. Oil and I noticed in my hospital room at the American Hospital of Paris was the wine list. That's right - the wine list. <br />
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No, French doctors are not encouraging the mixing of painkillers and wine. The <i>carte des vins </i>is intended for your guests. Because naturally you will want to weigh the merits of the Bordeaux versus the Bourgogne in order to properly fete your family or friend's most recent arrival. Or you can spring for the 70 euro Veuve Clicquot. <br />
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The meals themselves were delivered by waiters - wearing a waiter's uniform. Every meal consisted of a soup, some sort of salad, the main dish, an equivalent of the cheese course, and dessert. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thursday's lunch - grilled salmon, polenta, roasted tomato, orange salad with mint, etc</td></tr>
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The novelty of the meals did wear off by the time I left, in part because my dietary restrictions (kosher) meant that I ate fish or eggs for lunch and dinner every day. And perhaps my favorable review also stems from the fact that I was generally starving by the time the next meal was brought around. But really, how can you complain when this is your dessert at lunch? <br />
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But the real highlight of each day was baby bath time. Just for the record, when you have a baby in the US, not only does your baby NOT receive a full bath every single day in the hospital, you are in fact instructed not to submerge your baby in a bath until the umbilical cord stump has fallen off. In France, the bath is essential. <br />
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First, you lie your baby on a pad and gently use a disposable cloth glove to shampoo her hair, and wash her entire body. Meanwhile, the nurse has filled the sink at your bathing station with lovely warm water. You cradle the baby so that her neck and head rest on your forearm, and your hand is under her far arm, and you use your free hand to rinse off the baby while she gently floats in the bath. The second that tiny body goes into the warm water, she completely relaxes. It's amazing. She would happily have hung out in the bath forever. You rinse her off, even dunking her head (but not face, of course), and when you're ready, you lift her out of the bath onto the towel.<br />
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The first time I did this, I dried her off and started to get her dressed. The nurse stopped me, astonished. "You do not want to give massage?" she asked. Sheepishly I had to admit I didn't know about the massage (please pronounce in French accent for full effect - mah-sahge)! Using a special baby cream, you proceed to give your baby a full on rub down - first on her back, you massage chest, stomach, legs. Then you turn her over onto her stomach. While many of not most babies don't love tummy time immediately, it seems that they do love a good back massage. <br />
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Finally, you put on her diaper, use a special solution to clean the umbilical cord area, use another solution to wipe clean her eyes and face, dress your baby in her clean outfit for the day (which explains more about why they ask you to bring an outfit for each day to the hospital - don't tell, but we just rotated the same two or three outfits), and voila. A clean and content baby. Feed that baby and she'll drop off to a deep, happy sleep for several hours, thoroughly exhausted by her precise toilette. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Post-bath baby, rocking the wool cardigan</td></tr>
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To get an idea of the bath part, watch <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OPSAgs-exfQ" target="_blank">this YouTube video</a> which has recently made the Facebook rounds. They don't have you submerge the face or turn the baby on her side like this professional does, but it definitely showcases the wonder of the baby bath. In fact, at 6am one morning the nurse coming to bring me painkillers asked if she could show me something on "the Google" that would be helpful for me, and this is the video to which she directed me. <br />
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And because no international experience is complete without some sort of translation error, I present to you the helpful sheet of paper I was given upon leaving the hospital:<br />
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Thank you, American Hospital of Paris. Mostly for the chocolate cake. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-47748745501710601782013-01-26T12:33:00.000+01:002013-01-26T12:33:20.361+01:00And Then There Were FourWe came to Paris a family of three, and we are officially now a family of four. <br />
