A Life in Paris (w/ two boys and a wife)

Riding in Paris, at the Hippodrome Longchamps

2011-11-23T14:10:00.001+01:00

Today I decided to MTFU and get out for a real ride. No more of these namby pamby indoor rollers for me. I met a friend at the entrance to Hippodrome Longchamps — one of the two parks in Paris where cyclists congregate to do laps. We randomly connected with another friend, and took off.

We were riding three abreast and in classic Tour de France style, a peloton or group of cyclists gathered behind us. At one point it was up to around 30 riders all strung out behind us.

In the spring of '99 or 2000 I had joined the NYCC for their SIG series of rides that teach one how to ride in these kinds of pacelines. While I was good at it then, not so much now. Leading the peloton - much like Jens Voigt - I had an image of making one mistake and being ridden over by 30 older French gentlemen on their old Hinault and Motobecane and Peugeot bicycles, "sacre bleu" and "mon dieu" uttered Gallicly.

But on we rode slowly increasing the speed until we began to climb a small hill at 33kph - not that fast but remember that I normally ride at 15kph on my large city bike. This was fast, to me. I felt strong.

But then I looked to my left to see a pretty Parisian girl keeping pace with us on her sit-up-and-beg city bike with its obligatory wicker basket on the handlebars. Oh well.

Thanks for reading.

Tim "not quitting my day job" Eustis

Please follow me on Twitter by clicking here.

PS These images borrowed from the Internet, just to make a point. Thanks to providers.

Corsica for Toussaint

2011-11-15T13:21:00.000+01:00

This trip strikingly was a trip of ease. We began with a cranky Parisian taxi driver — we would have felt strange were he to have been anything but that — but with our preprinted boarding passes marched through security and onto the plane for our trip to Corsica. Security did provide one glitch; we'd forgotten to empty a water bottle and not wanting to throw it away, we had to chug. Henry pretty much chugged the whole bottle. Proud? Not sure.

Though Air Corsica provides about 3" of space between seats, causing my knees to migrate into my chin, the flight attendant found me an aisle exit row seat. And the Figari airport (in south of island) was so old school, with the plane just stopping on the tarmac with its rolling staircases. I felt a little Presidential as I walked out of the plane. Our rental car - voiture location - was immediately ready, only 5 meters from the office, and the rental agent told me I didn't need to pay the extra 150€ in insurance I'd expected to pay. (Everyone was quite nice on this trip, and everything went smoothly — weird.)

Top of 809 meter pass

Aside from a small detour into somebody's driveway - it looked like a freakin' road! - the trip to the town of Levie was smooth. Corsica is very mountainous; crossing one range, we climbed to 809 meters - 2654 feet high. To say the roads are circuitous is an understatement. 20 kilometers from Porto Vecchio took 43 kilometers of driving. Knowing his mother had a sensitivity to curvy driving, Henry coined the phrase "car-sicka," which she was.

We finally arrived in the small town of Levie, population 766, but it looks around 45. We stopped in for pizza feu de bois - wood-fired. This was among the best pizza I have ever had. I've seen Cantabridgians almost come to blows defending the quality of their local, thin crust pizzaria; and it paled next to these pies. Oh, and the plates of charcuterie, which we found at most every meal, they were really really good. Finally, after a couple of espressos to keep the focus on the road, we left to find our hotel.

The GPS unit beeping us to our destination, we found the steep driveway — no way I could have ridden a bike up that hill — of A Pignata. Sarah'd found this place in Travel & Leisure and it had that sense of rustic elegance. But in such a striking setting. With lizards.

View from porch at A Pignata

The formula provided for our off-season hotel was that we got one room with a loft for the boys, including both breakfast and dinner. It was quite reasonable, though substantially higher in the summer, naturally. Though I thought it odd to have dinner in the same restaurant 4 nights in a row, I soon realized how much sense it made. These are not roads you want to drive at night after even one glass of wine. If you make a mistake on these roads, you drive off a 300 foot cliff. Seriously. See below for to see the consequences of that extra glass of wine. (It's a 270° view of a roadside on our way towards the hotel.)

Fortunately, the food each night was good. Most of the wines we tried were authentic, if a bit rustic. I rather liked that style, and, in fact, found the cheap pichets (small pitchers) of wine at a restaurant (5€ for 500ml; a standard wine bottle holds 750ml) to be the most interesting.

The food clearly reflected Corsica's Italian and French influence. For example, one of our dinners was roasted lamb shanks — the French — and rice, with tomato sauce on top — the Italian. A bit odd, but it tasted great.

Beach Bar at Palombaggia

We took a few day trips, one each to the east and west. First was a journey to Porto Vecchio, a town on the east coast. It's small, but cute, and we found a lovely little restaurant where we were the only guests — with two loud American boys, that's always the best, when you can dine alone. It was extra funky, and though inland, had that very specific beach shack motif. And very good food. The lasagnas, in particular, are very tasty on this island, and abundant. Afterwards, the boys were craving beach time, so we headed out to the Palombaggia beach. We discovered a rather cute beach bar, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and had a beer and a coffee while the boys stripped down to their skivvies and went swimming.

In our brief visit, we discovered that there are a few things that Corsicans like to do. First, they like to shoot things. Pigs and signs. We saw lots of hunters on the road as we drove around, and the road signs were frequently obscured by many bullet holes. Clearly, there is a dearth of gentle and heartwarming things to do; they couldn't try Scrabble? When I am next reincarnated, I hope it's not as a pig on Corsica.

They also like to burn things, a lot. There were many many fires by the side of the road. I suppose during leaf season in New England, it's the same, but these were pretty big fires, burning logs, and leaves and excess junk. And, if you're a know-nothing tourist who is trying desperately not to drive off the side of the road into a vast canyon, they are quick to drive right up to your bumper, so much so that you can't even see their headlights. Tailgating as a word doesn't quite describe accurately enough how fast they get to be so close to you. Somewhat frightening, that.

We spent another day driving around, this time on the western side of the island, by a town called Propriano. Though we seem to have missed the fine cuisine available in that town, we did get to visit a museum filled with ancient artifacts (twice; I left my phone there).

And then we found a beach, next to a campground filled with campers. As we were out of season — much of the island by this point had seemed closed up for the season— the only inhabitants were retirees. (Kind of had a Florida feel, but a bit nicer.) Pulled up to the beach, got out, and swam about.)

Henry and Fred on top of
Cucuruzzu rocks

Another day trip was to a prehistoric site nearby. We hiked through beautiful forest, to arrive at an ancient (6000 years ago old) bronze age village where prehistoric people formed early an early community. The name of the village is Cucuruzzu; you can see details of the day's drive and the hike here.The boys loved it and dubbed it "operation grimper et sauter" (climbing and jumping). After only 4 and a quarter kilometers (just over 2½ miles), the boys were pretty cooked, as were there parents, and we headed home. Naturally, one must stop for a little snack after such a journey, and really in the middle of nowhere, there was a little side of the road shack that had Ben and Jerry's ice cream — of course they did. One of my favorite moments of the trip was when Fred realised that, after putting his ice cream down on the picnic table for a moment, a litter of kittens had begun to, well, share in the treat. Let's just say that this theft briefly shook his love for the animal kingdom.

Sarah at snack shack,
and rather nice view

It was a great visit to a remote part of the world. We highly recommend it.

Those mean kittens

Thanks for reading.

Henry on top of Cucuruzzu

The boys

Sacrifice / Acquisition / Fatherhood

2011-11-04T14:33:00.000+01:00

I've recently been talking to my son about bigger concepts than soccer, recess, and how much he hates roasted cauliflower. There's more to life than roasted cauliflower, truly. A recent conversation was about wants, acquisitiveness even. And what we should do with them. Our first step was to be aware of them, to list them. It's best to know one's enemies.

Truth be told, I like things. In particular, I do like cars. Henry too. Not crazily so, but if a Ferrari or a Lamborghini passes by — which they do with regularity here in Paris — we will notice the sound and look at it. And so we began to talk, Henry and I, about those things we might want or desire. Surely, I said, I'd like to be an astronaut, go to the moon. I put this at the top of the Wish List, way out there at the Unrealistic Side.

Then I said, also, I'd really like a Lamboghini or a Ferrari. While this may be closer than the moon for me, for all intents and purposes, it's way out there, too. Henry chimed in that he might get a Ferrari one day. Of course, I said. If that's what you want, then you can get it. It's important to have goals, no? I know that simple acquisitiveness is no goal in and of itself, but we like cars, so what's the harm?

As we were outlining a list of desires, I ventured to perhaps the more realistic side. BMW, a marque of automobile of which I am most fond, has somewhat recently come out with a new style of 5 Series, the Gran Turismo. I like it. So, we added that to the list. But new cars these days, pricey; perhaps still not too realistic.

Then we began to discuss the crise economique, how it's affecting sales of clothes (Sarah's field), and the world in general. And I mentioned that I had always liked the old school 7 Series BMWs, before they got a redesign from Chris Bangle, with that weird high trunk that made it look like a VW Jetta. Wouldn't it be cool, I said, to get one of those, put a bike rack on it, and drive that around? Cheap and cool. On the Realistic Side of the list.

Later, I walked the boys into school, after our ride to school, which we do every day. I saw another father walking with his son. Extremely well dressed he was, so I looked down at my outfit. Wearing my scarf oh-so-jauntily, I looked good, for a guy who'd just ridden 5 kilometers through Parisian traffic. Just then, the father's chauffeur ran across the street to hand something to the son, which had clearly been left behind in the very beautiful, current model BMW 7 Series stretch sedan. (Black; as Ferris Bueller says, "is it so choice.") I noticed, however, that as the father walked in, he was talking on his phone, the entire way in and the entire way out of school. Perhaps he took a moment to kiss his son goodbye, but I didn't see. I was too busy giving Freddy his goodbye kiss. (He's at the age where fathers doing that are embarrassing, so he put his hand over his mouth, so I could kiss that. While smiling with that impish grin.)

Perhaps that's it. Perhaps that level of connection I have with my boys is what I have, and by sacrificing the financially successful career I may have had at some point (however unlikely that was to be), I have gained the time and the relationship with my boys I might have otherwise have lost. I'd like to think so. I'd like to think that by giving up the Lamborghini, the 5 Series GT (I was never gonna go to the moon), I have earned something much more valuable.

David Brooks of the NY Times recently wrote a column inviting readers over 70 to "write a brief report on [their] life so far." He'd been reading some autobiographies from the Yale class of 1942, and noted that some lives were not those one might want to have lived.

"The most common lament in this collection is from people who worked at the same company all their lives and now realize how boring they must seem. These people passively let their lives happen to them. One man described his long, uneventful career at an insurance company and concluded, 'Wish my self-profile was more exciting, but it’s a little late now.'"

Mine has been a varied career; not exactly storied, but certainly wide-ranging. And never boring. Hopefully I've made those choices with awareness, by being present, by deciding to do something that was more valuable for my family than just getting a really cool car. I would like to think that I have, that I thought ahead with wisdom and gave to my boys the gift of someone who didn't walk them to school while talking on a cell phone.

Thanks for reading.

PS Please follow me on twitter by clicking here.

Up Up and Away...

2011-10-19T14:43:00.000+02:00

At 7:45 AM, Sunday morning, Fred woke me up and asked if I'd "like to sit out on the balcony, and talk about things." Not getting that kind of request all that often, I, bleary eyed, said "sure." And off we went. It's cold in Paris these days, so we bundled up with blankets and watched the streets being washed. (One day, the kids will learn how to make coffee for their parents, and will wake us up with a cuppa. Won't they?)

I suggested it might be fun to go get croissants for the family, and, surprisingly, he said yes, but wanted to ride his bike. Of course, I replied. And off we went. After filling our basket with pain au chocolats, we headed to the Marché St. Eustache, our local Sunday am shopping extravaganza. Markets in Paris take a while; it can be boring for kids. You have to talk to each vendor, talk about the offerings, ask how to cook it, what wine to serve it with, etc. It's both laborious and utterly charming, all at the same time.

"No more food!" Fred finally yelled at me. The lollipop the chicken vendor offered to Fred gave me one more stop, but after that we had to head home.

Later, we made our way back down to the market for a lovely lunch at a favorite pizza place, Presto Fresco. And then we headed to Parc André Citroën [check accents], home of the famous Ballon de Paris, a huge balloon that rises up, tethered, to a height of 150 meters, almost 500 feet. In fact, it is the largest tethered balloon in the world, according to their website. And who am I to disbelieve them? It was plenty high. Fred had initially not wanted to go, fearful of heights. And it was I who was most happy to descend. Fred was fine.

The view from the balloon was epic, as you might imagine; it was a gorgeous day in Paris. This was also one of those cool things to do in Paris that isn't done every day, I think. I've not heard many tourists or expats talking about it.

There's a real value to exposing our kids to more than just the obvious things Paris has to offer. Of course, a day spent at museums with a lovely brasserie lunch, not so bad. But there's more to it than that. While we were in NYC, we didn't explore like we do here. It's not uncommon for New Yorkers, as jaded a group as exists, to eschew those crowded tourist attractions because they are so filled with tourists, even though it is because they are so interesting and iconic that they have become tourist attractions. At best only temporary Parisians, we are eschewing nothing.

There is one thing I have missed from the States: Autumn. I miss that drive up the Taconic State Parkway, seeing the trees ablaze in colors, the smell of burning leaves, and the crisp air cut by the cashmere sweaters shaking off the mothball scent of the summer respite. Looking down on Paris in all its city glory from our balloon, one sees little sense of Autumn, and there's no American Football. The rugby battles between France and New Zealand's All Blacks just don't cut it. No tailgating to be had here.

On another somewhat random note: The contrast between my taste and understanding of food in the States and France was highlighted recently at the market noted above. While Fred and I were shopping at the butcher stand, we heard the loud voices of an American couple. Americans are just louder than the French. And I make that observation with no value judgement attached, except to say that perhaps the cost to get such a quiet citizenry might be a bit high with regards to emotional development. French children are shushed relentlessly from day 1. It's not unfair to say, too, not in the most respectful manner possible for the growth of those little French kids.

The good news is that the French are quiet in public; the downside, well, maybe I'll save that for a later post. The wife posed the question to her husband about the reputability of the roast chicken seller next door to the butcher. About to buy my dinner there, I politely let them know that in fact, it was just fine. I realised later that the idea of open air food being safe is antithetical to Americans who are far more used to getting their food covered in Saran Wrap. Of course it's perfectly safe, and afterwards, the chicken makes a lovely stock.

Thanks for reading. Please follow me on Twitter by clicking here.

Why You Shouldn't Talk and Cycle at the Same Time

2011-10-19T14:19:00.001+02:00

Parallel to rue Reamur, there runs a one-way service road, Allée Pierre Lazareff, heading towards rue Montorgueil. Though it runs the wrong way, scooters, hoping to avoid congestion on Reamur, race down it, as do I on my bike. As there is massive construction on Reamur, there is a flood of scooters, or motos in Paris parlance, making their way quickly down the street.

Where there are evildoers, the police can be found. Usually, they leave we mostly law-abiding, harmless cyclists alone, we with our high moral code. Today, I was talking on my mobile phone, or portable, and going the wrong way. Now that's just like asking a small child if he wants a lollipop? What do you think he's gonna answer?

Seeing me breaking two laws, must have been like Christmas. Naturally, the pretty French policewoman pulled me over. (Truthfully, I would have pulled me over.) Naturally she asked me for my "piece d'identité." And, seeing the other evildoers — those nasty motos! — getting their well-deserved tickets, naturally, I pulled out my US driver's license rather than my French "piece d'identité." It's too much trouble to give a ticket to an American, I guess, and so with a Gallic reminder that we all needed to respect the laws, she waved me along. Merci bien, I said, and walked my bike away.

Thanks for reading.

Please follow me on Twitter by clicking here.

The Sport of Kings

2011-10-03T13:04:00.000+02:00

Do you remember that weekend, some time ago, when you woke up on a Sunday morning, had coffee in bed, maybe a piece of toast, with lovely homemade raspberry or strawberry jam, and read the NY Times for an hour or two? Well, I don't. While we might let the children watch the occasional French cartoon, giving us a little time to sit sipping our lattés, it is obligatory to find some activity of sorts on weekend days. Fred has judo most Saturdays, and every other Sunday, or so, we head to the American Cathedral. But if we have a free day, we have to come up with some plan. Our most recent find was horse racing, of which there is much in Paris.

It should be well noted that I know lots about lots of things. Horse racing is just not one of them. But how to cycle in Paris, I do know. (Click here for the route. 23 kilometers; by the end of the day, we were all tired.) And so off we went Sunday morning, the 2nd of October.) It was a special day. The featured race was the 90th running of the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. (I guess this is a big deal.) Click here for a story about the race in the NY Times. Danedream won. We had left beforehand, and didn't bet, but I wouldn't have bet on Danedream, so I guess I did okay, right?

Go Fire Lily!

We had been smart, and went early. I suppose much of life is like this, but it seems more so here in Paris: you only know how to do something the second time you do it. We assumed then that we'd not get the right seat, we'd not figure out how to find lunch, you know, we'd do everything wrong. But we were lucky. We parked our bikes right by the entrance, and headed in. Boys were free, and Sarah was, too. Because she wore a hat. Go figure. I had to pay 8€, but I think next time I'll be able to get out of that.

The 10€ we won on a 2€ bet!

We found some food, and headed to the bookies. As complete novitiates, we decided which horses to pick by their names. We also picked about 4 horses, upping the odds that we'd win, but guaranteeing that we'd end up in the red for the day — I don't think that was the point, though. My new career will not be as a professional gambler — I really don't like the feeling of gambling, whether losing, obviously, or even winning; I felt stupid for not betting more on that particular horse. But our friends were visiting their daughter, Lily, at boarding school, and so, in the 3rd race, we picked Fire Lily, who was not supposed to win. But damned if she didn't come through! Made 10€ on a 2€ bet. Not a bad day.

Thanks for reading.

Paris Weekend

2011-09-26T15:23:00.001+02:00

Our most recent weekend exemplified just why it is that I love living in Paris. In one weekend, we posited ourselves as the most topical of tourists and then as complete locals. It took some biking here and there, but we did it.

