Bumping

I learned a new English term this week for a very Parisian activity - bumping.

Let me back up for a minute.  As I've mentioned, we recently acquired a car.  Driving in Paris requires confidence, some aggression, large amounts of patience, and a general disregard for any driving safety rules you may have learned.  There is something special about driving in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, or driving across the Seine.  Yet I'm not sure that the benefit outweighs the stress and headaches caused by traffic and crazy drivers.

Parking in Paris requires all of the above, plus a serious amount of creativity.  Anything you might consider an illegal or inappropriate parking spot - the corner of two streets, the middle of large boulevard, etc - is apparently fair game.  More importantly, there is absolutely no requirement that you leave any space at all between your vehicle, and those on either side of it.

When I first saw just how close cars are comfortably parked, I thought it was charming. I even snapped a picture.

Charming!

But then I left my apartment earlier this week, planning to drive somewhere.  When I got to my car, the Parisian parking approach was no longer charming or even humorous.  It was darn right annoying because the car behind us was literally on our bumper, and the car in front had left approximately two inches of space.

Back of our car.

Front of our car.

Understandably frustrated (possibly even irate), I texted Mr. Oil even though he was on a work trip in Brazil.  I had tried to work with the inch or two I'd been given, to no avail.  Mr. Oil conferred with his French boss and informed me that I was supposed to gently push the cars in either direction until one of them moved enough.  Though this seemed bizarre, I gave it a try.  Sadly, I quickly realized that our 1997 not-in-the-best-shape car was more likely to suffer lasting damage than to leave the parking spot.

I went to my source for all-things-Paris, the online forum of my expat moms group.  Several moms wrote back within hours, informing me that bumping is in fact the accepted and anticipated result.  "Bumping is a 'sport'", one wrote. Another posted, "I called it "bump & grind" because we had to bump the cars in front and behind to get out of the parking spot while grinding our teeth because we would be so angry."  The French even have a sense of humor about it, with an entire website dedicated to posting photos of ridiculous parking jobs.

When my first bumping effort failed, I took the bus instead.  And like the non-Parisian that I am, I simply waited until one of the cars blocking me in left. At which point I didn't actually need to go anywhere, nor did I need to move the car.  But I reveled in the knowledge that now I could. Bumping is unlikely to be a skill I acquire anytime soon...

Madagascar Meets LVMH

Every winter, the windows of Printemps and Galeries Lafayette along Boulevard Haussman are transformed into a spectacle of puppets - somehow this marriage of fashion, artistry, and absolute kitsch hits the spot during the holiday season.

This year, the windows are sponsored by Louis Vuitton at Galeries Lafayette and Christian Dior at Printemps.  But for any parent, or simply any person who has ever seen any of the Madagascar movies, the Louis Vuitton windows in particular are both fantastic, and fantastically hysterical.  I'm not sure whether the true intention was some pushing-the-envelope-of-fashion or a nod to childrens' love of wildlife, but surely you will agree that the lemur in 300 euro shades is a sight to behold.

Even the penguins get an opportunity to strut in luxury.

Down the street, the more feminine presentation of girls ice-skating and promenading in Dior's "Inspirations Parisiennes" are less jarring to the senses.

But Dior is not without its wild side, as indicated by the animal-masked ballroom dancers.

It's important to understand that these windows are a tradition - Parisians bring their children to see them every year, with child-sized viewing platforms erected in front of each display.  It's also crucial to understand a bit about the long history of puppets in France.  In fact, throughout Europe puppet shows have been entertaining the continent's children for centuries, and France is no exception.  You can take in a puppet show at the Jardin du Luxembourg, or arrange one for your child's birthday party (we've already been to one such fete). 

And of course the reality is that photos cannot do these marionettes justice - there is music, and movement, and it's rather enthralling - even the lemurs.  I see it now - Madagascar 4 - the Animals take on the Champs-Elysees!

One final note - today is the last day to vote for What Am I Doing in France in the 2012 Expat Blog Awards!  Leave a review/comment here to help this blog win an award!

Priority Lines

One of the perks of being pregnant in France is the caisse prioritaire.  This is the priority check-out line, which most supermarkets and other large stores offer.  Anyone can enter the line, but pregnant women are given priority - in other words, you are both allowed and expected to cut the line. 