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By the time last Tuesday rolled around, I was so ready to not be pregnant a moment longer that I hadn't spent much time thinking about what this experience would be like in France. I was reminded that it would be at least somewhat different than Baby Oil's birth on Tuesday afternoon, when my ob called me.<br />
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"Allo? Madame Oil?"<br />
"Yes?"<br />
"There is a small problem. The anesthesiologist says he has never met you and does not have your dossier. Did you have an appointment with him?"<br />
"Yes, of course, two weeks ago." (Thinking: "Holy crap if they tell me they are not taking this baby out of me tomorrow, I'm really going to be annoyed")<br />
"Hmm. Well, can you come to my office this afternoon? We will work this out?"<br />
<br />
So, approximately 5 hours before I'm supposed to check into the hospital, I head over to my doctor's office. Who had told me two weeks ago specifically, I might add, that there was no need for another appointment with him before the c-section. When there, he gets on the phone with the anesthesiologist. Some polite French banter ensues, followed by, "Oui, with a zed." As it turns out, my first name, spelled with a "z" in the US, is more commonly spelled with an "s" in France. So despite having my last name and birth date, all of the confusion was caused by a misspelling in my first name. <br />
<br />
I get to the hospital Tuesday night - which all along I had thought was ridiculous because who ever heard of checking in the night before for a planned c-section? I argued best I could but in the end I had little choice - and after a basic monitoring of the baby, am shown to my room. Here's where the fun begins. The nurse pulls out a little bottle of Betadine scrub (iodine soap). I am instructed to take a shower that night using half of the bottle. Then I will be woken at 6am to take another shower with the other half of the bottle. Apparently they want you to be very clean here.<br />
<br />
Then the nurse checked my previous c-section incision area to ensure I was properly waxed. Her words, not mine. Apparently I passed muster and therefore was spared the hospital waxing experience. <br />
<br />
Mr. Oil went home, and I slept for a few hours in my hospital bed. The crying baby next door at 2am ensured I did not forget why I was there (as if that was possible). Soon enough, it was showtime. Everything was quite straight-forward, in particular since I had done this once before, though it was a bit disconcerting to listen to the nurses and orderlies exchanging chuckling remarks and not have any idea what they were saying. <br />
<br />
Then our baby girl was born. All I remember is Mr. Oil saying, "It is a girl, right?" <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj983h74bwA1oJADQHNduVfSwWYsv9ZQyYtzlzAuVChztagT8G8puEjANxprzBE7RUrQacm0JI6gjTHy5C8o41rIu0xtdtOniByda4r6L1M8-3zH1AbVFQhSsh00PdeeM-NLB3WGrxFQPU/s1600/DSC_3737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj983h74bwA1oJADQHNduVfSwWYsv9ZQyYtzlzAuVChztagT8G8puEjANxprzBE7RUrQacm0JI6gjTHy5C8o41rIu0xtdtOniByda4r6L1M8-3zH1AbVFQhSsh00PdeeM-NLB3WGrxFQPU/s400/DSC_3737.JPG" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bienvenue, ma cherie!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Let me also talk for a moment about socks. I was asked to don a pair of anti-embolism socks - you know, the kind you wear for long rides on airplanes if you are old or pregnant or something - before the c-section. Okay, fine. I was never told I could take them off, so I left them on the whole first night. By the next morning, my legs were itchy and uncomfortable. So I took off the socks. Even though at this point I was already up and moving around, I was told at least four different times on both Thursday and Friday that I needed to continue wearing the socks. "It is tres important," two doctors and two nurses told me. <br />
<br />
But I'm an American rebel, and the socks stayed off. <br />
<br />When I was first brought back to my room after the c-section, I received a lovely sort of sponge bath, which was much appreciated. Yet my baby still had birth gook in her hair, because they don't bathe babies until day 2. So I'd basically taken three showers/baths in the past 12 hours, but my poor kid who was just born had to stay somewhat dirty all night. <br />
<br />