Friday night began by having drinks at the top of our local moarket street, rue Montorgueil. Always fabulous for people watching, and decent enough beer (beer and coffee in Paris, generally crummy). A great way to wind down the busy week. Then, a mostly wonderful night at home eating dinner and watching a family movie. As Fred has grown we are now able to watch films together that interest all of us, again, mostly. But the boys are still young enough that we can all gather onto the bed together, by choice. Soon, that will no longer be the case.

Saturday, after I took a brief trip to the baker for the pain au chocolat for Henry and me, and Sarah and Fred went off to his Judo class, we hung out at home, played guitar, and puttered about. In the evening, we made a trek up to Montmartre and Sacre Coeur. We decided to ride bikes because we could then... Well, we always ride bikes. So we did. See here for the map, noting the 168 meters, 550 feet, in elevation rise. It is a monstrous hill, and with Fred on my bike, I sweated like the proverbial pig. Henry raced up it like some EPO stuffed racer boy, and Sarah, who as a pretty Parisian girl, doesn't sweat, walked it.

When you arrive at Montmartre, you become a tourist. Unless you are hawking beers, busking, or drawing caricatures. We embraced this feeling of visiting. It's nice to feel like a tourist from time to time, esp. when you can return to your very own bed! Here's a picture of Fred by the Montmartre vineyards — more below.

Naturally, we went to the steps of Sacre Coeur, where the beers are sold and music is busked. We listened for a while and then Fred wanted to go down to see if he could sing. He'd perform Baby by Justin Bieber, he said.

For.
The.
Whole.
Crowd.

The steps are huge. And they were filled with people. Hundreds of people. What bravery. He took the microphone and he began to sing the familiar opening "Ohh, wooaahhh" lines we all know and love. The vast number of people and the sound of his own amplified voice were a bit too much, and he turned away. The very kind guitarist, seeing Fred feeling sad, came over to offer to play, just the two of them, with no one looking. And he did the whole song, and all the people close by, who were naturally listening to this brave little boy from New York City sing his heart out, burst into applause.

We found a lovely restaurant — who'd've known there was that in Montmartre. The food was excellent as was the wine and the service was, as they say here, très sympa. There was a gathering in the back rooms of the restaurant of Anglophones, a wedding or something. The girls walking by in their tight dresses led Freddy to inquire if I, Tim, was interested in "hot girls," to which he pointed with glee each time they walked by. Naturally, I noted that while the answer was yes, the hottest girl of them all was sitting right there with them. They chuckled in disbelief that their mother could ever be a "hot girl." Mais biensûr!

Sunday, we made our somewhat regular trek to the American Cathedral. Afterwards, Sarah and Henry explored the Champs Elysées, while Fred and I explored the Famillathon. This is a gathering of sporting activities sponsored by various clubs around Paris. One can try a low ropes course, soccer, baseball (really! In Paris), scuba diving, triathlon, etc. The first thing Fred tried was fencing. He was pitted against a much older boy, who poked at him as though he was a pin cushion, but after one good move by our Fred, he twirled in place, just as Obi Wan Kenobi or Luke Skywalker did in Star Wars. This was an elegant turn, done with poise and aplomb. The director rushed over to scold him, though nicely. "No spinning!" But it looks so good on the big screen!

He played tennis and took a French boxing lesson. Then he saw the Circus Tricks Atelier. Like a good Parisian, Fred raced to the front of the line, where he waited his turn. He walked the tightrope, jumped through a hoop, and stood on a rubber ball. All in all, it was a great adventure for a local Parisian boy.

Fred playing tennis at Champs du Mars

Concurrently, the World Championships of Men's Road Cycling was taking place. I'd been following the progress of the 266km race on my Twitter feed, and after Fred finished the circus exercises, we jumped on the bike and raced to find a bar hopefully showing the race. We came into the St. Dominique /Rapp /Bourdonnais intersection to find: hundreds and hundreds of Velibs coursing through the streets! La Vélibienne, the bike ride through Paris mostly on Velibs, was taking place right then. And I had to find a bar! Parisians on Velibs got nothing on an impatient Dutch bike with a kid and blue panniers. I barged my way through, sowing desolées here and there — sorry — and you know, I found that bar. I caught the last 1800 meters of the race, Fred had a coke, and I had a quick, yet perfect, crappy French beer.

We went from being tourists to feeling like locals this weekend, and we embraced all that Paris had to offer us and our great boys.

Thanks for reading. (Don't forget to click on pictures to expand them; more below.)

PS Thanks to Chris Keiser for his tweets about the bike race, and to all the animators at the demonstrations. They were kind and patient with us.

Sarah in Montmartre

By Le Bon Franquette, the good restaurant in Montmartre

Fred boxing lessons

Fred at Circus Atelier

Paris Soccer

2011-09-22T13:28:00.000+02:00

My bête noir in Paris is Wednesday afternoons. Our boys get out at noon from school, and then what do you do with them? I tried hiring a gym teacher one year, which failed spectacularly. I did Daddy Day with Henry, which ended up in our eating at great restaurants and seeing lovely Paris things, but didn't get him the exercise he so needed. This year, I was bound and determined to find something athletic for the boys to do.

"Just go to your Mairie" (Our arrondisement's town hall), people suggested. Sure and that was a great idea, but truth be told, I was daunted by the thought of having to speak French with no Anglophones around. (It's surprising how often I find French people who say they speak no English. I expect no Americans to speak anything more than Fox News English, but Europeans I've thought to be more multilingual.)

Boys after first day of French soccer

After much research online, asking French friends for advice, having Sarah and her assistant make calls for us, I had signed Fred up for Judo at a local gymnase, and I'd done it all in French! Henry helped translate a few phrases, but it got done. Happily. After even more research (really, thank you Seb and Su for all your great ideas and support!), I found a POINT D'INSCRIPTION MERCREDI DU SPORT, a place where you can sign up your kid for sport on Wednesdays. Details here on that experience.

Today, I went to drop them off. I quickly learned that:

They should be dressed to play when they arrive.
I'm not allowed in after today to help them get dressed.
After expressing a little anxiety about Fred, whose French is limited, the directeur replied either "there's no problem at all, don't worry," or "if this happens a third time, I will kick him out of our class forever." I smiled, he smiled, we all smiled, and I left.

I arrived at 5:15pm, to see a line of parents waiting. And out they came, happy as can be. It had started at 1:30pm, and so they were cooked, fully exhausted. Just what we wanted.

Thanks for reading.

Henry Riding Bikes in Paris

2011-09-21T09:56:00.001+02:00

I recently read an older blog entry of mine, noting the combined weights of the boys at 65 kilos (143 lbs). Boys grow, and now their combined weight is 72 kilos (159 lbs). I have given up all hope of riding the both on the same bike. Whereas I used to ride nimbly through traffic, the other day, doubly loaded, I almost took out a number of side view mirrors! Parisian drivers don't like that.

The obvious solution is for Henry to ride his own bike. Some time ago, he'd seen a racing bike in his size at a local shop. 9-year olds are not known for their deep understanding of the concept of delayed gratification, and so we bought it. I thought he would get sick of it, as it does require one to lean forward more than a VTT (mountain bike) or city bike. But the benefits of the varied hand positions available to you, and the increased speed, and the very important cool factor, have all kept him interested in this little racer.

I have been riding in cities for almost 20 years, much of that in NYC, where the cabbies really will try to run you over. In Paris, they may come close, but they will stop at the last minute. Trust me, I know. I have learned to anticipate about as well as one can, and I try to convey that information to Henry.

As we ride, we carry on a consistent conversation about upcoming dangers, things of which we should be aware, or just noting the monuments as we pass them. (See: Grand and Petit Palais, et al.) For example, riding into the Place de la Concorde, we were forced into the car lane slightly by a line of cars blocking our way. Waving aside a car on my left to make more room for us, I noticed the passenger gesticulating wildly in the front seat. Clearly this couple was agitated about something, and our safety was not paramount in their minds. I told Henry — riding safely on my right — to look out for them, and sure enough, instead of shifting over slowly to make room for us, they swerved quickly, just like the France 1 car in this video. They almost took out a scooter, but we were safe.

Another day, we were riding up towards the Hotel Invalides. coming into the rue du Grenelle roundabout, when he noticed at the following intersection a red light. "Dad," he advised, "let's ride slowly so the light's green when we get there." Smart kid.

From trying to teach Sarah how to ride better in the early stages of our relationship, I have learned that coaching loved ones is a delicate business. (Maybe that's why she won't go on any more rides with me.) With Henry, I do it differently: more of an experiential approach than a pedantic lecture. He is remarkably skilled in his riding, and I would say is almost as good a city rider as any young boy I have seen. (Probably even better than Sarah, but don't tell her I said that!)

My heart still leaps into my throat when I see him riding no hands on various city streets. But I trust him — mostly.

Thanks for reading

PS Update: See below, Henry riding in between the Tuileries and the Quai de Tuileries (the heavily trafficked road on the right) no hands. Forgive the Cinema Verité shakiness — I was riding on my bike, holding the iPhone. Be forewarned, it's a bit frightening to watch; at least it was for me!

The Boys

2011-09-16T10:21:00.000+02:00

Last night (Thursday, the 15th), due to external commitments, Henry and Fred had a play-date after school with their friend George. This precluded, as playdates often do, actually thinking about homework. Afterwards, as Sarah and I were putting them to bed, Henry exclaimed that he'd forgotten he had a dicté the following morning. A very brief panic ensued, but was quickly followed by a solution. Sarah would get him up early Friday morning, and he'd study.

I mention this because of the self-awareness of our 9 year old astonishes me. He's growing up so well, and learning how to manage his own life. They trot off to school, learn a new language, and this year in particular have been doing so with mostly no complaints — well, some complaints, but not a lot.

We have been wondering about Fred: is he learning any French at all? We ask the teachers who tell us he surely is, though he is still to timid to speak all but the simplest words. I've heard that this is a common occurrence with Anglophone kids learning French, that it will arrive one day, and you'll hear your son speaking to his French friends, in French, and you'll wonder who that child is, and lo and behold. Sarah took Fred into his classroom this morning. His teacher greeted him, and gave him several directions, in French, to which he replied "oui." Of course he did, but we are pleased that he is understanding as much as he is.

It's a challenge for them, to be here. And while one assumes that the kids will just roll with it, and they are, it's worth noting sometimes that the degree of difficulty is just that much more than if they were at school in the States. And for this, I wish to publicly applaud them and tell them how proud we, how proud I am of them.

I suspect Henry will get another A on his dicté.

Thanks for reading.

PS Below are a series of recent pictures of the boys. Clicking on the picture will enlarge it.

Henry reading to Fred on Metro

Henry jumping off a rope swing at a lake in the Berkshires

Fred in Honfleur

Henry in Pantheon

Je fais des courses pour le dîner. Or, I'm shopping for dinner.

2011-09-15T11:31:00.001+02:00

The truth is, Sarah and I have a different family relationship than most. The Washington Post said on June 17, 2007 "On Fathers Day, an estimated 159,000 stay-at-home dads, or 2.7 percent of the country's stay-at-home parents -- almost triple the percentage from a decade ago -- will celebrate what has become a full-time job, according to the U.S. Census Bureau." So, it's out there, but just not a lot of us.

And sometimes Sarah wonders, fairly, what it would be like to be that stay-at-home parent. Me too. The truth is, I do feel some sense of guilt for getting to do the fun stuff. I think it's fun to go shopping at the butcher, the vegetable stand, the cheese shop, etc. All in the name of making dinner. I wouldn't much want Sarah's job, nor could I much do it. So it's best that I do the shopping.

With that feeling of guilt, I try to justify my efforts. And in that vein, here goes. Please note the pile of groceries I have laid out on the counter to demonstrate a minor shopping trip. Left to right:

Strawberries — I'm trying to feed the family in a healthier fashion. Strawberries for the awesome frozen yogurt I make, and put into popsicle molds. From the Primeurs, or vegetable stand.
Escalope de veau (dinner tonight, with the cepes to the right.) Chicken breasts and pork tenderloing for future dinners. And, 2+ lbs of beef and pork to make meatballs. From the butcher shop.
Grated cheese and eggs. From the cheese shop.
Minor groceries for the meatball recipe. From one of the local supermarkets, which has the very new and completely unusable Scan This Yourself checkout stations, which guarantee that I won't be able to complete the transaction without calling away a cashier from her line, which pisses off her customers — a great system!

These dishes will be very good. And they will take a long time. And I won't be sitting on the couch eating bonbons sipping my Earl Grey.

Thanks for reading

PS If you click on the picture, it will enlarge the image.

A Tomato Tart topped with Goat Cheese, on a Polenta Crust, a recent dinner

J'ai reussi! or Football in Paris

2011-09-14T19:43:00.000+02:00

Holy Bilinguality Batman!

I succeeded in signing up the two boys at a soccer club on Wednesdays from 1:30-5/5:30 in our neighborhood. (On Wednesdays, the boys' school ends at noon; French kids have no school on that day.) Most American kids do things on the left bank, or in the 8th or 17th, but we chose to live in the 2nd, and so for the last 2+ years, we've been trekking all over to do things. It will be so nice to be close to home.

The inscription process was all in French. But the organizer was very nice and very patient with his semi-ignorant American client. It really helps out in France to be self-deprecating, to the degree where you just convey that you are only a few IQ points from a tractor, and the French will love you. They do seem to like being better than you; whoever you are.

There were only 45 spots open in this class, but we got there early — which was good; by the time we left, it seemed as those in the end of the line might miss out. Some of the best news, though, was that it cost us 90€. For both of them! (My French taxes at work.)

While their father filled out lots of paperwork — I must have written my address 9 times — the boys played with other children. I'd not seen people doing the Macarena for some time. But there they were, in a conga line, doing the, well, what I just said.

And as we left, I spoke with an Italian woman, for whom this was the first inscription at a French program — just like us. "Wait, Henry," I asked, "how do you say, 'I think they'll play with the other kids'?"

"Je crois qu'ils vont jouer avec les autres." J'etais très fier. I was very proud. He's really comfortable speaking in French. And he loves being better at it than I. He's becoming French!

Tout va bien

Thanks for reading.

Henry and Tim's Trip to Versailles

2011-09-09T14:31:00.001+02:00

After a summer of much travel, Henry expressed interest in a return to Versailles, this time, though, we'd ride there. (Here's our route, on Garmin Maps.) Brave boy, 27 kilometers, and lots of hills. But he was intrepid, and off we set. Here he is as we are about to leave.

The route took us into the Bois de Boulogne: There are two parks, one each to the east and west of Paris, where one can do laps. We have tended to visit Bois de Vincennes, to the east of Paris, as it's perhaps closer (only by a little), and one doesn't have to cross the center of Paris to get there. But this time, we crossed the center of Paris, heading up the Champs Élysées

The last time I rode to Versailles I got a flat tire before even leaving Paris. Riding through the grounds, on rough roads, I got another. Unable to patch it, I had to walk 2km to the train station, and once back Paris, another 2km+ home. So I was a bit apprehensive about this trip. Fortunately I packed many tubes, pumps patch kits and CO2 cartridges. Like a boyscout, I was prepared.

We headed to the Bois de Boulogne. Id been reading a random set of directions I'd found on the web — what's really true about doing a ride of distance is that it's easier the second time. Then you know where to go, what to avoid, etc. I'd done This ride before but didn't really remember the best way — so we were winging it.

We crossed through the Bois de Boulogne and headed across a narrow foot bridge over the seine. Having ridden already 10k and being 9, Henry was hungry, me too, and so we went to Quai Ouest, a slight Euro trashy restaurant with pretty decent food and a great view. (You can see restaurant just to the left of the footbridge picture.)

We eventually made it to Versailles, riding though the very lovely Parc St. Cloud, with more great views of Paris from the Southwest. Henry was exhausted by this point, however. You can see from the look on his face as we're about to climb another hill. It's pretty much uphill to Versailles. And we felt it.

We stayed in the very posh Trianon Palace — they had a special rate on the rooms. I thought it wise to stay in a hotel with a pool, so we ponied up. The pool really was worth it. And we stayed in the building with the Paris St. Germain soccer team. Which, sadly, meant little to us. But still...

Having time to kill after our dip, we headed into town to a square lined with restaurants. We have found in our travels that a recommendation from a hotel concierge often coincides with a financial relationship between the restaurant and the concierge, which doesn't alway ensure the best selection of restaurants. In France, I was advised that this was not the case, and so with a recommendation from the hotel, we went to La Boeuf à la Mode. Henry was so hungry, we sat for a half hour before they officially started serving and nursed a Coke and a beer. Henry decided that he'd like to have the grilled entrecote, for two. Okay, I said. That was big piece of beef. We had the sauces roquefort and poivre, and a half bottle of red. Quite a lovely evening. (Except he made me watch some overpriced crappy movie, Big Momma #24 or something like that. I can't recommend it.)

The next day, still a bit tired, we hired a golf cart and rode around the grounds of the Versailles Palace. This, I can recommend!

A quick train ride back into Paris, and that was that. It was quite wonderful riding with my young man. He's becoming a rather skilled cyclist.

thanks for reading

La Rentrée

2011-09-07T11:26:00.002+02:00

Bonjour,

Our last days of summer wound down with some trips about Paris, getting this and that, going hither and thither. You'll see some pictures around St. Eustache — I've been using the Hipstamatic app on an iPhone 4, which takes rather good photos.

We also got to see carcasses getting carried into the butcher. I tried to snap a picture of le fort — the strong man who was carrying in the sides of beef and lamb — but I forgot to ask first. He shook his finger at me, appropriately. Perhaps I've been forgetting my Parisian manners.

We also took a trip to a friend's club out at Meurdon-sur-Seine, which was lovely, but took an hour to get there. Fortunately, Henry read to Freddy part of the way. Filling time has been a chore, to be sure. So, I'm really happy the boys are back in school.

Here they are getting ready for school. Henry woke up at 6:30 — normally he gets up at 7 — and with so much free time, he whiled it away playing the PSP.

The only thing that slowed down the first trip to school of Année Scolaire 2011/2012 was the bike thief who stole my saddle and seatpost, cutting the cable that attached it to the frame. Replacing all the parts, I decided to take the saddle/seatpost assembly in for the night, but left the quick-release seat collar. That was a mistake. That night, that was stolen too! (Yes, it gets weary, but the reality is that the bike has more than paid for itself, with all the metro and taxi trips that I've not taken. But it still feels bad. And why that saddle? It was falling apart!)