Now, the rule-following, law-abiding American in me chafes a bit at the notion of simply cutting the line.  Especially because having a screaming baby or toddler with you does not entitle you to priority status, but sporting the baby bump does - this has never felt quite right to me.  That said,  if you've got it, you might as well flaunt it.  And I've definitely got the baby bump now.

My first experience using the caisse prioritaire was at the urging of Mr. Oil on a trip to Ikea.  And by urging, I really mean that Mr. Oil said, "You are pregnant. We are cutting this line."  It was quite a line.  It turns out that when you point to the belly and say something along the lines of, "Caisse prioritaire...", everyone nods in an understanding manner.  There were one or two quiet grumbles, while the nicest people about it were the only other couple with a toddler in the line. 

A few weeks later, I happened to be in the priority line at our neighborhood grocery store - I have regularly chosen this line since well before I was pregnant because it is the widest check-out line and therefore the easiest through which to navigate a stroller.  There is a certain irony, I suppose, to the fact that I've been standing in the priority line without demanding my priority rights for most of my pregnancy.  In any event, one day the employee at the cash register looked up at the man standing in front of me and said, "Excuse me, sir, but I am first going to help this pregnant woman" - and proceeds to point at the woman behind me.  Quickly realizing that my wooly maternity sweater must make me look simply like an obese woman, I unbuttoned the sweater, pointed dramatically at my belly, and declared, "Madame! Je suis enceinte aussi!" (I'm also pregnant!). 

She was somewhat embarrassed - a very un-French emotion - and apologized profusely for not realizing that I was, in fact, pregnant and not just fat (well, I'm implying the latter - she did not actually say this).  At the same time, this experience helped me fully embrace the power of the caisse prioritaire.

My prowess at undoing my jacket and declaring my pregnancy, often wordlessly with just a strong point of the finger, has increased.  My confidence in this area has grown as well, culminating in a recent episode in which I actually responded to a snarky woman who tried to deny me my line-cutting rights with a few choice French words.  Yes, that's right - I can stand up for myself in French, which has more to do with attitude and tone of voice than vocabulary, but that's really besides the point.  The point, snarky woman, is that I am pregnant and the sign says pregnant women get to cut the line. 

I have about seven weeks left of government-sanctioned line-cutting at the grocery store and  I fully plan on utilizing this right at every possible junction.  It's not clear that pregnant women need to be able to cut the line in this manner - there are not any pregnancy precautions about waiting in line that I've ever heard about.  When in France, though... 

Chasing Peacocks

Sometimes you don't even have to leave the city to feel like you're no longer enmeshed in urbanity.  Due to our fortunate recent acquisition of a 1997 Renault, which we've named Carla Bruni, our freedom to explore more corners of this city of endless discoveries has greatly increased.

On a recent Sunday, we drove just 15 minutes from our building and found ourselves at the Parc de Bagatelle.  Enclosed within the Bois de Bologne on the western outskirts of Paris, the Chateau and Jardins de Bagatelle were originally a hunting lodge, or city escape, for the Marechal d'Estrees (don't worry, nobody else has heard of him either) and then later for Louis XVI's brother, the Comte d'Artois.

The grounds are well tended but peaceful;  that you can really only reach the park by car deters many crowds, and we were there on around 10:30am on a fairly chilly Sunday morning.  That said, being able to so quickly enter a beautiful green area that feels as though it could easily be an hour outside the city is a wonderful boon.   Plus, there are peacocks.

I don't know why there are peacocks.  And I didn't know that peacocks are comfortable in cold weather.  There were several peacock families that we spied - and Baby Oil chased - throughout the park.  They added just a touch of the exotic, a small surprise in an otherwise lovely but somewhat unremarkable park. 

If you are visiting Paris, there's no reason to ever stop by the Parc de Bagatelle, or visit its chateau (although the game of pinball is said to have originated here, and was originally called Bagatelle.  It was played on a specially-built billiards table, and players hit balls with cue sticks up an incline with fixed pins.  If you don't believe me, ask Wikipedia.)  But in terms of living in Paris, it's a great escape that doesn't require any actual escaping.  Three-hundred-year-old estates remain somewhat mind-boggling to this American, and this one comes with peacocks!