You will recall the lengthy packing list I shared with clothes for baby. Indeed, the nurses quickly asked Mr. Oil for the baby's outfit. Our selection was found more or less adequate - when I finally saw our daughter after 2 hours in the recovery room, she was wearing: a long-sleeved onesie, a set of footie pajamas, the requisite cardigan, a hat and a zip-up swaddle. And she was wrapped in a blanket. Not only this, but apparently the nurses expressed disappointment that we did not have socks for the baby. (We did actually have socks, but Mr. Oil did not know that as they were not in the Ziploc bag labeled "Day 1 Clothes.") For comparison, please note that Baby Oil spent his first day of life wearing one hospital-provided shirt, a hospital-provided hat and one hospital-provided blanket. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsmpsM_OGay4DjV6eG62tqzuIkTgsDKQ6CSW6wYLLxHFVyT5g6vBkTbStDBLiKBC6l6-Bj07S48kdB0gwpTYN3Wz0H5oMEm0cE2NvRWCWgiUB1T5lgzRKQbBulsavaFm7SkASwxT-5U4/s1600/DSC_3768.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvsmpsM_OGay4DjV6eG62tqzuIkTgsDKQ6CSW6wYLLxHFVyT5g6vBkTbStDBLiKBC6l6-Bj07S48kdB0gwpTYN3Wz0H5oMEm0cE2NvRWCWgiUB1T5lgzRKQbBulsavaFm7SkASwxT-5U4/s400/DSC_3768.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Oil meets Little Sis (who desperately needs a good blog name)</td></tr>
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More to come in my next post - baby baths, French hospital food, and more. For now, rest assured that the baby is warmly dressed and, on day 4, both mom and baby are very, very clean. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-25950213647671942382013-01-19T20:39:00.000+01:002013-01-19T20:39:06.303+01:00SnowIt snowed last night. And not just the ten minute flurries that evaporate upon hitting the ground that we've experienced a few times in the past weeks. Actual snow, falling for several hours, in that silent and beautiful way of true snowfall. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our balcony</td></tr>
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<br />
Even better, the snow was still there this morning. Baby Oil has never experienced snow before, since last year we didn't get any here, and he definitely doesn't remember the few small dustings of snow that occurred every few days for the first three weeks of his life (perils of a January baby - oh right, now I'm waiting on another January baby). <br />
<br />
As with most everything about Paris, there is something especially magical about the transformation of this city in the snow. The elegant, regal beauty of the buildings and parks that has become a humdrum everyday sight is refreshed; the quiet grace of fallen snow could not ask for a better backdrop than Paris.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The entrance to Parc Monceau</td></tr>
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<br />
We headed to Parc Monceau - always and forever the most beautiful park in Paris, in my opinion - to teach Baby Oil about snowballs and see how Parisians deal with snow. While not a regular winter occurrence, it is not uncommon enough that buildings and businesses are not equipped with shovels and other snow-related tools. Most surprising, though, was that the four-plus inches of snow in the park had not deterred the runners. The snow was already packed down on the main running loop by 9:30am, and while personally I always choose to use inclement weather as a reason not to exercise (though who I am kidding, I have not exercised since we moved to France), the Parisian joggers seemed unperturbed by the new turf. <br />
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Also, some of them missed the memo about weather-appropriate running gear. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eHQ3c8t6FS7bsVsfP5CiY-f_dwCQkSM8mbdMR4D__fOS_7iqB1EyzwXQtuaThaqlmN6jb-gwMIQ0CS0VFIJmfMYz6EGpSXfocFGv9q9VeBKamKaovzKptAlEelrRqHj3T6TtPhAZohs/s1600/DSC_3710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eHQ3c8t6FS7bsVsfP5CiY-f_dwCQkSM8mbdMR4D__fOS_7iqB1EyzwXQtuaThaqlmN6jb-gwMIQ0CS0VFIJmfMYz6EGpSXfocFGv9q9VeBKamKaovzKptAlEelrRqHj3T6TtPhAZohs/s400/DSC_3710.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pardon, Monsieur, but really - shorts?</td></tr>
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<br />
Nothing specifically riveting happened today, and no cultural understandings were fostered. We played in the snow - it was gorgeous and fun!<br />
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LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-12216566485847477092013-01-11T13:32:00.001+01:002013-01-11T13:32:42.455+01:00Little MomentsSome days in Paris are a series of little moments that end with me remembering that Paris is a special place.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I ventured to Neuilly-sur-Seine, a close-in suburb (think Bethesda to Washington, DC) for an appointment with my osteopath (no, nothing serious, just an ongoing shoulder issue). I love this osteopath because, in addition to being good at his job, he has a fantastic sense of humor and, frankly, he's easy on the eyes. <br />