C'est la vie. Below is how I replaced the missing parts. The saddle I now ride on is a beautiful, and expensive, Brooks, in leather. Likely to be lifted, I have covered it with something very ugly. I have attached the saddle to the frame using a bike chain, covered in an inner tube and zip-tied to the seat-post so it looks good. And, the pièce de résistance: the locking seat-post collar. I hope this is enough...

Thanks for reading.

Super Etam Pants

2011-09-05T21:04:00.001+02:00

Henry's latest cartoon — Enjoy!

Another Fete de la Musique

2011-06-21T22:02:00.000+02:00

Today is the summer solstice and the Fête de la Musique here in Paris. Bands and DJs are playing everywhere. Though we'd wanted to head over to the 7th to see some friends play, we stayed in our neighborhood, where there was no dearth of events.

Our favorite was the top photo, with the 12 year old boys singing AC/DC. In fact, as they were standing next to Boucherie JD, they were singing "Il'y a boucherie J D" to the tune of Highway to Hell. Really, you had to hear it. As young Henry is spending this week away from us at Poney Camp, we were able to pretend he was up there singing away. As we hope he will be next year.

He'll probably be playing slide guitar, as he does just below. Thanks for reading

Espresso Training and Coffee In Paris

2011-06-21T18:44:00.000+02:00

Here in Paris, I have found myself, in a very French way, interested in things of pleasure: from wine to food to art to music to coffee. Yes, coffee. Upon our arrival in Paris, I made a beeline to the store which would sell me the quickest way to get caffeinated: the Nespresso program. I say "program" because it is just that, a lifestyle, so much more than a simple cup of coffee.

The entire approach to the selling of their coffee should make Ralph Lauren embarrassed by his lack of ambition. On one visit to pick up some pods — until only recently, the only way to get their espresso pods was the internet or at their stores, where the line was never less than 5 customers long. Very annoying — Henry and I passed a couple seated across a desk from a salesperson. It resembled nothing less than recently affianced lovebirds searching for that perfect engagement ring. It's only coffee! I wanted to scream.

The only benefit to buying one's coffee in the temples, I mean Nespresso stores, was that one could have a shot of espresso afterwards. Henry and I headed over to the bar; he had the accompanying chocolate, and I took the coffee. As I shook the sugar packet, while talking to Henry, I realised it suddenly felt light. I turned around to see the prettiest baristas in the world with their hands up, protecting themselves from the shrapnel spray of sugar I had inadvertently sent their way. To my quick cries of desoleé, sorry, they forced a smile and muttered no problem. Henry, doubled over in laughter, could barely make it up the stairs to leave. Soon after, tired of the cost, the oppressive lifestyling, and the environmental waste, I left the Nespresso family.

And I haven't looked back! I kind of went overboard, buying a big Isomac Zaffiro, a rather large Italian machine that scares Sarah away from ever making anything more than a cuppa joe. And a grinder, too, which I have since realised is the more important element to the entire process. Okay, so I make good coffee. But I have this nagging doubt in the back of my mind: am I really making great coffee!? Could I get a job as a barista? (Now, why is it that I have to test myself against professionals? When I make a good dinner, it's not enough that it's good: it has to be good enough to be presentable in a restaurant. When I make a good latte, it has to be presentable in a café. Stupid, I know.) So, having found what i think to be the best coffee in Paris: Coutume Cafe (info below), I asked if I they did training. And well they do.

A fellow parent from Henry's class, Rachel Neil, joined me. A rare bird, she exhibits some similar interest in coffee, with its attendant accoutrements and intense focus on quality. (Maybe not exactly as much. She did say afterwards "I discovered a level of coffee nerdness today that I never dreamt of [before]." But she was intrepid and skilled.

One of the other draws to this training was that we were to work on a La Marzocco Strada. This is somewhat like learning to drive on a Maserati Quattroporte. coffeehit.co.uk says about this machine: "The Strada is a machine designed for and by baristas created with continuous design involvement by the La Marzocco Street Team, a panel of leading baristas, technicians and market experts from around the world, who gathered to partecipate in such topics as: machine design and ergonomics, extraction and quality in the cup, programmability and serviceability." Wordy, yes, but the gist is that it is an amazing machine; one not many people get to try.

When I first visited Coutume, I spoke French to the barista, assuming he was from here. Turned out Kevin was from Iowa — where all good baristas come from? He had that rare blend (pun intended) of being quite skilled and good at teaching those skills. We worked on our espresso grinding, choosing the correct portafilter, the tamping of the grounds, and finally the pulling of the shots. This is where the Strada came into its own. The stream of our espresso pulls into the cups had a rainbow of caramel colors.The quality of our coffee belied our abilities. It made the making of great coffee seem easy. And it's not. But we were getting better.

Then we got to the really fun part: making latte art, the designs an accomplished barista can put into the foam on the top of a latte. I'd been trying for months to do this, to no avail. But with the proper training from Kevin, look what we were able to do. It should be well noted that Rachel nailed it on her first try, while I initially made what was charitably referred to as an onion.

By the end of it, we knew how to create great coffees and impress our friends and family. Probably, I'll never be able to get by with a simple cuppa joe again.

Thanks for reading.

Coutume Cafe
47 Rue de Babylone
75007 Paris
01 45 51 50 47

Boys, guitars, etc.

2011-06-10T15:27:00.000+02:00

Sarah's been out for the evening for a few days now, which leaves me to the boys all by myself. No problem. I've got the pattern down pat. As we were brushing teeth, Fred and I, Henry was reading his Guinness Book of World Records. Astonished, he blurted out, "Dad, did you know that the fastest man in the world is almost as fast as the American Cantaloupe?"

Uh, no, I didn't know that.

We proceeded to do a radio broadcast of the World Track Championships with Usaine Bolt, Tyson Gay, Maurice Green, and a cantaloupe. The cantaloupe lost.

Over the weekend, we found ourselves at the Foire du Trone, a massive carnival with absolutely horrid rides. They were so scary, spinning chairs up 55 meters, for one. Just look at that. Would you want to ride it? Not me.

The boys and I did make it onto one little ride. A small roller coaster called Crazy Mouse. How scary can that be? Just look at the below picture to see how scary it can be. Freddy's the only one having a good time, let me tell you.

Fred, in lieu of the spinning chairs, decided to play a game where one hooks little duckies with a stick. Hook a number of them, win a prize. He selected a goldfish. In a carrying case. Which Sarah promptly dropped onto the ground, spilling all the water. Her quick thinking, running to a food vendor to buy a room-temperature bottle of water and pouring it into the box, saved the day. Unfortunately, after a few necessary water changes, Owen bit the dust, bought the farm. Sarah noticed this one morning, and on the Metro to school with the boys, surreptitiously asked Henry how we should introduce this sudden death to Freddy. Henry quickly turned to Freddy and said "Freddy, Owen's dead." Freddy had the textbook step one of the seven stages of grief, Shock and Denial. "No, if we just feed him, he'll grow!"

"No, Freddy," said Henry. "He's dead. I'm sorry for your loss." Sarah was doubled over laughing. Poor Fred. (We got another Owen a day later; all is well.)

Henry has been taking guitar lessons at Ecole Koenig, in the 15th. His perspicacity is noteworthy — he's hardly missed a class, and has been enthusiastic, and no complaints about the travel, which is arduous. I had been invited to join in the lessons by his teacher, and I jumped at the chance. But when it came time for the end of year show, I was expected to play, too. So I did. Below is the video. Please ignore my mistakes and note the excellent solo of young Henry. If below video doesn't work, click here for a different site.

Thanks for reading.

Reasons to visit Paris

2011-05-24T13:30:00.000+02:00

Here's a funny video about visiting Paris. Click HERE.

I must say that I don't much like using Velibs myself.

They sometimes don't work well getting the bikes out from the stand.
Software written by the French, that runs websites, cell phones, etc., is abysmal; and the Velib stations are worse than most. Pas efficace. Not efficient nor useful. And they don't take regular US Visa or Mastercards, though American Express seems to work. Sometimes.
Often the bikes have been vandalized, so you have to check the seats, brakes, tires and chains, just to see if the available bikes will even move.
When you want/need one, the only bikes available have problems with the seat, brakes, tires or the chain (see above #3).
When you arrive at the Velib kiosk to return your bike, all the stands will be full, and you have to use the software to find the closest other kiosk (see above #2).
And while it's only 1€ the first half hour, the cost of renting the Velib rises exponentially as you keep it out, which requires you to find another station and swap it out (see above #5).

So, better to have your own bike.

And you'd be a complete idiot to drink the water from the Seine. Picture of young Henry at les Egouts de Paris, the sewers of Paris, where we learned that regularly some raw sewage makes it into the river. Or so they said.

Thanks for reading.

CRS Police and The Right to a Boozy Lunch

2011-05-16T13:06:00.000+02:00

Paris has more than its fair share of police. The top of the pyramid seems to be the gendarmes. They travel about with the ease of those, well, at the top of the pyramid. I've said that if I live a good life, I will be rewarded by coming back as a motorcycle gendarme on a big BMW in Paris — that would be top.

The lesser security types are the police. How cool can you be riding around on an underpowered scooter? In the middle are the CRS — compagnies républicaines de sécurité. These are the Riot Police, and not well-loved by Parisians, mostly because of their heavy handed tactics with protesters — of which there are more than a few in Paris — and because they have been known to apply theses tactics to school children. The Parisian nickname for them is Monkeys on Buses, to which they bear some resemblance as they gird their loins for battle in full armor — like a catcher in baseball, only nastier.

Would you want these guys to serve and protect,
after a couple of glasses of wine?

Apparently, les singes — the monkeys — are unhappy because they are no longer allowed to quaff the quarter liter (yes, about a pint) of wine they were used to polishing off with lunch. Not allowing your riot police to wade into a crowd with nightsticks and a slight buzz seems like a good idea to me, but apparently not the monkeys. I'll keep you updated.

Thanks for reading

More Paris Restaurant Reviews — Glou and Le Dauphin

2011-05-16T12:54:00.001+02:00

It takes some time to organize one's life — in my case, it's taken 2 years, here in Paris. (Or 46, but who's counting?) I spent hours in the office yesterday, organizing and filing and simply processing things. I felt liberated. And so, I decided to reward myself by continuing my Parisian restaurant reviews.

First, Le Dauphin, which I found disappointing. Just outside of Place Republique, in the 11th, it's a cousin or sister of Chateaubriand, a very well rated restaurant. It doesn't seem to carry over, though, the familial connection. The entire decor was white marble. I felt as though I was in a 5 star Florentine hotel's bathroom. A sink and a boudoir wouldn't have seemed out of place.

The first entree (or appetizer) was calamari. Interesting, but not compellingly so. My companion had a velouté of Dandelion Greens. Really? Why? It was way too bitter and thin. Vivid color, though. For our plats (or entrees) we had the fish and the pork. They were both good, the pork a bit rare for my taste, but both seemed a bit lazily prepared, having been both served on the same bed of beans and other veggies. Funny preparation for a restaurant that offers only two choices for the main dish. Would it really be too much work to make something different for the fish? I have no plans on going back, but the web and my friend both say that it's good for dinner, with a lovely tapas selection.

For a contrast, I headed to Glou. I'd seen this restaurant mentioned in a piece about the chef Julien Fouin, here. It's close to where I live, so off I went, to celebrate my newfound organization. What a contract to Le Dauphin. One sees upon walking in warm stone walls and communal tables, but not ALL communal tables. Smiling and pretty wait staff on a sunny Parisian spring day helped the general sense of enjoyment, too.

The paté de campagne to start was simple, with a dash of very good olive oil, turned out to be rather excellent. And salmon tartare with shaved cucumber, dill and a side salad, too, was excellent. Not too fussy, but well-prepared. And paired with an organic red Sancerre, it made for a great lunch. Their wine list was just what I like, small to medium sized, with a well-edited selection.

This is a restaurant I will go back to, and will add to my "do you know of any good restaurants and hotels in Paris?" list that I must from time-to-time pass on to friends or friends of friends or friends of friends of friends who come through Paris. It seems to fit into that world of restaurants like Frenchie or L'Office that make simple, but very good food, well prepared with excellent ingredients, and a good wine list. What's not to love?

Thanks for reading

Restaurants mentioned in this blog

Le Dauphin
131 avenue Parmentier
75011 Paris
Neighborhood: 11th district.
01 48 06 58 41

Glou
101 Rue Vieille du Temple
75003 Paris
01 42 74 44 32

L'Office
3 Rue Richer, 75009 Paris01 47 70 67 31 ‎

Frenchie
5 Rue du Nil, 75002 Paris01 40 39 96 19 ‎

Ronde de Vlaanderen 2011

2011-04-07T14:07:00.003+02:00

There is an inherent tension living here in Paris — our family enjoys the little traditions we have sometimes set for ourselves. On the other hand, knowing our stay here in Paris may not last forever, we hardly want to return to the same location twice, now do we? Then there is the Tour of Flanders.

A year ago, plus several months, Sarah mentioned to a business associate of hers, who comes from Bruges, in Belgium, that we were coming to his hometown, where the Tour of Flanders starts. Tony took us kindly under his wing, he and his lovely wife, Nicky; and we were able to see the race like locals, with locals. And this year, we kept that little tradition. Only more so. This year, I was to ride with Tony and his friends. I was a little nervous.

Our desire to visit new locales will never eclipse the fun that we have in Belgium on the weekend of De Ronde de Vlaanderen. Leaving the kids with our excellent nou-nou, or nanny, I arrived Saturday morning and was picked up by Steven — Sarah, to spend some time with the boys, was to take a later train. Stopping by his house to change into our riding gear, we headed to the town of Oudenaarde to begin our ride. Each year, people can sign up to officially ride a portion of the course of De Ronde, 160km (100 miles) or 220km (136 miles). Sporty, but not nuts, we decided to ride a portion in the middle of the race, where the racing the following day really begins, on the hills of De Ronde; we rode 50km. Not so much, but the hills were epic.

After a visit to the Centre Ronde van Vlaanderen, where I got an autograph from the famous Belgian rider, Freddy Maertens, we began the ride. "We're just going to ride 9km at a slow pace to warm up," said Steven. Warm up. Right. I warmed up faster than a reactor at Fukushima Daiichi as they took off at between 25-30kph, on mountain bikes. I am used to riding only between 10-20kph, on my too-big Dutch bike carrying boys, so I knew I was in for it.

We hit the first hill, Oude Kwaaremont. (No, these names are fully unpronounceable by Americans. The trick is to say it really fast, smile, and hope the rest of what you said is interesting enough to overcome the grave offence you've just given.) Steep, crowded, and cobbled. Those were the hard parts. I hadn't realised that this ride, though not the official race, would be well-spectated, There were hundreds of people cheering us on. Me. They were cheering for me. A slightly chubby, middle-aged New Yorker on his bike was being cheered for by Belgians. Truly amazing.

We climbed four more hills, including the Koppenberg. This hill consistently plays an important role in the actual race: it is steep, cobbled, and the most important part, narrow, which clogs up the road so quickly that usually, only the first 6 riders can climb up on the bike. The rest of the riders walk up. Its peak incline topped out at 22%. Quite practiced at bobbing and weaving throughout traffic in Paris, I came upon two roadies walking their bikes, side by side, blocking the road. Seeing a hole in the line of riders to the left, I darted into the hole, passed the walkers, and shot back to the right. The riders behind me shouted, in Dutch, with words I didn't recognise, but I got the gist. And I made it up, like all 5 hills we climbed, without having to stop or walk!

As the hills were steep going up, the downhills were a blast. I hadn't ridden a mountain bike in years, but was borrowing one this day, with knobby tires. Going into a tight turn, running a bit hot, I overcooked the turn, skidded the rear tire, and almost ended up in a deep ditch. Only the return of my keen cycling skills allowed me to recover, in time to hear a fellow Anglophone yell "canal!" I thought he was referring to the aforementioned ditch, though, in fact, I realised it was something more like "bleeping hell!" I gestured apologetically and continued on. We wrapped up the ride with lots of beers, a visit to the museum for trinkets, and an outstanding dinner in Bruges: Refters, if you're ever there.

The following day was the race, De Ronde. We were able to watch the riders three different times, the first two on the flats. For our final spectating, we found a hill just after the crest of the Oude Kwaaremont. Having ridden this stretch the day before made the spectating that much more interesting — the riders rode so much faster and with far greater facility. We celebrated by drinking Champagne.

After they passed by, quickly, we went to the square where a monster screen had been set up. Restaurants on the square sent around wait staff with milk crates full of beer — really good, strong Belgian beer — and we watched the last 2 hours of the race. Though I couldn't feel my tush from sitting on a narrow stone step, the time flew by. I don't care about soccer; I'm over American Football; and I never much liked basketball. I am a fan of professional cycling. And I have about two and a half friends who care about it in the States, much less even understand it. So to sit in a square surrounded by hundreds of equally passionate and knowledgeable was an amazing experience. When they read this, a big thank you to all for including us.

Thanks for reading.

More pictures here.

Recent Restaurants

2011-04-07T13:23:00.003+02:00

Sarah and I went to a fairly new restaurant in Paris last night, Le Saturne. Of course, it's been reviewed by the NY Times, so it can't be that new, but it was for us. I gather it has been getting some press, but upon arrival, all felt normal, unlike how I have found some NYC restaurants with hot reviews.

Having been to a number of the latest, greatest restaurants in New York, I can tell you that I have felt a sense of self-congratulation about the whole process. The restaurant is so super fabulous, and knows it, especially the reservationist; one also feels the self-superior sense of being fortunate enough to be at this locale. It's enough to send one to the Chinese restaurant around the corner. We experienced none of that at Saturne. It was a very sane dinner, with excellent service, wines, food, decor, and while the espressos were 6€ a piece, it was otherwise reasonably priced. And it was admirably wrapped up by a 5 minute bike ride home to find two boys asleep on our bed.