Dinde Entier

Last year, we skipped Thanksgiving.  No turkey, no stuffing, no pumpkin pie.  We had only been in France a few months, and it was just another Thursday.  This year, however, we decided to give it the good ol' American effort.  First task - acquire a turkey.

If you're American or live in the US, you probably have not spent a lot of time considering that there is only one time of year when whole turkeys are widely available, and widely consumed.  Consider a country where Thanksgiving doesn't exist - like, say, France - and you suddenly realize there is no time of year in which one can presume to find a turkey by just walking into a store. 

I assigned Mr. Oil the role of Head Turkey Hunter, since it would involve calling the butcher and I still have not quite gotten over my reluctance (read: total avoidance) of speaking in French on the phone.  In the first phone call, the butcher said that he would work on getting a turkey and get back to us.  When we hadn't heard anything a few days later, we placed the second call.  We were then told that he had acquired a 12 kilo turkey (that's 26 pounds), and he knew that would be too big for our needs.  Which, while presumptuous, was in fact true. 

When Mr. Oil called the third time, the woman who works at the cash register (it's the same woman every time we've ever been to the butcher) answered and then, placing her hand over the receiver, shouted, "C'est Monsieur Oil, le dinde entier!" (It's Mr. Oil, the whole turkey!)  We were pretty sure our message had been received.

I went to pick up our turkey on Thanksgiving Day (we are having belated Thanksgiving dinner this weekend).  When it came to my turn at the counter, I explained that my husband - though I did not give our name - had called about a whole turkey.  The butcher helping me (there are 3-5 men who work behind the counter) nodded in recognition. "Monsieur Oil," he said, "le dinde entier." 

Right, that's us, the nagging Americans who want a whole turkey for some reason that is likely still unclear to our kosher butcher shop.  In the end, though, I shoved an eleven-pound turkey underneath the stroller while Baby Oil helpfully said, "Boggle boggle."  This is Baby Oil's version of "Gobble gobble" - either that, or he knows he is destined to be a mastermind at the word game Boggle just like his mom.  "Boggle boggle" wasn't terribly explanatory to the butcher, but I just gave my best, "Hey, we're crazy stupid Americans!" smile, and we took that turkey home. 

And if you're wondering - we brought back pureed pumpkin and cranberry sauce from the US last week.  Boggle boggle to all - happy Thanksgiving!

Iceland

Whether or not I can say that I've been to Iceland is up in the air.  Technically, I have now spent approximately 2.5 hours in the Reykjavik airport.  Both Baby Oil and I have Icelandic stamps in our passports.  Thanks to the ubiquitous and, in my opinion, successful pro-Icelandic tourism advertising campaign that makes us quite a bit of the Iceland Air experience, I can tell you any number of fascinating facts about the island nation in the North Atlantic.

For instance, did you know that while more than 30 percent of Icelandic people have a college degree, over 50 percent of the country believes in the elves?  That the national dish of Iceland is cured shark?  That the most popular restaurant in Iceland is a hot dog stand?  Both times we landed and took off in Iceland, it was dark so I can't personally vouch for the glaciers, mountains, and gorgeous countryside that fills the IcelandAir in-seat entertainment screens.  

The background to all of this Iceland stuff is that Baby Oil and I flew to the US on Iceland Air to attend a wonderful wedding in Ohio (the soon-to-be-Mr-and-Mrs are now officially Mr and Mrs!).  Iceland Air offers significantly cheaper flights from North America to Europe (and vice-versa) than the standard airlines, but naturally the trip includes a requisite layover in Reykjavik.  This was our first trip purchasing a seat for Baby Oil - yes, he's still under 2 so we weren't legally required to do so, but 10 hours with a 28-pound toddler on my almost-7-month-pregnant lap sounded like a really bad idea. 

On the way to the US, all I could think about was that I really want to actually visit Iceland.  After the trip back, I'm not sure I ever want to step foot in Iceland again.  This is not because of Iceland Air, whose service far surpasses that of the American carriers we've flown overseas.  This is because of the scarring, traumatic experience in which I finally became that parent -  you know, the parent with the out-of-control screaming kid that everyone else on the plane and in the airport really, really hopes is not on their plane.