<br />
Walking up the main boulevard in Neuilly, there seemed to be an unusual amount of commotion as well as a sizeable group of men standing in the middle of the street shouting. I later learned that in fact these were taxi drivers striking for the day. They were choosing to strike by a) not working, b) parking their cars in the middle of a major boulevard to thoroughly annoy all other drivers, and c) throwing eggs. This last part I did not see, but my osteopath peeked out the window at one point during my appointment and informed me as to this development. He seemed unamused by the egg-throwing, yet also unsurprised. <br />
<br />
In what has turned into a moment I share with many Parisians, at one point the osteopath asked me how I like living in Paris. I replied, as I always do, "It's great!" And he replied, as most Parisians do, "But the people? You like Parisians?" <br />
<br />
When I hesitated just a beat before answering, he assured me, "Don't worry, you can tell me anything, I am Parisian." And just then I came up with a new theory about Parisians, which I proceeded to share with him. "You know what I think?" I said. "I think you Parisians are extremely proud of your reputation as unfriendly jerks, but the truth is, you aren't so bad."<br />
<br />
At this, he started to laugh and after a minute replied, "You may be right!" So this is my new working theory - that Parisians are purposeful curmudgeons, but it's more about the reputation than the reality. <br />
<br />
In the afternoon, I conquered a significant remaining fear - I got my hair cut. Yes, we've lived here for a year and a half and this is the first time I've had my hair cut in France. I'm not particularly choosy about hair style - a combination of laziness and frugality lead to me cutting my hair just a couple times a year. My reticence for the French coiffure experience was based entirely on my fear that my lack of French vocabulary coupled with the reputed strong opinions of French hairdressers would lead to disaster. One friend told me that one Parisian hairdresser simply gave her bangs without asking. <br />
<br />
But I'm having a baby in less than 2 weeks and I really wanted a hair cut. Fortunately, the Christine Keller Salon in the 6th was exactly what I needed. On my way to the appointment, I looked up the word for layers since that seems to be something that always arises in a hair cut. However, Google Translate told me the word was "couches" which is also the word for diapers. Terrified that I would ask for just a few diapers on my head, I went in armed with my best dumb American smile. <br />
<br />
Christine Keller, though she did not actually cut my hair, is one of those timelessly elegant Parisian woman - think Catherine Deneuve as a <i>coiffeuse </i>(hairdresser - but <i>coiffeuse</i> sounds way better). Actually, even better than <i>coiffeuse</i> is the term <i>visagiste</i>, which translates as beautician but more implies someone who is going to know exactly how to best present your hair or skin to make you look your best. <br />
<br />
I also appreciated how both the girl doing my hair and Christine Keller made sure to tell me several times how great I look. They informed me that many pregnant women start looking very tired in the face towards the end, but I do not! There was some general banter and joking which I did not understand (if forced to tell you, I would have to say there was a joke about how if my baby was born on an airplane, it would get a free haircut, but I'm fairly sure that was not what they were saying). I just smiled and smiled, and left with a great hair cut.<br />
<br />
My final ah-Paris moment of the day came on the metro on my way home. I was sitting across from your average young French professional - dressed in his skinny suit, with his skinny shirt, looking as dapper and elegant as you can in dark gray and black (which, in Paris, is pretty darn elegant). And then I saw his shoes - black, of course, but with magenta-colored laces! <br />
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It was a good Paris day. LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9170384055537981463.post-53169430915181901152013-01-07T21:01:00.000+01:002013-01-08T09:50:51.048+01:00The Obvious ReasonA quick anecdote I've been meaning to share for a few weeks:<br />
<br />