What a difference from NYC restaurants, and so I thought I'd pen a few thoughts on recent dinners out. First Saturne: We began with Scallops done in a crudo style, with fresh sliced veggies adorning the plate. Divine, and not too rich at all. It was followed by a plate of Encornets, or Calamari, again adorned with thinly sliced vegetables. The 3rd course was gorgeous, rare lamb. All was quite fresh, and sitting at the bar, we could look into the kitchen to see the preparation.

Saturne is known for their natural wines, of which I am fond, but know only a little. I asked the sommelier, Ewen, to suggest something on the lighter side, Burgundian maybe, not Alsace. He recommended a bottle of Les Etapes 2009 from Domaine du Perron, from Bugey, just to the east of Lyon, and south of the Côte d'Or. It went perfectly with our dishes, and was reasonably priced. Many of these wines were simple table wines, coming from regions that are not noted for their wine production, and so one finds quite fair pricing.

Another restaurant we visited recently was in Versailles. This town caters to tourists, as you might imagine. And while the hotel restaurant where we were staying had a "kids eat free" special, it was super fussy, from the Gordon Ramsay empire, and so we ventured into town. Though we had a reservation at one restaurant, which shall go nameless — okay, it was Bistrot du Boucher de Versailles — but when we saw their advertisement in the parking garage, we decided to look elsewhere. Actually, it was Sarah who said "there's no way I'm eating in a restaurant that advertises in a garage!"

Thinking there might be more restaurants around it, we found Le Bistro, and turned right. We stumbled across Au Carré, which turned out to be a great find. Simple, well-prepared dishes with very fresh flavors, and a lean but well-edited wine list — we had an '09

Chablis from Ch. Chantemerle which was excellent — were some of the highlights, but when we realized that there were locals in the restaurant, we knew we had chosen well. And they were kind to our children, which was a plus.

My final review is of Sapori di Parma, a tiny, narrow little traiteur — seller of prepared foods — that had a few tables. It had been recommended to me as a nice place for lunch, and it was very good. The walls were lined with Italian coffees, jarred artichoke hearts, and cans of tomatoes, which lent the location a tinge of authenticity. The pastas more than made up for the lack of decor with a freshness and flavor that I've not seen recently in Italian restaurants we've frequented in Paris. And they, too were nice to my boy. And that was the nicest thing of all.

Thanks for reading

Restaurants mentioned in this blog

Le Saturne
17 Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, 75002 Paris
‪01 42 60 31 90 ‬‎

Au Carré
20 Rue Pain, 78000 Versailles
‪01 39 50 33 00 ‬‎

Sapori di Parma
56, Avenue de la Bourdonnais
75007 Paris
01 45 56 19 38

Things You Should Have Known Before You Needed To Know Them

2011-03-15T12:44:00.000+01:00

Bonjour à tous et à toutes,

That's right, hello to everyone. Today's lesson is in psychic predetermination. That's right, knowing about things before you need to have known about them. Or, it's about dropping your phone in the sink. Filled with water. Which killed my phone.

And I did that. And it died. And because I pay to The Phone House 200€ annually in assurance, or insurance, I am supposed to get a new phone after having drowned mine. (I really hate The Phone House, but all they wanted to set up a contract was a checking account, and all the other mobile phone stores wanted more documentation than we had at the time.) There's a waiting period before one actually gets the replacement phone. Though it ought to be less than 3-4 weeks, I do understand that.

After reporting my drowned phone, I was told to return two days later to confirm that my insurance claim had been accepted — always the delay here in France. I return, to be told that while the claim has been accepted, it won't be processed for a week, as they're doing inventory. (This store is about 10' wide by 40' deep. How much inventory can they honestly have? I could inventory that store on a long cigarette and coffee break.) And, yes, I'll have to wait 3-4 weeks after that.

C'est pas juste! It's not fair, I stated, that after taking so much of my money for the insurance, they make me wait so long for my phone. "Well, if you'd declared it lost or stolen, you could have received a new one in 48 hours," I was kindly informed. Oh, if I'd only known that before I had actually needed to know that.

Thanks for reading.

More riding in Paris

2011-03-10T17:15:00.000+01:00

I have been riding in paris now for almost two years, and I have learned some things. Some good, some bad. All interesting.

First, Smart cars aren't nearly as narrow as their drivers think they are. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that it's more than ironic that Smart cars are named thusly, as their drivers tend to be anything but.

Buses will try to kill you dead. If. You are riding down the street, or rue, or boulevard, or avenue, and you come upon a bus stop, immediately look back to see if a bus approaches. If so, pray. They will ride up next to you and squeeze over with nary a thought for your safety, or your life for that matter.

I came upon an exhibition in the open space just next to the Louvre where they were teaching Parisians about l'angle mort, or the blind spot where buses can't see you and therefore are likely to kill you. I allowed as how even if they see you, they'll still try to kill you. "Ah non, Monsieur! C'est pas possible. That would never happen." "Bah, oui [uh, right]" I replied. We didn't get very far after that.

When riding with 65 kilos of boys, approx 140+ lbs, a headwind has a really deleterious affect on one's rate of speed. My grandfathers were both 6'4" tall. One of their brothers was 6'7". I'm 6'5". There's size in our family, and these kids keep eating! They won't stop growing and the bike goes slower and slower and my knees creak more and more. Thank god for Advil.

Riding through paris on our way to school is one of the most energizing and exciting things I have ever done in my life. Henry one day decided to count the "monuments" or noteworthy sites we saw each day on or commute. Here goes: Eglise St. Eustache, the Palais Royale, The Louvre and the I.M. Pei pyramid, the Tuileries, the Obelisk of Luxor, the Place de la Concorde, the Champs Elysees and the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand and Petit Palais, Hotel des Invalides, and the Eiffel Tower. But special mention has to go to the Pont Alexandre III: no matter how we are feeling, or how bad is the weather, when we cross that bridge and see those golden winged horses atop the 4 corners of the bridge, and ahead of us, we see the monumental Hotel des Invalides ahead of us, and off to our right is the Eiffel Tower, we feel lucky to be here, in Paris.

Thanks for reading

PS all images gratefully borrowed from the Internet.

Fred's First Ride w/o Training Wheels

2011-02-06T13:33:00.000+01:00

Funnily enough, both our boys, Henry and Fred, learned how to ride in Paris. Henry in the Tuileries, and Fred on our street, rue du Caire, in the 2nd. We ride so much, that it was just a matter of time for Fred. And last night, he said that he wanted to ride without the training wheels.

So, this morning, I pulled off those wheels, we went downstairs, and, as they say in Paris, voila!

For what I find to be an interesting comparison, please click here to find a similarly aged boy riding in Paris as well, on the same bike. (With the obligatory soundtrack of Queen's song Bicycle Race.) We felt very proud of our little boy.

Paris blocks some streets from cars on Sundays, making them lovely places to ride bikes, and stroll. Our street is one of those, but as the city neglects to post a cop at the end of the street, any car that wants to squeezes past the sign and proceeds at their leisure. Truthfully, this drives me nuts. But human nature being what it is, it makes sense. Except when we are playing in the street, and I have to stand there and redirect the cars down another street so they don't crush the boys as they speed down the street. I did ask the police if they would post someone there to stop said scofflaws. They said no.

Oh well. Thanks for reading!

The Joy that is the Sleepover

2011-01-29T18:37:00.000+01:00

When Henry cut his finger, back in September 2010, one issue that I didn't write about was what to do with Freddy. I had called up a friend of ours to ask if they would mind taking him home after school. "No problem!" they said, and immediately, our feeling of family here in Paris grew. Not only did they take him home from school, but when I realised I would have to make another, late night, trip back to the hospital from our apartment, they suggested he just stay the night. Do you want to spend the night, I asked Freddy when I went by to pick him up. "YES!" and there it was. His first sleepover.

We had discussed with our friends about doing more of these. Tonight was the next one. We packed the boys' suitcases — those rolling suitcases never seemed cuter than when your own kids are wheeling them through the streets of Paris. And they headed out the door, to the subway, up the escalator, and meeting the dad on the street, we said goodbye.

What a treat.

Thanks for reading.

Winter in Paris, Etam Fashion Show —Défilé

2011-01-27T12:43:00.002+01:00

I mentioned to a Parisian friend, last winter, how hard we had found January in Paris. She looked surprised — a reaction I truly found surprising — but noted that they tended to just put their heads down and muscle through. It's taken me a year, but I finally understand that MO. One fine winter's morning, while walking along with a friend after dropping off the children, she mentioned in passing what a lovely day it was. I looked up to discover lovely blue skies.

Now, I'd ridden the kids to school, been on the bike for about 45 minutes, and I hadn't noticed the blue sky. I'd just put my head down, and motored along. And that's what Paris does to you. But occasionally things come into to light up the gloom.

Photo from Etam's Facebook page

Sarah, as you may have already gathered from earlier posts, is fabulous. And she works in a fully fabulous field, the field of fashion. Elle travail dans la mode — she works in fashion. And last night was a fun moment of celebration of her hard work. She works in the ready-to-wear division of Etam, but was invited to the fashion show — défilé — for the lingerie division. (Sadly, I couldn't get tickets. Where's the justice?)

Were one to look in the appropriate dictionary under the word fabulous, one would find pictures of a lingerie fashion show such as this one. Though I hadn't been invited, I did watch the webcast. I'd logged on early, just in case their servers were overwhelmed when it started. And I tried to get the kids to sleep in time for the show. I succeeded with Freddy, but as I was reading to Henry, sure enough the computer started blaring the pre-show. I quickly wrapped up the story, kissed him goodnight, and rushed to the screen to turn down the volume.

Sure enough, Henry showed up in the office a few minutes later. "What are you watching?" Umm, Mommy's work. Right. She authorized a little viewing — it being her work and all that. But truly, halfway through the show, I realized it was a little, ah, stimulating. And so I sent him back to his bed. And kept watching. You know, because it was Mommy's work.

Thanks for reading.

PS Henry and I have been spending our Wednesday afternoons traveling about Paris, looking at cool things. Click here to go to his blog page to see the latest.

Pere au Foyer, Stay at Home Dad, etc.

2011-01-27T12:29:00.000+01:00

Yesterday it snowed in Paris. [I wrote first draft of this at very end of 2010.] A lot. At least 5-6 inches, I'd say. [Yes, I know that compared with what the States are getting now, end of Jan 2011, this was nothing, but for Paris, it's a lot. I'll stop interrupting.] And it was wet snow, perfect for snowballs and snowmen. What it wasn't perfect for was driving. Parisians don't have much experience with snow like this. They don't know how to clean the streets, nor how to drive in them. Sure, it was messy and slushy, but in NYC, it might have canceled Alternate Side of the Street Parking, that's about it. The buses would have had chains; the garbage trucks would have mounted their plows; and taxis would still be driving too fast.

But not here. Fred's afternoon martial arts class was canceled; Henry's acting teacher was delayed for his dress rehearsal of his performance in the Lorax. Everything went pear shaped! But we managed to make do.

Sarah's been in China for the week, leaving me with the two bear cub, aka Henry and Fred. This gives me more time to hone the skills that I have been perfecting, the skills of a stay-at-home dad. In French, a pere au foyer. A job I like, think I'm good at, but sometimes overwhelmed by. See picture to right.

You can read about this situation in the International Herald Tribune's article about Alpha Women, and the state of romance: click here. I am married to one of these Alpha Women. I'm quite proud of her for her achievements, I don't care about paying the check, but I do like to drive.

The funny thing about time with the boys without Sarah is that it can sometimes be so much easier to manage. For example, when she's gone to work early, we boys just move along, in a somewhat matter of fact fashion. There tends to be less moaning and groaning about the whole process. Not always. Nothing is ever always with children, I think. Just when you think you've got a handle on something, whammo, it all goes south. Keeps you on your toes, I think. But, for the most part, we move along fairly smoothly when there's just one parent. Doesn't matter much which one.

Back to the article for a second: When Sarah and I were married, we each had fairly clear career paths, as much as those exist nowadays. From Nelson Bolles seminal What Color is Your Parachute, I recall the statistic that people not uncommonly change their careers 5–7 times, maybe 3–5. So who could have predicted where we would end up?

I had, still do, a Masters from Teachers College, Columbia Univ., and in the mid '90s, was well into my career as an educator. And Sarah was following the dream she'd had since, well, always. But it's clear that the educator in a mixed career marriage isn't going to be bringing home the bulk of the bacon. Though I'm sure we must have talked about it, I can't remember the conversations we had. It seems it wasn't an issue as to who was the breadwinner.

We came to my pere au foyer status slowly, though. Keeping with that multiple career change thing, I was on my 4th, by the time Henry rolled around, in 2002. (Education, computers, political consulting, wine & spirits. Eclectic, yes. Dilettantish, maybe. Earnest, always.) I was working in a wine store in New York, one of its bigger ones, as the Director of Special Events. I planned tastings for private clients, managed the website, and sold wine on the floor — which was my favorite part. The hours are demanding, and aren't that conducive to being an attentive parent. Sarah was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder at Limited Brands, and when she added the Senior title to her VP status, we realised there needed to be a change. In about a 9–10 month period, I moved to part time status, and then quit to take care of Henry and begin a freelance wine consulting business. After 4 successful years at that, with some travel mixed in for good measure, we made the move to Paris. I moved to full time stay-at-home-dad status. (Though I must say, I like pere au foyer better as a title.)

Each leg of our journey has been gradual and so it feels natural. The interviewer in the article above asked a number of questions about who picks up the check, as clearly it had come up in previous conversations. Perhaps that was a bone of contention with other Omega Men (opposite of Alpha Females?) It certainly hasn't been with us. As I noted in the interview, Sarah lets me pay for dinner, but I think that's more that she's just happy not to do it! She does have to do a great deal every day, all in French, and sometimes it's just easier to sit back.

So far, so good.

Thanks for reading.

Our Year in Paris – 2010

2011-01-06T11:28:00.000+01:00

January

Tim went to his English doctor, who never ever remembers his name, to ask for antidepressants as the lack of sunlight and the short days are making him despondent, melancholy even.

Sarah goes to China for business, leaving Tim with the boys for about 36 days.

Fred gets a new teacher at his school. We think his old teacher, who we liked, suffered from chronic seasonal affective disorder. Tim has a profound understanding of and sympathy for this woman.

Henry begins his skateboarding assault on Paris, going to an excellent skatepark in the very north of Paris for lessons. Tim rides him there on the back of his bike, and learns that, in fact, all of Paris is not flat.

Tim and Sarah take a Parisian friend's advice — for the last time — and go to Thoumieux, a Costes restaurant. We hate Costes restaurants. This one meets our expectations.

February

Tim visits Le Cordon Bleu to see if professional chefdom is in his future. While professional chefdom may still be in his future, not going to Le Cordon Bleu keeps approximately 30,000€ in his checking account, and so much the better.

The boys begin a course of Uvedose, Vitamin D. This is because there's no sunlight here. In Paris. In the winter. Ever.

Sarah helps to organise a fabulous fashion show of her Etam collection at the Cabaret Sauvage. She gives a lengthy speech, in French, to the crowd. Beaming with pride, Tim trips over something and spills his drink down the back of the CEO. All is forgiven.

Tim joins a group of school fathers for a dinner. On the way there, he gestures unkindly to a cabbie who almost ran him over on rue du Louvre. The cabbie leaps out of the taxi and chases after Tim. The French are so welcoming to their guests.

Tim, bored watching Henry at the skatepark, decides to skate too. Falling off, he breaks his ribs. The ride home, and the next 8 weeks are agonizing. Tim begins to drink more.

Tim starts to go to wine tastings.

March

Tim books tickets to see the opera Don Carlo. Words are Italian, supertitles in French. Sarah falls asleep after 15 minutes. We leave at the first intermission — there are 43 intermissions. But the dinner at Bofinger was good.

In our ever continuing exploration of Paris and that which it has to offer, we head to the Jardin des Plantes to see the animals in the zoo. They are cold. So are we.

April

Sarah goes to London for a girls' weekend, leaving Tim alone with the boys for another 13 days.

Tim continues to join Henry at his skateboarding park. Tim reads books. Listens to music. Doesn't skate.

We find a good Chinese restaurant in the Belleville section of Paris. Our friend, the restaurant advice giver, said there were no good Chinese restaurants in Paris. Our list of good Chinese in Paris is ever burgeoning.

The family heads to the Loire Valley for a long weekend. We seek out a goat farm to see goats being milked. (Everyone's seen a cow being milked, but a goat?) Tim continues his wine tasting MO.

Tim takes a few rides on a rented Brompton, folding bike, which he falls in love with. Tim leaves the deposit on the rented Brompton with the bike store as a deposit to buy one. 5 days later, the store goes into receivership. Au revoir deposit.

Fred goes with his school to a farm to see animals. Finally, a goat.

May

We take a last-minute trip from Paris to Brittany to see the German sub pens at Lorient. No trains are available, so we drive. Learned that most car rentals in Europe don't include unlimited kilometers. The roofs of the sub pens were so thick that the Allied bombs couldn't break through. So they bombed everything around it. Which makes Lorient one of the least cute seaside villages in existence.

Tim loves Autogrills, the restaurants on the French Autoroutes. With a 7 hour drive back to Paris, he gets to visit a lot of them.

We get a cat. Her name is Chloe. Turns out she's a boy. We still call her Chloe. We still call her she. She still sleeps on Tim's head.

June

Sarah returns to China for business, leaving Tim alone with the boys for 53 days.

Henry heads home to USA for 2 weeks of Tractor Camp and Acting Camp. We miss him, but life with only one kid, priceless.

School winds its way down. We are scared.

July

Tim creates a summer camp for boys beginning with swim lessons for Freddy and a friend. The pool was shut down for renovation. He regroups.

The family heads back to the States to visit and pick up Henry. We get to see him in his play at Acting Class. He, naturally, is excellent and movie agents for children actors contact us. Tim's summer camp continues with shocking success.

Tim and Glenda, our nanny, take the boys to Eurodisney. We spend all day there. We do about 5 rides, spend rest of time in line. Why did we go?

August

The family heads to Bonnieux in the Luberon valley. The ad online said we were only 400 meters from the center of town. They forgot to mention that it’s straight up a hill right out of the Tour de France. All is good.

September – December

School starts again. Boys happy, parents even more so.

Henry starts guitar lessons. Learns to love Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix. We don’t sleep as much.