Look how deceiving Baby Oil can be, dressed as a happy kid ready for bed in the Dulles airport:

Just kidding!  Instead, Baby Oil thought that not sleeping on the 6 hours from Dulles to Reykjavik was a much better plan.  Also that every 30 minutes or so, he should start screaming for popcorn.  Not goldfish crackers, grapes, pretzels, or cookies, all of which I had on me.  No, no, I believe he purposefully picked popcorn, knowing there was no possible way I could provide microwave popcorn on a 757. 

The conspiracy to make my night miserable went much further than popcorn - it included a sleeping guy in the aisle seat who never got up one time during the flight, a shooting pain in my hip/lower back courtesy of the baby bump, spilled milk that dripped behind Baby Oil's seat onto the belongings of the woman sitting behind us, and Baby Oil's minor tantrum that I dared poured his milk out of the cardboard-box-with-straw into his sippy cup and ensuing refusal to drink milk in the apparently tainted sippy cup.

Arriving in Reykjavik, the situation further deteriorated.  Pretty soon, that adorable baby from the Dulles airport looked like this:

Wait, that's just a red blob.  To protect your senses and your sanity, this is the closest I can come to displaying evidence of the thrashing, shrieking mess of a child that haunted the Reykjavik airport.  I'm still curious about the elves, the hot springs, and the fact that every Icelandic person can trace their family's lineage back to the first settlers.  I'm just not sure Iceland would want us back. 

The postscript is, by the way, that Baby Oil did sleep for the 3 hours from Iceland to Paris, and seems to have made a decent recovery.  It's my psyche that we should remained concerned about. 

Wall to Wall Chocolate

Imagine, if you will, a large expo center filled with wall-to-wall chocolate vendors from France, Switzerland, and Belgium; chocolate and cacao importers and vendors from Brazil, Madagascar, Gabon, and other African nations; chocolate art displays, chocolate cooking demonstrations, and even a chocolate fashion show.  Yes, you have arrived at the Salon du Chocolat and it does not disappoint.

While each stand markets and sells its products - despite the entry fee - there are samples galore.  Nibbles of single-origin chocolates, broken truffles, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, flavored chocolate.  I was forced to make one purchase at Chapon's Bar a Mousse au Chocolat - but how can you pass up a chocolate mousse bar?!  They offered four different chocolate mousse options, each based on a chocolate from a different origin (Cuba, Sao Tome, etc).  The descriptive listings associated with each mousse resembled a gourmet wine description - long in the mouth, smoky, subtle, fruity, bright in the mouth, etc.  I went with the Cuba (the smoky one) because the Sao Tome (fruity and long in the mouth) was sold out.  And man was that some amazing chocolate mousse. 

Even pregnant, there's only so much chocolate I can consume before approaching saturation (read: turn slightly green and run for something salty).  Fortunately, the Salon du Chocolat provided ongoing entertainment, including a chocolate fashion show:

And a performance by a musical/dance group from Madagascar.  Baby Oil in particular was enamored with the Madagascaran dancing and tried at times to emulate their movements. 

Mr. Oil and I also were able to participate in the French cultural experience of yelling at children that do not belong to us.  In classic French fashion, there were any number of 8-13 year old children gathered around the stage with nary a parent in site.  The oldest few were having a good time, if that's what you can call shouting, jumping, pulling hair, and generally creating a ruckus while the rest of us were trying to enjoy the Madagascarian moment.   Several other adults in the audience, including Mr. Oil and me, took turns shouting "Arret!" to those trouble-making kids.  It's kinda fun to yell at some stranger's kid who is behaving badly in public, and it is totally acceptable here.  Though I would still prefer if an actual parent or supervisory figure would do the dirty work. 

In other blog-related news, this blog has been nominated for an Expat Blog award by the friendly folks over at Expats Blog. One of the judging criteria is related to comments left on the listing for the blog (available here), so please, regular readers, visit and share how delightfully entertaining you find me.  Or whatever (but something preferably nice).