Just before Christmas, we shared a delicious raclette dinner at the home of some good friends here in Paris. Raclette, if you don't know, is a delicious tradition from eastern France/Germany/that area involving melting cheese which gets dripped over potatoes, vegetables, meats, etc. Like this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLJzPVyuWvrJX3jugAfUz3QgdZiN_2FPRksPmaGGQLGQxuVlw-Zno31hLlwLnMMyh4zo7XzPwzMGIvuxju0JO7q-y0giFUIws8wo9ovyOXNFIW5eVITDBlIfryILcu32ohHxQHgU8XJ8/s1600/prod-14301grill-raclette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicLJzPVyuWvrJX3jugAfUz3QgdZiN_2FPRksPmaGGQLGQxuVlw-Zno31hLlwLnMMyh4zo7XzPwzMGIvuxju0JO7q-y0giFUIws8wo9ovyOXNFIW5eVITDBlIfryILcu32ohHxQHgU8XJ8/s400/prod-14301grill-raclette.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crummy photo I borrowed from the internet, but that's the cheese melting on the lower level of the raclette maker...</td></tr>
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In preparation for the dinner, the American wife says to her French husband, "Should we serve cider with the raclette?" (Cider, of course, meaning hard cider which is probably the principal French drink of choice after wine) Her French husband looks at her with dismay and says, "Of course not! For the obvious reason."<br />
<br />
Thinking that perhaps the obvious reason is that both she and I are currently pregnant, she says, "Right. But what's the obvious reason?"<br />
<br />
Bemused to be educating his non-French spouse, the husband replies, "Because raclette is from the Alps, and cider is from the west. So we must drink wine from Alps." If only all obvious reasons were that obvious...<br />
<br />
Speaking of things that may or may not be obvious, I acquired this week the packing list for the maternity ward in preparation for Baby Oil #2's arrival (yes, I'll give the baby a separate name upon arrival). In the US, of course, you would never see such a packing list because most of the items on there are what you are supposed to bring for the baby. Apparently our new child will not spend the first several days of her life wearing a hospital shirt while swaddled in a hospital blanket. Oh no. Not in France. <br />
<br />
The packing list includes a separate list for the first day:<br />
<ul>
<li>1 warm pair of pajamas</li>
<li>1 long-sleeved bodysuit</li>
<li>1 hat</li>
<li>1 wool wrap-around cardigan</li>
<li>1 pair of socks</li>
</ul>
Just on this section alone I found myself thinking - wool wrap-around cardigan??!! This is standard baby wear in France? On the day of birth? Also, all the pajamas we own for newborns have feet, so what's with the socks? <br />
<br />
For the rest of your stay, you should bring:<br />
<ul>
<li>5 pairs of pajamas (apparently we no longer care if they are warm or not)</li>
<li>5 bodysuits</li>
<li>1 wool wrap-around cardigan (does this mean 2 total?)</li>
<li>2 hats</li>
<li>1 pair of baby mittens </li>
<li>1 gigoteuse (padded sleep bag)</li>
<li>1 going home outfit</li>
</ul>
This is a gigoteuse:<br />
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We of course don't own one. Nor do we have the requisite cardigans, or baby mittens for that matter. I'm a bit concerned that the nurses are going to mock me and my heathen American ways ("she wants to swaddle her baby?" - insert appropriate French sound of disgust and disdain here!). I'm also a bit concerned that my baby will be very cold. It seems as though I should be preparing for a hospital with no heat, despite the fact that the American Hospital of Paris is in fact the most expensive and fanciest hospital in Paris.<br />
<br />
I am prepared for a number of other differences from my first birthing experience. One friend who delivered her son at the same hospital told me that after waiting over an hour in the recovery room to see her son again following a c-section, a nurse came in the room. "Where's my baby?" my friend asked, anxious to see her first child for more than the few overwhelming moments in the delivery room. "Oh, he will come," the nurse answered, "but now I am here to help you look nice for your husband." In other words, the expectation was that my friend should spend a few minutes fixing her hair and/or putting on make-up. My friend's response was, "Bring me my baby!" You see, the reasons are often far from obvious to us expats living here in France. <br />
<br />
PS Happy 2nd Birthday Baby Oil!!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wA-oYRlXrReqNMTOc9_jZCidQy6795HIpQ53EeuUQiP8NElty1SJP4ResiLkaW2PbE-_D2GykGclHA6jHiEJNxtV-zYZxWufS12BtzOip7-AfpYz9OgEjNWabg3D4L5LbRrGa9k0v2I/s1600/DSC_3545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4wA-oYRlXrReqNMTOc9_jZCidQy6795HIpQ53EeuUQiP8NElty1SJP4ResiLkaW2PbE-_D2GykGclHA6jHiEJNxtV-zYZxWufS12BtzOip7-AfpYz9OgEjNWabg3D4L5LbRrGa9k0v2I/s400/DSC_3545.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, that's right, I made an Elmo cake for his party! American all the way, thank you Duncan Hines!</td></tr>
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<br />LChttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09978661030516995581noreply@blogger.com