Tim takes 5 weeks of intensive French lessons. His French is improving, but he still can't understand his cheese vendors.

We take the boys to the Autoshow at the Porte de Versailles, along with the other half of Paris. We can't even get near the Ferraris, so we find an oysterman and drink wine. Tim almost buys a car, but comes to his senses.

Tim joins Henry's class from school on a 3 day trip to Brittany to see sea-life at an aquarium. Like most French educational opportunities, this one is pedantic and long-winded, but the 43 kilometers we walk to get crepes are certainly worth it. We see seals, which in French is spelled phoque and pronounced just like the word that you might imagine will get a room full of 8 year-olds giggling ceaselessly. It does.

Sarah continues her business travel, this time to London, leaving Tim with the boys for 74 days.

Later, she leaves for China, but karmic retribution kicks in for all the days she's left Tim alone with the boys: she is denied entry and returns that day. Probably should have checked the expiration date on the visa.

Toussaint, or All Saints, is celebrated by giving French families 10 days off. Thanks a lot. We spend part of our vacation at a farm overlooking Mont St. Michel. As it's the end of October, it's wicked cold, and with too few comforters in the tents — yes, we stayed in tents — we freeze. The wood supplied for the wood stove — we really were roughing it — was the wrong size, and it wouldn't start. Each morning was punctuated by Tim cursing and coughing as the tent filled with smoke, setting off the ear-splitting smoke alarm. But we had our Venice trip to look forward to the next weekend!

The Venice trip is canceled due to the general strike affecting all of France. Sarah and Tim take a day off to eat oysters and drink wine.

We find a new doctor for the boys at the American Hospital. He's fabulous, which is good, because for some reason, we've had to see him about 34 times this fall. Our insurance covers 18% of his fee. This socialized medecine thing is weird.

Tim, thinking that because Henry liked the summer acting class, signed him up for a semester long class. That bird didn't fly. But the boy did memorize all his lines for the final performance. At the end-of-semester party, we duck the stares from the leader and run away as fast as possible.

Along with that performance, Henry read at the American Cathedral's Christmas Pageant. We were so happy to have joined such a wonderful community. We dropped him off for the dress rehearsal the morning of the perfomance, saving some seats, only to find later that someone had stolen those seats, and wouldn’t give them up. So much for community.

We capped off the year with a trip to Colmar in the Alsace region. As we left Paris, we looked at the report from Colmar. -13° Celsius. For the love of God, why didn’t we go to Miami?

Thanks for reading

Salon des Saveurs, and Bad Karma

2010-12-06T11:28:00.000+01:00

Food and wine events are prolific in Paris. I love that. And frequently come the Salons, which bring in literally hundreds of producers of anything related to food. I just loved watching the informercial girl with her very special lids that work with any bowl, and at Le Salon International de l'Agriculture, one gets to see the largest cows or bulls one has ever seen.

One of my first jobs in the wine world was in a wine store. On the floor. Selling wine. Truly I loved it. It was a great job. I enjoyed helping people with a cheap California Chardonnay or seeking that special bottle. It that was a great learning experience on how to act with the public: When someone asked you how you were, the answer was always "Excellent." Your dog could have died last night, and you were still excellent. And the customer was welcome, was embraced, it was part of the experience, whether they were there to buy wine or not — it was an investment in the relationship which would usually pay off for both sides in the end.

I have perhaps the naive idea that all wine tastings will be like that. I was wrong. I went to the Salon des Plaisirs Gourmands. This is a massive gathering of food providers in a space somewhat like the Jacob Javits Center or The Moscone Center in San Francisco. But calling this event just food shopping is like calling Patsy's on the Upper West Side just pizza. Foie Gras, cheese (lots of cheese, too much even), chocolate, saffron, lamb, beans... The offerings didn't stop. And there was wine.

Now remember that I'm used to the American sensibility of relationship building. Loyalty was/is important to us, to me. I had received a free invitation to this salon, normally priced at 8€, from a Chateauneuf du Pape producer from whom I had bought wine last year. I made sure that I found his stand, spoke with him at length, and bought his wine. Relationships work both ways. But there was a very different, even contentious feel to the first stands I went to that was off-putting, at best. The first stand was a Burgundian producer, Domaine Michel Saban. I love Burgundy! I tried his Bourgogne, the lowest level, last, but certainly not least. They should be good, a predictor of what's to come in the better, and more expensive offerings.

His wine was 19€. Here in Paris, a simple Bourgogne ought to run, oh, 14€ or so — if it's 19€, it better be good. During his presentation, he told me it was "moins chers," inexpensive. "En peu cher," I replied, gently. A little bit expensive.That was the wrong thing to say. He was not happy, and berated me for some such thing. I wasn't sure. Eventually, I got to taste his Gevrey Chambertin, priced at 49€ which sucked.

The next guy we visited had some Rhône wines, a different region, but a favourite of mine. I tasted through a few of his, and they weren't bad, but seriously overpriced. Hiis Cornas, from the northern Rhône, all Syrah, was good, well made and interesting, but... I have found, roughly, that wines here run about half what they'd go for in the States. So, that Cornas, at 45€ would be a $90 wine in NYC. And it wasn't that good. He didn't have wine to sell, but would send it to you. We didn't like it enough for that, but didn't want to be rude, so we asked for a card. And then the hard sell came out.

"Vous devez acheter le vin maintenant; vous etes la, C'est plus simple comme ca. Je ne n'ai pas de cartes de visits," You must buy my wine now. you are here. It's easier this way. I don't have any business cards. My wine is my business card.

At this point, there is no way I was going to buy his wine. It wasn't exactly relationship building. And he kept on with this...

I decided that I wouldn't hide my feelings at the next stands; I'd be honest about how I felt. So the next stand we visited poured another crappy, overpriced Bourgogne. En suite, we asked. (Next.) He asked if we were going to buy. If we liked the wines, we said. Then he said if we just wanted a free drink, he wasn't interested. We walked away to the Rhône and Bordeaux producers, who were nice, and whose wines we bought.

But what the hell? Where's the love? Of course, any good producer of Burgundy wines doesn't need to come to Paris to hawk his wines. My friend said "They are just mad because their wine is not good, they can't get the same prices as the good producers, they probably got stuck in a snow storm in Burgundy on the way up here, no one is buying their wine. We come along and tell that it is too expensive and he wasn't in the mood for a reality check...."

All that was true, but man, what a buzz kill. Still, I found a lot of good cheese.

Thanks for reading

Thanksgiving in Paris

2010-11-28T17:05:00.000+01:00

You know you've been somewhere for a while when you can start counting holidays. This most recent Thanksgiving celebration, or fête, as the Parisians call it, was our second, and they're getting better.

Traditions are an important part of our family, and so it is with this particular holiday. We begin with the stuffing. Each year, Sarah trots out her loyalty to those peculiar Philadelphia practices with which she grew up. (In my opinion, Philadelphia has given us cream cheese, Scrapple, and cheese steaks. Beyond that, culinarily, I don't see much.) We therefore must use a stuffing in the bird made with the French version of Wonder Bread, celery, onions, and maybe some salt and pepper. At least she doesn't use cream cheese. The good news is that it's just not bad. But it's a touch, uh, bland. Fortunately, I found a new recipe for baked stuffing to cook outside of the bird. Sausage, loads of lovely spices, all baked under chopped up and seared chicken parts to add that special flavor. Not bad, not bad at all.

It's somewhat axiomatic that getting supplies for Thanksgiving is hard in Paris. Bah. I was able to find cranberries, brussels sprouts, and all other comestibles with ease. And when it came time for the turkey, I just asked my favorite butcher to order me a dinde, French for turkey. I'd been advised that for the dozen people planned at our table I needed a 10 – 15 lb bird. Converting to kilograms is pretty easy; you just halve the amount in pounds. What I needed was a 5 – 7 kilogram bird. But when I asked for it, I went the other way by mistake, and asked for one that weighed 22 kilograms. As the butcher's eyes got bigger, he asked how many people I was serving. We went back and forth, in French, when I suddenly pictured what a 50 lb turkey would look like. I quickly corrected myself, to the amusement of not only the butcher, but all the other customers in line, who were wondering probably just how big everything really was in the US of A.

One of my goals in cooking is to make it look easy, like dinner took no work. Which, of course, takes lots of work. So it was this holiday. I started working, buying, prepping, chopping, cleaning, and otherwise organizing days beforehand. Okay, only days. It wasn't that hard, but I did organize it well, and with help from friends, I took on tasks I'd never done before: I made cranberry sauce, with Port and Clementines, which turned out great. All that preparation meant that all I had left was to make the gravy after the bird was done. I should note that an 8 kilogram (they upsold me) bird, about 18 lbs, pretty much fills a Parisian oven.

Here I am delivering the bird to a famished and happy table of Thanksgiving participants, which included French, Spanish, Australian, as well as Sarah's brother, Casey, on his way home to Athens.

More pictures below.

Thanks for reading.

Playing Hooky in Paris

2010-11-27T13:18:00.000+01:00

Today was an exceptional day. Exceptional, because the boys played hooky, and we don't do that frequently. Vampire Weekend, a favorite band of the family, from Columbia University, was in town for a concert at the Zenith, the famed venue in Paris. We thought it a good first concert for our oldest, and so Sarah took Henry to see them. They didn't get home too late, but the next day seemed like a good time to take a day off. (Yes, we know that we can't do this anymore, school is important; but he's only in 3rd grade, so why not?)

Sarah left her sleeping boys at 7h20 that morning, and the urchins didn't rise until an hour or so later. As Theodore Roethke says, "I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow." And those boys do just that. We hung out until lunch. A friend recommended one of the better Japanese restaurants in her neighborhood, a mini Japantown. Restaurant Akita, on 40 rue Petits Champs, turned out to be a brilliant suggestion. The sushi and gyoza were terrific, and Henry polished off a giant chirashi of Salmon, along with a plate of maki for seconds. But, the sophisticated city boy that he is, he'd requested the salmon maki, but with the avocado, too, please.

After lunch, we went to a great art supply store in the Passage Choiseul looking for a few things. After the minor argument over the desire for the new, limited edition Pac-Man moleskine notebooks, we walked out with my pencils, and Henry's watercolor supplies. Following this art theme, I thought it would be fun to go to the Musée de l'Orangerie, to add a little culture to our day off. This is a famous museum, on the short list of must-sees when tourists make their once-in-a-lifetime trip to Paris. (On that note, I remind our boys every time we ride across the Champs Elysees to look up and down. On one side, the Arc de Triomphe, the other, the Place de la Concorde. People save up for years to take a trip to this city, and we get to ride across it every day. One day, we listed the number of monuments we see on our rides to school: The Louvre, the Petit Carrousel, Place de la Concorde and the Obelisk of Luxor, l'Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, Hotel des Invalides, Pont Alexandre III, to name a few. Our rides to school in NYC contained zero.)

Back to the museum. I figured that the post-lunch, sleepy boys wouldn't be keen on a trip to a museum, and I was right. So I lured them closer with a trip to the trampolines in the Tuileries. (Add the Tuileries to the list of monuments we see daily.) We bought 10 minutes of jumping. With no one else there, after 25 minutes the boys were just plain sick of jumping. "Can we come out now, please, Daddy?" Yes Freddy, you can stop jumping.

Henry pronounced he wanted to paint, so Fred and I left him alone to his brushes. I think he captured the area around the trampolines rather well.

Off we tramped to the Musée, where we negotiated whether we would even go in. Finally, Henry said that we could maybe go in to see a few pictures. Bingo. In we went.

The Orangerie is a lovely museum, most famous for its huge Monet paintings of waterlilies. Oddly, Henry was nonplussed by the giants, but he did like the Sisley, Le Chemin de Montbuisson à Louveciennes.

We discussed the idea of impressionism and how it tries to capture what the eye really sees without the detail of a photographic image. We noted how the man's face in the Sisley was just a blot of paint, yet you really can see that it is a person. Henry seemed to have understood, and we moved along, noting the Modiglianis, among others.

We then came across a Picasso, one of the paintings of a woman's face with both eyes on one side. Look at this, Henry, I said. Note how it doesn't look anything like a face, but you can tell right away what it is. With the ennui of a boy from the city, he replied "Dad. It's abstract."

Thanks for reading.

La Ferme and Mont St. Michel

2010-11-08T14:20:00.002+01:00

6:07am. In a tent. In a field. It's cold. Wicked cold. I am trying to start a fire in the wood stove, in the tent. It isn't working. "I was born on East 92nd Street, for crissake. This x#%* fire!" I yell to the family, fully wrapped in their beds. Our first morning at this farm! Let me go back a little bit.

Sarah and I trade off vacation planning, and this holiday was hers to plan. Toussaint - All Saints Day, which comes the day after All Hallows Eve, otherwise known as Halloween, is a big deal in France. This means we get 10 days vacation for Halloween. In the states, they get candy corn.

Sarah found a farm where one can milk cows, chop one's own wood for the fire, on which
one cooks meals. And sleep in a tent, with thin walls. Back to nature; that sort of thing. It was glorious (except for that morning fire thing). Our tent had a view across the bay of Mont St. Michel, and chickens and a goat. All was harmonious and copacetic.

We've urban kids, who are used to plying their way about Paris easily, and using electronic devices for everything. But boys will be boys: the moment we arrived, huffing and puffing from dragging all our gear up the hill — there was a road; would it have ruined the experience to be able to drive our stuff to the tent? I think not — they ran into the field and chased the chickens.

The best part of the chickens were the eggs, both eating and collecting. Here's a picture of Henry with our first dinner. The eggs had the toughest shells I've ever seen — one way to know you have truly open air eggs. And the yellowest yolks. The farmer's wife brought us some Boudin Noir, a black sausage made from a pig killed the day before. With a strong Chateauneuf du Pape, this made for a hauntingly fresh and tasty dinner.

The farm had a sort of grocery store of local products and vegetables. Everything was of very good quality. For enthusiasts, gas stovetops may be on the wane with induction cooking the way to go. But I liked the challenge of the wood stove. It sure didn't heat up too fast, though.

The animals were a big thrill. Fleurette, a young goat, was a constant companion of ours. The first night, our dinner was interrupted; we thought it was the farmer or his wife. Nope Fleurette. Here she is dancing with Freddy. We also liked playing with the geese. At the top of the hill, beside the small store where we bought all our food, sat a pair of geese. The boys, again being boys, ran to the top of the hill, where they quickly learned the difference between pictures of animals, and real life. Boys are not at the top of the food chain, and these geese were quick to remind them of that. Here's a quick video of such an encounter. Or click here. (No animals were harmed in the making of this film. However, running away from an angry goose later, I did manage to run into a telephone pole and break my glasses. I think the geese were laughing at me.)

We also got to milk the cows. Henry wiped the teats of the cows, and latched on the sucking mechanism. We even got to taste udderly fresh milk. I'm open-minded when it comes to food; I'll eat or drink anything, but this was literally hard to swallow, all warm and stuff – yecch. After one milking session, I took Fred home to the tent, as he was getting tired. Sarah and Henry continued with the chores, only to find themselves being showered by what can only be described as a hailstorm of cow poop. I think the image of Sarah washing the clothes in the showers and trying to dry them next to the wood stove will stay in my mind for some time to come. We only burned up one pair of jeans — Henry's.

Having rented a car, we did try to explore a little bit. Also, having to cook over a wood stove made a lunch in a restaurant that much more enjoyable. We found a restaurant overlooking the bay of Mont St. Michel, where we gorged ourselves on oysters and seafood in cream sauces. In this area of France, Basse Normandy or lower Normandy, they love cream sauces. Everything had a cream sauce. Given how much energy you have to burn to stay warm, we weren't too worried about the calories. We managed to leave behind our camera, though, at the first restaurant. Here's a little souvenir of our visit. They were awfully nice to us.

Naturally, we had to travel to Mont St. Michel. How could we not? As we walked towards the town, we saw people out on the sand walking about. Apparently when the tide comes in, it rather gallops, and one oughtn't to leave it too close. But we had a few hours to spare, so we decided to march out there. We crossed one small trickle of water and promptly got stuck in quicksand. Both Henry and Fred fell — again, that image of Sarah, dirty clothes, the showers, the wood stove, all come leaping to mind. We were laughing, even as we squelched our way back to the road.

The boys and I have been collecting these 2€ coins you can get at any monument of France, e.g. The Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, etc. With an engraving celebrating that particular spot, they have become a fun collection for us. And naturally, I wanted one from Mont St. Michel. The rest of the team smartly returned to the car as I made my way through what has got to be the most touristy place I have ever been. Ever. San Gimignano in Tuscany comes a close second, but this place is amazing. The famous La Mere de Poulard biscuits were everywhere, as was their flagship restaurant. Probably serving the biscuits in a cream sauce.

I climbed and climbed. It's quite a vertical town. Finally, when I could lift my wet boots no more, I walked down an alley to head home. Voila, there was another souvenir stand — big surprise. But this one had the coins I was looking for. I passed over my 2€, and headed home. Later, as I walked through the parking lot, I pulled the coin out of my pocket to see what the engraving was. There was a very small picture of the island, but in big letters, it read La Mere Poulard. Memories.

It was cold there, in October. That first morning, I finally got the fire started. Now, I don't consider myself an ego driven man. But are some lines I just won't cross. And even though I was coming to the last of the newspaper to light the fire, there was no way I was going to ask the farmer to start this stove. I rebuffed Sarah's suggestions heartily. And, on literally with the last sheet of paper, the Tribune, I managed to get that stupid fire lit. And for the rest of the weekend, I slept no more than 3 hours in a row, waking up to refuel it. But it was worth it.

Thanks for reading.

Les Poissons and Henry

2010-10-13T21:44:00.000+02:00

It is not lost on me that we will not, I think, live in France forever. (That oughta make our parents happy.) And so, the opportunity to study the French language in the home of the French language is finite. So I embrace it; by which I mean, I have signed up for 5 weeks of "extensif" language classes, 9 hours per week. Extensif? Seems pretty intensive to me...

This might be why I've not posted recently. So many hours of class take a toll, to be sure. Yes, I know that I'm lucky enough to get to do this, but I'm the one who has to work at it. Freddy, who's creeping up on 5, is aware that he "doesn't speak French!" But, and I've said this all along, he won't actually learn French — he'll just know it. Unlike the rest of us, who have to learn it, Henry included. On the bike this morning, I asked Fred a question. "Exactement!" he replied. Now, he didn't know he was speaking French. He didn't realise he was saying "exactly," but in French. He was just speaking. And that's how easy it will be for him. Me, less so.

The best accent in the family is Henry's. He gargles out those R's like nobody's business, but he has been deprecating about his actual ability to speak the language. Well, no more! I accompanied him and his class — 11 boys and girls — along with two teachers to Oceanopolis, in Brest, in the region of Brittany. It's a huge aquarium, with an amazing educational component. We studied fishes, starfish, shellfish, seals, and the like. It was an intensive — not extensif — program which was both very rewarding and fully exhausting.

We spent one morning digging up crabs, fish, and other sea life at the Ile Segal. After a morning of poking about the sea, and an afternoon in seal workshops and biodiversity studies, we walked over 3 miles to a creperie situated in possibly the most beautiful park I have ever seen. The kids ran and ran and ran. I'm not embarrassed to say that I was fully in support of the idea to take taxis home from this journey.

But the best part of the trip for me was the opportunity to see Henry in his milieu, without his being aware of being watched. He knew I was there, but it didn't take long for him to ignore me, and just be with his friends. And I loved it. The children would call out to Sophie, their most excellent teacher, in English. And she would say "En Français..." And without blinking, they'd all switch over to French. Henry never gets to say anymore that he can't speak French, because I know. Because I've seen it.

Thanks for reading.

French Health Care and Table Knives

2010-09-23T14:43:00.000+02:00

Henry's 8. He's been eating lunch for a long time, but this school lunch was different. Cutting the kernels from a piece of corn on the cob, the knife slipped and cut into his left index finger. A standard bandaid was no match for the the depth of this cut, and so the school asked me to come to take a look. Not having the first clue, in fact, as to what I was looking for, I rang a good friend who is a former Physicians' Assistant. Now he is a master distiller. Nice switch. I call him for all sorts of advice, both medical and medicinal. Anyway, he told me that I should see if the skin was severed; if it was, it would need stitches.

It was so severed. Even without being forewarned, I could have figured this out. Henry and I rode to Hôpital Necker, a famous French hospital for children. We waited for a long time, but for New Yorkers used to those large hospitals, it was nothing unexpected. At one moment, though, waiting in the examining room, the door opened, a pretty nurse stuck her head inside, told us something very fast, and ended with a "merci." Henry and I looked at each other, laughing, the look of complete ignorance on both our faces. We didn't know if she was kicking us out, thanking us for being such good patients, or warning us that there was an imminent outbreak of the bubonic plague heading our way.

After visits by a triage nurse (above) and a pediatrician, finally the orthopedic surgeon arrived. As he was talking to Henry, in walked the good nurse, the one with the huge keg of laughing gas. Now, I know it's called Laughing Gas, but I never realised how accurately that was described. While the surgeon shoved the anesthesia needle, rather roughly I thought, into Henry's finger, that little boy cried out in pain, and then yelled "I love this gas!" So did I.

The surgeon was quite competent, but the way he shoved those tools into Henry's finger — I had no idea that there was so much room in the finger for exploring. There is, and he did. And he then told us that this would needed an operating room, as there was more damage than initially expected. Ugh, I thought.

We waited more, and more, and more. Sarah finally arrived, and I went home, stopping by great friends of ours who had picked up Fred from school. When I arrived, Fred asked if he could stay some more. "Sure," I replied. "Would you like to have a sleepover?"

He bounced up and down with excitement, and with no fear. It was his first sleep over, and it went great. I then continued home to pick up materials for Henry and Sarah, and rode back to the hospital. Henry was in the operating room, so I fell asleep — it's now 11pm — only to be awoken by the nurse scolding me. "The beds are only for patients," she said. Okay, I left, to ride back home (I rode over 25 miles that day).

The next day, I arrived in the morning with a bag of chocolate goodies: viennoise — a soft chocolate chip baguette, chocolate croissants, and a chocolate muffin, and a thermos of coffee. Henry looked worn out, but happy to be done with the ordeal. There had been a slight nick in a tendon, but no nerve damage, and all would heal fine.

Then we waited some more. This time for the paperwork to be completed. Finally, with documents in hand, we headed to another wing in this enormous building to find the bursar or cashier. Feeling rather lost, I approached a volunteer. In my tired French, I told her that my son had died, and we'd like to check out. As she screwed up her face, trying not to laugh, I realised what I'd said, and tried to explain. "J'ai compris [I understood]," she said, and pointed me in the correct direction.

And it cost nothing. Nada. Zippo. Rien.

Merci à France.

thanks for reading.

The First Day Back

2010-09-08T11:26:00.001+02:00

The Lennen Bilingual School, where our boys both go, has a new building. This is a very good thing, as Henry's previous classroom had no outdoor windows, and Fred's was in the basement. There was nowhere else to go but up!

These are real classrooms, with real windows, and real space for the kids to play in. And a really pissed off neighbor, who decided to open his ground floor window, crank up his stereo to 11, and play Michael Jackson as the tintinnabulation of children arriving got louder and louder. This, of course, was of no concern to Henry, who still loves MJ. Were I in charge, I might have had delivered a case of Champagne the Friday before school started, but the French do things differently. Be interesting to see how this pans out.

Like pulling teeth, we worked hard to ease our boys into the first day of school We laid out the mufti; we had family meetings to review the new autumnal rules — no morning TV at all!; we talked about the schedule in the AM. First thing Fred asked for at 7AM, yep, "can we watch a morning show?" It's the job of a 4 year old to do this. But all the hard work paid off. Other than the above, all went well.

Henry, at 8, was nonplussed by the import of the day. Got packed up, reviewed all necessary dossiers, etc. Chose his own clothes; tied his own shoes; avoided combing own hair. Was on board with the plan.

Sarah joined us for the trip to school. We took a taxi, as it had rained earlier on that morning. We arrived very early to school, and gathered in the foyer. Though I felt a little like I was waiting to go to the principals' office, it was copacetic.

Henry, as expected, marched into the class with one of his best friends and started playing. No worries there. I stayed with Fred in his classroom, working on puzzles. He has two teachers: one the French teacher, the other, teaches in English. Unfortunately, the new one to Fred is the French teacher, and mornings are her time. So, he was a bit worried at the absence of the other teacher, but not for long. He found a friend, and all was well. I told him I was going up to the 3rd floor to say goodbye to Henry. I made it to the top of the stairs and heard "daddy!" Oh no, I thought.

"Ask mommy to come by on her way down, okay?" Umm, sure, I said. No problem. And that was it. We had all made it.

Thanks for reading.

Playgrounds

2010-09-02T14:20:00.000+02:00

I hate playgrounds. It's a jungle out there. Wherever you are. In New York, the parents were either overly attentive, or not at all. And the nannies generally never seemed to pay much attention to their charges, until the screams went to bloodcurdling. The average wail, that got no looks.

Henry's school had a very specific approach to teaching young (he was in the 2 year old class) children how to share. They wouldn't share. They're not ready for it yet, but he did learn to ask "when you're finished with that, can I have it?" Which most kids would do. It didn't much translate to the larger world, however. I have this image of young Henry, in a sandbox, leaning over another boy who is holding onto a toy for dear life, as Henry wags his finger at him and at the top of his lungs yells "WHEN YOU'RE FINISHED?!"

Ah, but the Parisian playgrounds, now those are tough. There's a sense that other nannies or parents are allowed, nay expected to, scold, teach, or punish other's children when they step out of line. In the 10th, Fred was spinning on some apparatus, when some boy stood nearby, wanting to go next. Fred is somewhat territorial, like a wolf, when it comes to his playthings, and so to send a message, he stuck his butt out and knocked the boy to the ground.

This was not okay, to be sure. I headed over to work this through with young Fred. Before I arrived, though, the nanny was wagging her finger in a Gallic fashion and advising him to "dis pardon!" Surely Fred should "say excuse me," but I kind of think that's my lesson to teach, no? So I told her, "Je vais lui parler. Pas vous!" I'm going to speak to him, not you! She frowned.

Fred and I then discussed it for a while, but we got bogged down on whether to say "pardon" or "désolé." By the time we'd figured it out, the kid was long gone. Just another day in the University of We Do It Differently Here.

Thanks for reading

Fat Cats, Boys and Dads

2010-09-02T08:55:00.001+02:00

I've just realised why the French are all so skinny. I had always assumed it was due to their choice of breakfast: coffee, a croissant, and more than a few cigarettes. But after a few visits to medical professionals, I now understand. Body types of all sorts, all sizes, all species are managed very carefully.

Full disclosure, I could lose some weight. But, I rode over 2000 miles from Sept '09 – June '10, so I have to be in some shape, right? Besides, as a friend recently said "You're in Paris, eating and drinking well. Maybe some things are more important than being skinny?" Good point.

My eldest son went for his checkup. He has gained some weight in the past few months, truth be told. We have been on holiday, and we've surely splurged from time to time. You'd have thought, though, his blood pressure was something like 180 over 175 from the reaction he got. The pediatrician and I discussed what we should eat at gouter. Not having a clue what gouter was, I asked. "The 4 o'clock snack," the kind doctor replied. "Oh, teatime," said Henry. I didn't realise he was quite so wordly.

We should stick to snacks like fruit and nuts, not breads and starches — I guess chocolate croissants are out, malheureusement. Bah, oui. (Rough translation: no kidding.) So we need to work on our diet, I said. Then the papers came out. The French love their charts, their papers, their documents. Not for them the simple height/weight chart. Nope, they need the full BMI (body mass index) chart. Of course, it's not user friendly. It involves calculators. (I have shown a sample chart for girls. Naturally, the boy chart is blue.) We then spent some time noting what he should be. The French are all about shoulds. My grandfather on my mother's side was 6'4", and his brother was 6'7", and they graduated from college in the '20s. Pretty tall in those days. And my grandfather on my father's side was 6'4", too. I wonder if one can really determine exactly how many kilograms Henry should really be.

Okay, so I get it that my kids should watch what they eat. I understand the seriousness of the matter, and how child obesity is a rising issue. But my cat? Having recently been neutered, Chloe, should no longer be eating as much food as she, umm, he was previously. Usually, he eats when he's hungry. No more. We must switch him from wet food — Bad! — to dry food — Good! He must not eat food he loves, as he will wolf it down in an aesthetically unpleasing fashion. Instead, he will eat food he only likes, which will cause him to take smaller bites, and keep that extra poundage under control. If not, he will look like this!

So, we must put him on a regime. (The French don't diet; they go on regimes.) Our cat normally runs at our feet day-in and day-out wondering when the next meal is coming. You walk to the kitchen, and he runs under your feet hoping that there's another portion of that bad wet food coming his way. Supposedly, after the surgery, this unbridled need for food should wane, said the vet. And if it doesn't, I asked. What then? Well, you could cook up some haricots verts, and give him as much as he wants of that.

Uh huh. Only in France are the cats expected to eat their green beans. Wonder if I have to add butter to that.

Thanks for reading.

It's a boy cat! Oh, and the summer

2010-09-01T09:19:00.000+02:00

The boys really wanted a cat. Really. Sarah thought it might be a good idea, you know, to give them an increased sense of "home." I got it, I really did. I don't much mind the cat itself. And I apologize for the crassness of this statement, but I hate what goes in them, and then what comes out of them. Those of you, and you jolly well know who you are, who have outdoor cats who come and go as they will, well, just say that I'm jealous.

Now, as you can see, it used to be this demure little girl cat. Anyway, that's what Sarah said when she brought the little demon home: she's a girl, so we named her Chlöe, or Chloé. Who knows what accent to use. It's not like she's gonna come when we call her.

We go away on our two week holiday to the south of France. (More on that below...) And our lovely voisine (or neighbor) who cat sat for us let us know what a lovely boy cat we had. Boy cat? Huh? Got home, turned her, erm, him over and checked the plumbing.

As I type this, the little bugger's at the vets, getting neutered. My favorite reaction was from the vet's assistant, who, holding the cat, heard her name, looked over with a face that said "Chloe? He's a boy, right?" I then had to explain the whole story. In French. Yes, we have a boy cat. And a big one, too.

Sarah this summer had puh-lenty of vacation time, and so we took our 2 week stint down in the Luberon Valley. Best known for the books by Peter Mayle, who seems to have introduced more than his fair share of loud and unfashionable Britons to the south of France. It was lovely and hot and we had a pool and what's not to absolutely love. Here is a picture of the house she found in the town of Bonnieux. (For a series of pics from visit, please click here.)

The website from whom we rented the property described it as "located just 400m from the historic village of Bonnieux – just a short walk in the morning to get your croissants!" They failed to mention that it was straight up hill. Bonnieux is at its heart a vertical town. I don't recall a flat street in sight. We sent Henry in to get the croissants and bread for the morning. (For dinner, you have to go back in. One wouldn't want bread that's been sitting around all day, would one?)

We spent much time sitting by the pool, thinking about dinner; going to markets, to shop for dinner; going to wineries to buy wine, for dinner. Dinner was a big part of our day. Fred learned to swim, so we ended up sitting there watching him splash around in the pool. While we ate dinner.

The food down there is the epitome of local. It's not advertised as being local or 100 mile food; it just is. Each town has its market, some larger towns have 2 a week. Friday was a big day across the valley for markets. It was hard to choose which one to attend. You can find there such a variety of products: olives and garlic, spices all laid out in baskets, leather bracelets, toy cars made from recycled soda cans, and my favorite: bright yellow Zucchini flowers, which, dredged in a light pancake batter, fried, and served with lemon slices, are just about the best thing.

One of the highlights for me was the bike riding. I took one long ride by myself, in the AM (which got hot really quickly, and those hills!), but the best riding was with the whole family. There is a 240 km long bike trail (think Rails to Trails route) starting just down the hill from us, riding over a 2000 year old Roman bridge, the Pont Julien. Built without cement, it's still standing, and had been carrying cars for some time, too, it was clear. (The bridge was on the Roman road leading from Italy to Spain. History is so close to everything over here.) Henry rode along with us, Freddy on my bike, as we traipsed about in the hot sun, picnicking here and there. We did a 20 km (12 miles) trip; not bad for an 8 year old.

As I noted, it's a vertical town. We took ourselves in for the occasional meal, overlooking the town. As you can see. It somewhat gave the parents in this family heart palpitations. Both the climb and watching the boys look over the walls.

Bonnieux as like many classic Provençal towns is filled with little lanes tucked here and there. Continuing down the hill from our house was our secret road, aptly named Blackberry Lane, as it was lined with tens of thousands of scorched blackberries, all roasted at the end of the summer to raisins. Fred and I climbed down the hill. A tired boy, he required sitting on my shoulders on the way back up. Lots of heart palpitations there. The sky was even more blue than I was able to capture in this picture. And it was big. Maybe not Montana big, but pretty big.

Two weeks holiday takes some getting used to. We American's aren't used to such huge tracts of time. I'm not saying I was bored: I wasn't, and even if I was, I wouldn't admit it. Truth is though, for me, it began as less of a vacation than I've been used to in the past. Taking care of the boys, which we had to do, as they joined us, is what I do all the time anyway, so a bit of a busman's holiday. On the other hand, when Glenda, our nanny, joined us for the last week, she in a very Jeeves-like fashion, took over all the work-y details, and we got to rest and relax. This was great for Sarah, who needed focussed time with her boys, but also time to rest and not do the dishes, or the laundry, or whatever needed attention. Surely this was one of our best holidays. And as the boys grow, it's becoming more and more fun.

I leave you with a few pics. Thanks for reading.

How to buy wine online, in France

2010-09-01T08:49:00.000+02:00

Down in the south of France, on holiday, Henry wanted to go karting. I mean, it's not fun enough swimming, getting croissants, playing soccer... I get it. But as just compensation for such travels to the middle of nowhere to find the karting track, I get to take him to the small but famous town of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, best known for their rich red wine from the Rhone Valley. We visited Chateau de la Gardine, who makes an excellent Chateauneuf-du-Pape, and an almost even better Cotes du Rhone, from the village of Rasteau. I bought some, naturally.

Settling into Paris, I decided to buy some more of this wine. Alors! They have a website! I can just order it online. Cool. So, I wade through the French menus, filled with recalculer and continuer and commander. I soldier on bravely, create my new account — I don't always want to create a new account; sometimes it's a one-time purchase. Anyone listening? — and Résumé de Votre Commande. Then comes Miller Time. It asks me to Pensez à revenir sur ce site après votre paiement CB. Umm, of course I am going to "think back to this site after [my] credit card payment"; I didn't know I had to leave. But I do, and I did, and...

Now here's where it gets hard. I must enregistrer votre numéro de téléphone. Apparently, La validation de certains paiements sur les sites Verified by Visa nécessite désormais un Code Sécurité à usage unique. La Société Générale vous communique automatiquement ce code au numéro de téléphone que vous avez préalablement enegistré. What?

In a nutshell, I have to somehow confirm by text message that I am who I say I am. In order to send this text message, I have to first call and register over the phone. In French. Fast Parisian French. Yeah right. Or...

Alternativement, si vous enregistrez un numéro de téléphone mobile français, vous pouvez également utiliser notre service SMS+. [Alternatively, if you register a French mobile phone number, you can also use our SMS service +.]

I'm not yet fluent enough to navigate the voice mail. So I'll use the text message system. Now, I have send to a series of numbers via SMS to some other number, to confirm the security of which... I really have no idea, because it never ended up working.

The translation of the instructions:
- Enter your Client Code (8 digits), followed by a + a * or a space.
- Enter space without your month of birth (eg 03 for March), your year of birth (eg 70 for 1970) and your district of birth (eg 75 or 99 to Paris for foreigners) followed by a + d a * or a space.
- Enter your mobile number (starting with 06 or 07).

Uh, okay. Then, and this is the best part, it's gonna cost me an extra 20 centimes, just for the privilege of doing something I can't do without registering. Why not just call me up every morning and ask for some goddam money? I mean, you're gonna get it anyway, right?

- Send your SMS to 51002 (0,20 EUR / consignment + price of an SMS).

The odds that I am going to get this right are astronomically small. I don't even know what a client code is. The reply back to my text was:

Société Générale.
Message d'erreur : votre numéro n'a pas été enregistré car les informations sont incorrectes. Putain. [You got that part, right? Error Message. Rough translation: It didn't work. Jerk.]

Okay, I added the last word — a bit more profane than jerk — because it felt like that was what they were saying. Who was I to think that I had a chance to succeed?

Anyway, I picked up the phone and called Chateau de la Gardine. I figured that would be much easier. They're an internationally recognized house — Zachys sells their wine, for the love of God!; they must have someone there who speaks English. After asking just that, I was sure that she said she was going to find someone who could. I quickly realised what she was saying was "No. Jerk." We'll see if I get my wine.

Thanks for reading.

Winter, yes, winter

2010-07-01T17:44:00.001+02:00

It's been hot here — in the low 90°s. Paris can be fairly sticky, too. I have to say, though, that I don't have the screaming obsession to get out of the city like I did in NYC. NYC sticky is something else; it makes you want to peel your clothes, then your skin off, and plunge yourself into a rather large martini.

But I remember the winter here. I remember it well. I remember getting 8 hrs, 15 minutes of daylight, with the sun rising at 8:45, and setting at 4:45. Now, in June, the sun rises at 5:45, and sets at 10pm.

But, during those 8 hours of daylight, 6 months ago, there were mostly clouds covering the sky. And everything was covered in gray flannel. It was dark and dreary.

So, let me tell you, it's not too hot here. Not one bit. I like it. I like it a lot.

Yours sweatingly,

Thanks for reading.

Franchement

2010-06-30T15:51:00.000+02:00

Franchement is a great word. One definition is "really?" in the way Saturday Night Live does the Really skit. (The link works for US residents. I can't see it. Maybe you can.) Or, "seriously?" Both work. I use this word all the time.

For the few days I have here in Paris with Fred alone — his brother is in the states at Camp Grandparents, I decided to have him take some swim lessons. Turns out our regular babysitter has taught swimming. Perfect. Except she's moving away for 2 mos., so I was only able to squeeze in two days of lessons this week. But, I found a friend of Fred's from school who was available, too. It was the perfect arrangement!

No good deed goes unpunished. I had checked the website of this pool, to confirm the hours, the cost, etc. Several times I checked the website.

What the sign says, which I learned upon pushing a locked door, is "For your comfort, we're working on the pool, and it will be closed, from the 5th of June to September 2010." Did it say this on the website? No. Remember, I checked it a few times, and yes, after 5 Juin.

While surfing the web seeking another pool in Paris, we also discovered that there's a piscine greve, or strike, going on, thus shutting down all the other pools about town. Greves happen with regularity here, but mostly it's the train drivers who go on strike. Who's ever heard of a pool strike?

Franchement.

A new wine store in Paris

2010-06-30T09:21:00.000+02:00

Herewith a piece that I wrote up for a US wine publication.

Bordeauxtheque — the world’s largest Bordeaux wine store — recently opened in the Galeries Lafayette, in conjunction with the Bordeaux merchant house Duclot, owner of Petrus. Carrying over 10,000 bottles on site, with 1200 references, it has much more in an offsite location. But sheer quantity is only part of its strength. Sourcing wine from its own exceptional cellars, Duclot also obtained wines directly from other chateaux, assuring the provenance of every bottle. With a thoughtful progression of wines leading from simple Bordeaux and the Cru Bourgeois, to the first growths and their peers, and a partial vertical of Chateau d'Yquem from 1899 – 2006, Bordeauthèque has something for everyone, from novices to experienced collectors. Some of the exceptional offerings available: The Mission Haut-Brion '61 at 3900€, a Nebuchadnezzar – 15 liters – of Lynch-Bages '00 at 7000€, and the famed Cheval Blanc '47 at 13,500€.

Images gratefully borrowed from various websites. Pictures NOT for US wine publication.

Verdun

2010-06-29T23:10:00.000+02:00

After a calendar SNAFU, even a FUBAR, messed up our trip to Verdun planned with friends, Henry and I booked a car, and drove ourselves. It's a long drive, about 260 kilometers or 160 miles. But with the hotel and guide booked already, it seemed worth it.

Verdun is a town with a bloody history, but that doesn't stop the town from being quite charming. We pulled into the square overlooking the Meuse river, and unloaded on that Friday night into a non-descript hotel. The quai along the river was lined with cafes and pizzerias and filled with people gathering. Our day, though, was to begin early Saturday morning; I thought of driving around the area to get ourselves acquainted with the surroundings, but 3+ hours of driving convinced me to head to dinner and an early bed.

After a nice breakfast with our guide Florence, we drove off to the town of Vauquois, or what was left of it. In fact, there was nothing left of it. It had been the victim of mining warfare: France and Germany both tunneled underneath the town, occasionally blowing up a tunnel, collapsing all other tunnels around it, and swallowing the town into huge craters. The picture to the right shows Henry looking out at what used to be Vauquois, what used to be flat.

Florence chose this as our starting point as it was the home of some of the best preserved, original trenches. They didn't look to bad to us, the fields covered as they were with lovely grass. We remembered then that there was nary a blade of grass to be found here during wartime: it had all be burnt to a crisp. The horrors of trench warfare slowly became partly evident to us. I say partly because there is no real way to understand what it was like. I've seen Paths of Glory, with Kirk Douglas; as accurate a depiction of WWI as it is, it's still just a movie. In the trenches, you had to sleep sitting up, in case there was a rush in any direction. Lying down, you'd have been trampled on. I felt bad for complaining about the somewhat crappy hotel we'd stayed in the night before. At least it had a shower.

We headed next to Fort Douaumont, one of the forts that ringed the town of Verdun. This fort had shifted control between the French and the Germans. Under French control, it had a huge 155mm cannon with the rather cool feature of being able to fire, and then pulling down the turrent, like a turtle pulling its head into its shell, thus protecting it from observers who could then target that particular gun. The noise within the fort must have been godawful. And when you walked through the fort, you realise just how abysmal the life inside the fort was. From the noise from the cannon and the repeated shelling onto the fort itself to the utter lack of hygiene to the fear: it must have been hell on earth.

4-6 men slept on these beds. No mattresses, either. The straw would just house bugs. It was a horrific place to visit, much less to imagine living there. Often, tunnels would collapse. One room, with a wall only 10 feet from the doorway, where other matching rooms were 60'-80' long, was the gravesite of 30 French soldiers. This stoppered tunnel here is the home to more than 130 Germans.

Oddly, the most striking on the outside monument, the Ossuary or Ossuaire de Douaumont, was disappointing on the inside. Still, it was worth the visit. As I mentioned, the town of Vauquois is no more. And around the area of the Ossuary and the Memorial-Museum of Verdun there were 6 towns that exist no more. The devastation, the sheer numbers of the dead and wounded boggle the imagination. Between 300-500,000 men died at Verdun, with something like 750,000 additional men wounded. It's no wonder that France as a country wasn't so keen on fighting WWII; they'd lost an entire generation in WWI.

As an American walking through the Museum of Verdun, I felt proud of our country's contribution. A rough synopsis of our entrance into the war goes like this: we landed, marched toward the front with young, fresh, well-fed, and not-tired soldiers, took vast amounts of territory quickly, and the Germans surrendered. Our country sent over 1 million men to Europe, 500,000 of whom fought, and we had an additional 1 million men ready to sail.

That means, if I have my numbers correct, that we armed almost 2% of our population at the time for war. A similar percentage today would mean that our armies ready for war would encompass between 6 and 7 million soldiers. At the end of 2009, we had in total 1.5 million soldiers with an additional 800,000 in reserve. Now it's folly to compare times, but the difference is striking. I return to the pride I felt in our contribution to the war, and perhaps the willingness to dedicate ourselves to the cause. And I hope that Henry somehow absorbed some of the lessons learned in this brief foray.

Thanks for reading.

The Day of Music and I love Paris

2010-06-22T13:14:00.000+02:00

I think Bob Geldof had it right when he wrote "I Don't Like Mondays." Mondays are hard: both boys have Kinomichi – martial arts class; Fred first 5-6pm, then Henry, 6-7pm. Juggling the schedules is hectic. Today, though, June 21, 2010, Henry, instead of watching, decided to join Fred in his class, which meant that Henry had done 2 hours of Kinomichi when it was time for him to head home. He was tired. But, we both perked up when we realised it was Music Day. And I'm sure there's a better and more official name than that, but that's what we called it.

Bands and DJs playing everywhere! It went on all night. From 7-8pm — remember, we were tired! — we saw a number of performers all around our neighborhood, all within a kilometer of each other. Mostly, we saw DJs. All playing very loud techno – click link for sample kind of music. Turn it up until your neighbors complain to see what it was really like.

I like this kind of music, so it wasn't so bad for me. But Henry said it hurt his ribs. I think it was less that and more that as he was getting on the bike at some venue, he managed to tumble over the other side onto the ground. Once we ascertained he was fine, we laughed fairly loudly at his grace and style.

For some reason, music affects me quite emotionally. I get choked up all the time. It's really quite ridiculous, sometimes a good commercial on TV can do it. For some reason, the band with the female singer singing "Losing My Religion," by REM did it for me. I think it was just the confluence of all the music all over the city, getting to show Henry just how cool Paris is, and the fact that we get to live right here.

I'm not the only one affected by this, though. Henry was clearly affected by the two young boys playing Frere Jacques on the violins. "They're just so brave!" he said, and he was right. They were.

I think my favorite, though, was the DJ with the BIG SPEAKERS. This is the music that hurt Henry's ribs. I could kind of understand. It was awfully loud, but really fun.

Not to compare Paris to NYC, and I rarely do this, but the street fairs I recall in NYC consisted of vendor after vendor of sweat socks, cheesy dresses, and roast corn, funnel cake, and lemonade stands. Not so interesting.

Thanks for reading.

The Daily Routine, Part II

2010-06-19T15:26:00.000+02:00

"What are you doing in Paris?" I get asked all the time. "Maintenant, je suis un pere au foyer." [For now, I'm a stay at home dad.] Who knows what will happen in the future, but for now, I'm enjoying the time I get to spend with my boys.

Wednesdays both boys get out at noon. So I get to spend lots of time with them. The day begins with a trek to school on our large bike. Afterwards, I will head home perhaps to get get ready to make a good dinner, or plan activities for boys, or some such other busy work. On the way home, I'll listen to some self-improving podcast, usually French lessons downloaded from Coffee Break French (which isn't half bad, if you want to work on your French.)

So let's say on this day, that I need to go shopping. You should know that it is hardly ever one-stop-shopping. Let's say that we are having some people over for dinner. Here's where I have to go. Naturally, I'll be cooking some bourgeois French dish, so I'll stop at Triboulet, our local butcher (one of the 3 local butchers). We chat about this and that, and they help me with my French. Next, we need some vegetables, so as I continue up rue Montorgeuil, our famed market street, I'll stop at a Primeur to pick up some veggies and fruit. Now, I like this guy, but he's not our favorite. Our favorite Primeur, on the other hand, charges very high prices for his fraises (strawberries), so I have to go to two places for veggies. Our favourite is two blocks away, so I'll go there on the way home. A visit with Louie, the favored veggie provider, always takes a long time. We chat about this and that, and he helps me with my French. It's a mutually beneficial arrangement.

But, back on Montorgueuil, I will have been needing cheese. Here's where it gets hard. My favourite cheese shop, La Fermette, is filled with great guys, all of whom know me and my boys, and they have most excellent cheese. We talk about this and that. And they help me with my French. But there's another shop whose proprietress I am quite fond of, though I already have a basketful of cheese. She has, however, these little disks of cow's milk called Sechons, which I love. So I buy those, we chat about this and that, and she helps me with my French.

Finally, after the Louie, bio veggie stop, I make it home. And note that there weren't any stops in there for the sundry items one gets from the more commercial Grocery Stores, e.g. cleaning products, paper items, etc. I save that for another day. Pretty much as soon as I unpack the groceries, I have to head back out to pick up the boys. We've been heading to a local restaurant for lunch. Again, one of my favorite things to do is just to sit in a café with them.

There's something to just being in Paris. I'm not the first to say it, but it still rings true. And it applies to boys, too, but not always. Boys need to do stuff. Stuff that tires them out, that works them hard, but not gratuitously, with a point is nice. I think I've mentioned this before; they both go to kinomichi. Here's a picture of the two of them, a rarity, as they normally are in separate sections.

Thanks for reading.

Our One Year Anniversary

2010-06-08T18:47:00.002+02:00

A maxim of mine is that when a pretty girl beckons you to stop your bike to ask you a question, you do so. In Paris, tant mieux (so much the better.) So, while riding Freddy home from school the other day, a pretty French girl beckoned me to stop. Quickly reviewing my personal list of maxims, I did so.

She was a journaliste, asking people about riding in Paris, with a microphone in hand. "Did I like riding in paris? Did I think it dangerous?" I responded yes to both questions. It is surely the most beautiful place I have ridden regularly in my life, and surely it's nuts. I recounted a story:

Recently, Sarah rode with the team on our way to school one morning — she was going to a private tour of the Yves St. Laurent show at the Petit Palais. Not bad. As we dove into the traffic in the Place de la Concorde, which I do twice every day of the week, she followed us. Cars, scooters, motorcycles, pedestrians, and trucks. Madness. We're used to it. We ring our bell madly. We gesticulate. We practice swearing in French. I don't think Sarah's quite used to it. I could see the beads of sweat on her forehead as she said "wow, that's crazy!"

The pretty journaliste and I spoke for a while longer; sadly I forgot to ask where it might be broadcast. I think I forgot because I was exhausted at the end of the interview: it was all in French, after all. I was rather proud of myself for being able to do that. Surely it was in 4th grade French, but still...

I am even prouder of the elder boy, Henry, as he has spent this week in the Burgundy region of France (sadly, not tasting wine) at Pony Camp. 5 days, 4 nights of what I surmise is somewhat like camp. He was so excited to go off with his friends and have an adventure. And these are feisty creatures, these ponies: One report came in noting that a classmate of his had been bitten, well, more like nipped. Dangerous! You can see in this picture the absolute resolve and fierce determination in Henry's eyes as he steels himself to get on that bus and head off into uncharted territories. Well, maybe not, but I bet we miss him more than he us. (It turned out to be so, as expected.)

In less than a week, we will have lived in Paris for one year. (Sarah's anniversary was 3 mos ago.) I can't imagine leaving after only one year. I feel like we spent the entire year just figuring out things. The next year will be so much better, because we will have seen each of those particular days before and won't be shocked by the whole experience. To say we've been a bit wide-eyed is an understatement. I have to say, though, that I am most proud of my two boys. Sarah and I knew what we were getting ourselves into, and we had a choice in the matter. They, most assuredly, did not.

I've spoken about Henry and Sarah, but it should be noted that Fred too has thrown himself into the fray with vim. He's made some great friends, and our weeks are filled with playdates. While sometimes he begins the day noting that he "doesn't want today to a school day!" he nevertheless makes it onto the bike, and pretty much soldiers on as we march into the classroom. Here's a picture of Fred with one of his friends, taken by his teacher.

Sometimes we get homesick. It's quite rare. But we've been feeling it a bit as of late. I'm not sure I can put my finger onto exactly what it is. I just spent 20 minutes trying to order cat food and other sundry items from a French website. It's just not as easy in French! I mean, Amazon and FreshDirect are just simple, in comparison.

And French taxes. Phew.

“No gay Paris for us – all that free healthcare is too expensive baby!!” was the comment an old friend once wrote when I suggested he move over here. And you know, it seems right, doesn’t it, that the French, those well-known socialists, will have taken a massive percentage in taxes. Right? Well, actually, not. All things considered, it seems that for whatever reason, they didn’t. (Apparently, it had something to do with the favorable tax regime, whatever that is.) And as I had planned on a conservative, worst-case-scenariao, I was ecstatic to find that we owed way less than expected! But, the good old US of A levied their bill, which ate up all that I thought I had saved. And so, we will have written big checks to various governments this year. Fortunately, we were prepared for this.

I know taxes make some people nuts, others just bat-shit insane. Not me. While I don’t think I consider it a privilege, I feel it’s my bounden duty to pay my fair share. And I don’t begrudge it. But it does seem to chafe a bit incurring the full monty to the USA when I am not living there. (Picture is of Henry crushing me in Monopoly, but it might well have been how I felt while trying to manage the taxes.)

No one gave us a decent idea of what to expect. And the reality is, NO ONE CAN. It’s just so complicated, so dependent upon everyone's individual circumstances and therefore just so confusing, that the only way you can begin to comprehend it is to have gone through it at least once. (Probably 4-5 times would be better.)

Sometime in early April, I found myself trying to get an estimate of various annual French tax burdens from my French accountant. (I have three accountants: a French one, a Swiss one, for the USA; and a NYC accountant to finalise the work the Swiss did — not that I didn’t trust them, but...)

She had previously given me the initial estimate of our 2009 taxes and also, for 2010. Having based the 2010 taxes upon suppositions that may or may not come true, it wasn’t all that accurate. So I asked for clarification. She told me that because she didn’t work for me, but for Sarah’s employer, she could not provide another estimate. Umm, okay.

"Could you guess what it might be?" I asked. We went back and forth, with me trying to “just get a ballpark figure.” (That idiom doesn’t translate, let me tell you.) Finally, she told me that I was speaking too fast, using too many English idioms. “Now you know how I feel every day,” I replied.

Eventually, I pulled a number out of thin air. "Yes, that would be fine," she said. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from yelling “why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?!”

All in all, and apologies for possible triteness, I'm glad we're here.

Thanks for reading.

Les Vacances, et Berlin

2010-05-14T21:26:00.000+02:00

April and May are a bit of a wash. That is, academically. So many days of vacation. Now, one would think, normally, "ooh, vacation. Great!" Not so much. The kids need attending to all day long. One could say it's tiring. So, when I received an invite from a friend from long ago to accompany him at the end of the Vacance Scolaire Printemps (spring break), for a weekend in Berlin, I jumped at the chance. Sure, Sarah can take the boys solo for a weekend. I do it all the time, why not she?

Berlin was amazing! Dan, a friend with whom I had taught many years ago, is single. Since most of my conversations, at least in my head, begin with "Hi, my name's Tim, I'm a stay-at-home dad, and I'm tired," I was worried that he would run me ragged. You know how it is on vacation sans enfants, you get up late, have breakfast, or more like an early lunch, with wine. You walk about, noting how great it is "just to be in [fill in with noteworthy and fabulous locale]," and you head home for a long nap. Dinner out, late, and then you crash. I mean, that's a lot, right? Well, he was kind to me, but we did a lot. And I'm glad we did.

Little did we know that our arrival day, 1 May, was May Day, the international Labor Day; and they take it a bit more seriously than we East Coasters do, who honor the efforts of the working class by putting away the white bucks for the season. The Berliners do things a little differently. They tend to riot, burn cars, and loot stores. Very declassé, for those of us used to summering up in Maine. Since I wasn't lucky enough to summer up in Maine, I wanted to see the riots. Smartly, Dan took us to a walking tour instead. Sadly, it wasn't running (or walking), due to the celebrations, or riots. We headed back to the hotel, stopping by a communist fair, with beer and sausages, and the grand Branderberg Gate. See large monument looking thing, with Dan in the foreground.

We decided to take a Fat Tire bike tour, to get the greatest hits of Berlin, and on bikes, no less! What's not to love? 4½ hours of all that Berlin has to offer. With a beer garden in the middle of the trip, some time after Checkpoint Charlie. Some highlights: the TV tower — tall, spire-y looking thing. East Germany thought this a good idea, building this demonstration of Communist Power, until, halfway through the project, they realised they didn't know how to build a tall tower, so they got some Swedish architects. Nice. Anyway, it's cool to look at, and most of my pictures from this trip have it in the background. Here it is, in the foreground.

It would seem to me that to be a vegetarian in Germany is to be in the minority. To say the least. Except for asparagus (more later), there aren't too many vegetables to be found... The latest craze is currywurst sandwiches. Which seemed to me to be some kinda wurst, sliced up, doused with oddly spiced ketchup, and sprinkled with curry powder. I was unimpressed, but have been told I went to the wrong place. So, don't take my word for it. But, these Germans celebrate their meat, or at least the slaughter of it. I'm not so sure I'd want to take Freddy, now 4½, by this particular statue. "Daddy, what's that man doing to the big cow?" Umm, look over there, there's a bird!

Berlin is a city filled with monuments, but having been bombed to the ground, it's mostly new, and kind of strange. Then again, I may well be comparing it to Paris, a city filled with engineers and city planners who spend probably their entire lives making sure you say, wow, when you walk through the streets. And you do.

For whatever reason, at the beginning of the tour, when the leader asked for a volunteer, to bring up the rear of this Fat Tire group, I raised my hand. For this I got a beer, two small alleged pieces of the Berlin Wall, and the chance to be called her "ass man." I have to go back to Berlin.

The following day, we decided to "do the museums." (When you're thoroughly hip, you no longer go somewhere, or order a particular dish. Instead, you do the museum, or do the Spaghetti Bolognese. It took me a while to get this, but I finally get it. Of course, it's probably over now.) Berlin has this island, on which there are 3 or 4 major museums. Naturally, they're amazing, and naturally, my head was spinning at the end of it. But I do remember these oddly dressed denizens of cool and taffeta, as we walked out.

Having noshed at a wonderful restaurant the night before, followed by a drink at a bar with a female bouncer whose blouse was just festooned with sequins, but who let us in — and I thought it was supposed to be the place to be, according to Blackbookmag.com — we weren't sure we could top this culinarily. But oh my. Following the advice of my friend who knows all, really, all. I mean, maybe not nuclear physics, but if you want the right table somewhere, he's the go-to guy, we went to Florian. Wow, was it good.

The waiter clearly took us for novices when it came to his menu. We did have the excuse that it was mostly in German. He then kindly took us under his wing, told us we should have the white asparagus, which had JUST come into season, with the wiener schnitzel, and the Fürst Silvaner. You'll understand how shaken I was by the whole event when I admit that I FORGOT, yes, forgot, to order the oysters to commence this epic meal. Well, the asperges blanc, with loads of hollandaise and the schnitzel, more than made up for it. At the end of it, Dan, who is trim, and well watches what he eats, said "I want it all over again!" It was so good.

Yet, this wasn't the culinary highlight of the weekend. That was left to the next day's breakfast. Kaefer's Restaurant Dachgarten is the restaurant at the top of the Reichstag, and if you have a reservation there, you can skip the truly horrid line of people waiting to wander about the glass dome. For me, it was faintly reminiscent of The Modern in New York, but when I saw the Bavarian Breakfast as an option, I knew I was with right-thinking people. I did add onto the fixed menu a coffee, which caused the waiter to ask if I wanted that instead of the beer. Nope, I said. I want the beer, too. Now, that's a breakfast. Oh, and the dome was pretty cool, too.

All in all, a pretty spectacular weekend. Sarah seemed somewhat surprised by how demanding two little boys can be, and while I shouldn't have smirked when hearing that, it did make me feel good.

Thanks for reading.

Color Blind

2010-04-12T14:03:00.001+02:00

Sarah's been away for a week now. The apartment has begun to fray at the seams. Laundry everywhere, dishes in the sink, you know, the usual. So when I opened the pants drawer, the only clean pair was a pair of brown corduroys. Perfect for the pink checked button-down shirt I'd selected. Uh huh.

On the bike, as we rode out, we rode through a patch of sunlight, which brought out the bright pink color (no, not brown as previously thought!) of my corduroys.

"I'm so mad at your mother!" I jokingly said to Henry.

"Why," he asked. Because, she'd never let me wear a pink shirt and pink pants together, I replied.

"They're kind of pink and brown," he said, clearly trying to make me feel better.

"There's not a hint of brown in these pants!"

"Well, not much."

He was right. This picture is what he chose for himself to wear today. He looked more put together than I did.

Thanks for reading

Would you like some cheese with that whine?

2010-04-02T10:55:00.000+02:00

Paris is lovely right now. Daylight savings has kicked in, 2 weeks after the States, so it stays light until 830 or so now. Probably my favorite moment of the week is when Henry and I return from his Kinomichi class (some kinda martial art), and we ride through the Tuileries as the sun is setting. It's quite magical. The picture is from December, though, but this is what we get to look at as we head homeward. Pas mal.

So, if it's nice here, and boys are really settling in, why then is there such whining all the time? This morning, in particular, felt like the 3rd Thursday in November (when they release the Beaujolais Nouveau, lots of wine, get it?). Nothing we did or said didn't get a whiny response. I dunno, Sarah had to leave early, maybe that was it. It'd been raining, and the pressure was falling, maybe that was it.

Anyway, here are samples pics of what we've mostly been seeing from our children lately. Quel pain.

Oh well, I think, though. One thing we learned early on in parenting is that everything's a phase.

Just.
A.
Phase.

And then there's something new.

Thanks for reading

Henry

2010-03-25T22:41:00.000+01:00

Henry is 7½, and he weighs 80lbs. I know this because I weighed him, and because I have to carry him on the bike, with his 40lb brother, too, all over Paris. He is growing well, and becoming a lovely jeune homme, or young man.

Though he has at times struggled with being in Paris, with the arrival of the spring, increased comfort in French comprehension, and a solid social life, he has begun to blossom. The other day, on yet another ride home from school, he listed things that he liked about Paris. (This hasn't been a regular topic of discussion, so I was a slightly astonished.) He began with the fabulous cars that pass us with regularity. (Click here to see a series of motorcycles and cars in which we have been interested over the years.) The skateparks we've visited made the list, and he finished with the bread and the croissants. (I well agree with that last one!)

He has become a discerning gourmand. On the way home from his first visit to a disco — a birthday party for a girl in his class — at which he had danced marvelously, we decided to celebrate with a sushi dinner. Sarah was unfortunately working late that night, so it was just me and the boys. Dinners with two boys have not historically been successful, so I was hesitant, but it turned out for the best.

Henry loves sushi, and being hungry, ordered correspondingly. Note the size of the sushi boat in the picture. I, not quite as peckish, ordered a small sashimi plate and a bowl of rice. The waiter set the boat in front of me and the small sashimi plate (lower left of photo) in front of Henry. I made the international sign of the plates needing to be switched, and watched the waiter's eyes go bigger and bigger. He said something in French quickly that ended in, that's too much! No, not too much, I replied. And you know, except for a few pieces at the end, he ate the whole thing.

School has been a challenge. Mostly the aspect of half the day in French. But there's a paradox here: while he complains, sometimes mightily, about being forced to learn math concepts, for example, in French, he is concurrently proud of his mastery of the language. And he is good! The other day, while shopping for shoes, the salesman asked in French if they were too big. "Non, les chausseurs ne sont pas trop grand; en petit peu grand." [No, the shoes aren't too big. Just a little big.] His mother looked over, somewhat surprised by both the ease with which he said this, and his accent, which is better than anyone else in the family's.

It is truly enough to make a parent's head spin trying to keep up with his emotions in this matter. He has shown fortitude in his studies, though, and has quite successfully mastered all of his French spelling tests — mostly A's. (He has put us through the ringer studying for them, though. He never even mentions the English spelling tests. Just plugs along.)

The activity that Henry is currently most passionate about is dancing. As noted above, he attended a birthday party at a Parisian disco. (He refers to the birthday girl as his "girlfriend." As he explained to his younger brother, Fred, "It's when you love someone; now, that's it. Enough.") He loves Michael Jackson, and has put together a dance routine to "Smooth Criminal" that is smokin' hot. Click here for a video from 2007 in our kitchen, showing that he's had this interest for some time now. (It may take some time to load.) Please note in the attached photo his outfit, so carefully chosen for La Boom, what the Parisian kids call the dance. (We had just washed the boys cats and cows and were drying them.)

Below are some pictures from La Boom. Thanks for reading.

Top, Henry with his friends; middle, a classmate; bottom, the birthday girl.

Sarah

2010-03-18T17:31:00.003+01:00

It seems that I have neglected she who is the reason we are here in Paris: Sarah. I will try to make up for that error of omission.

It was one year ago today that she left for Paris, leaving the three boys in New York to finish out the school year. Above, you can see what she left me with: striped fleshy boys.

Though it was tough to be apart for 3 months, it meant that she was able to learn the ropes, and French, at her new company, without the multiple phone calls inquiring as to her ETA. (Whoever taught Henry to use the phone surely made a mistake.) A year later, she has had a remarkable effect there. Though I don't understand most of the financial details she proffers every now and then, I get the gist, which is that they've been doing better since she arrived. I paraphrase, with an obvious bias: she doesn't put it exactly like that.

She returned to NYC at the end of 3 mos. to pack us up, say goodbye, and most importantly, see Henry in his school play. (Some divas get flowers; Henry got Bakugan.) We made it over to France smoothly, and began to settle in.

Every once in a while, I feel bad for Sarah, just a little. With nary another hint of femininity in the house, she has to put up with clothes strewn everywhere, unmade beds, and toys all over the apartment. And the boys leave a horrendous mess, too. It has taken us some time to get used to Paris; well, not so much Paris, just being in a different city. But the one thing that has carried us through has been her ability to stay focused, to remember that we are here, for better or for worse, and since, after all, it is Paris, why not the better?

Those boys have benefited from her ever-present desire to make life fun and rewarding for them. Each weekend, she wakes up and thinks what might be interesting. Here, she has taken the day with Henry to explore Paris, and in particular, the typing room at Shakespeare & Co., a famous English language book store in Paris.

One thing, in particular, has been hard, if truth be told. She rarely has a moment to herself: her hours are longer than they were back in NYC; she returns somewhere around 745-8pm every night, to a house of boys, all of whom need something from her, whether cooking advice (see above), or play time, or to listen to the latest stories from school. And the boys have made it clear that unless she's in Bangladesh, daddy is in no way going to put them to bed. So, the unwinding of her day might start around 9:30 at the earliest. She alights at 6, just to get those few moments of yoga, coffee, and fresh air before the hordes start to rumble.

I also want to commend her on her mastery of French. Below is the majority of a speech she gave at her defilé, fashion show, thanking everyone for their help after a wonderful presentation of the current line of clothes.

If video doesn't work, click here for the same video at alternate (and undisclosed) location.

Through it all, she has reminded us of how lucky we are to be here; she has been the strength to keep us all together.

Below are some further pictures. Thanks for reading.

Caramel Popcorn

2010-03-18T17:07:00.000+01:00

I read a random list of blogs: tech, wine, food, etc. Some of these get mailed to me; I skim and mostly delete. Occasionally, I save it for future reference. Today was just one of those days.

Not Quite Nigella, based in Sydney, Australia, about which I'd learned from a restaurateur in NYC, ran a piece on Caramel Popcorn here. (All politics may be local; but all food may well be global.) I had to make it. I found the Golden Syrup it requires at one of the stores which cater to what the French assume we Americans like. (Really, I have a broader palate than just Pop-Tarts!)

Later that day, Fred wakes up from his nap. Brimming with excitement, I guide him to the kitchen to show off my new creation. He takes one look, and sulkily, he exits. I don't take it personally. Instead, I leave a small bowl in the living room, in the way one might try to tempt a mouse out of its hole with a plate of cheese. I head back to my office.

Moments later, I hear the padding of little feet. Fred sticks his head through the door, looks at me, and says "it was yummy." And walks away. Bien fait.

Thanks for reading.

PS I brazenly swiped NQN's picture. Mine didn't look nearly as good.

Tourists...

2010-03-09T23:44:00.000+01:00

Toute la famille traveled to Sanibel, Florida to see my parents. It's flat, warm, and familial. So what's not to love? But, an island such as this is a bit of a contrast in, shall I say, aesthetics for a newly planted Parisian. Witness, please, the well-chosen beachwear by the discerning tourist. I pray for those knees, you know, that they don't get sunburned.

Of course, utterly charming mufti is hardly ours to own fully. I was lucky enough to be accompanied by a dear friend in a trek to the Salon d'Agriculture. Now, we had been back from the states for only two days. Friday morning, the 5th, I arrived at the massive convention center, Porte de Versailles, at 11ish. (The two boys were still asleep at this point.) We went to a bar for a quick café, and I found I couldn't even stand at the bar, I was so beat.

We trekked in to this huge exhibition. Think the Iowa State Fair in the Jacob Javits Center. Only, more of a polyglot of entertainment. About the first thing we saw was this curly horned sheep. Cute, no? I just wish the kids were of a mind to join us.

As entertaining as the sheep, and cows, and all sorts of Arkian animals were, and they were, the Salon improved greatly once we found the food pavilion. (My inability to stand at the aforementioned café is coming back to haunt me at this point.) Stocking up on apples, cheese, jamón ibérico de bellota (which means the pigs only eat acorns — it's so good you can't stand it.), and the like, we passed the beer tent. What's a massive Salon good for if it doesn't have a beer tent? Guy on left, in the cow outfit, is, somewhat incongruously, taking a picture of his friend drinking a garbage pail of beer, with their friend on the right NOT looking on, as he's trying to hold up the 4th friend, who's so drunk he literally cannot open his eyes. This killed me.

The message is, at heart, we're all tourists. Or something like that.

Thanks for reading.

PS My final picture: Henry, Fred, and I headed to the American Library in Paris before Winter Break. It happened to be an afternoon where there is reading time to the younger children. Henry was keen on helping out, and the kind librarian let him read to the other children.

Why I Love Paris, Part 3

2010-02-18T20:17:00.000+01:00

So, maybe this is a sign that things are coming together for us all? Rainbows are fortuitous, after all.

Today was a great day. As I noted in a recent posting, I'd managed to fracture one or more of my ribs, which seemed to be getting better, a week into the injury. But, a weekend of travel and perhaps carrying large bags left me with a renewed sense of agony. After a visit to my dr., and the pharmacist, things are looking up.

My French has been improving; I'm not nearly as good as Sarah, but the pharmacist noted that I was almost fluent. He was being perhaps overly generous with his comment, but still, it was nice to hear. Of course, he, as all French love to do, launched into a mini-lesson. This one happened to be on the use of the passé composé with reflexive verbs. Okay. I take not an iota of offense — I certainly can use the help, but it strikes me as funny. I can't imagine lecturing somebody for whom English is a second language on the correct use of the subjunctive as I try to sell them a bottle of wine, for example.

My regular teacher (as opposed to the rest of Paris) is very good, and today we had a marché lesson. We both went shopping, and she helped me work on my conversational grammar. Being able to understand and be understood really is empowering.

My new favorite French phrase is "il faut qu'elle nappe la cuillere." My new regime is to cook only from French cookbooks. The act of which will drive me to learn quirky and useful cooking idioms, and while I'll probably get sick of cassoulet, my mastery of the language can only get better. The above phrase refers to a sauce, which, at the end of reducing, must coat the spoon. But it sounds, as many things do, so much better in French.

Tonight, while flipping through toy porn, aka: the Playmobil catalog, Freddy turned to the page he'd been seeking, and pronounced "voila," without a hint of irony. (He's 4. Doesn't do irony yet.) But he pronounced it woila, which made it so much the better. (He also refers to one of the Backyardigan characters, Pablo, as Plablo, which we find also terribly charming.)

Thanks for reading a random list of things. The above picture is a rainbow over Musee Orangerie, in the Tuileries, taken on way home from school. And for a funny video of Henry practicing his boxing, click here.

What We Do For Our Children

2010-02-07T12:17:00.000+01:00

Please file this one under Activities For The Young.

I joined Henry at his skatepark in the 18th arrondissement. As watching him for 2 hours straight got a little tedious last time we came, this time I decided to join in the fun. Grabbing a second board — that's what we in-the-know call a skateboard, a board — we rode the bike for 40 minutes and arrived at a swirling sea of smooth concrete.

Henry's learned how to "dropin," the move that begins the surfing inside the halfpipe which defines much of the skateboarding world. It's a seminal move, one whose mastery opens up a whole new world of tricks, and pain.

Click here to see Henry doing his very first dropin.

So, naturally, with a solid sense of my level of balance — I ride bikes a great deal, and can do figure 8s across a single lane road, easily — I begin the process of learning the dropin. Even though the ramp is only 1-2' high, it's terrifying. And that soupçon of fear holds you back maybe one nanosecond. That's enough, though, to make you fall backwards. It's the commitment you need, to chuck your body into the void, heedless of the potential pain. But if you do so, if you commit, then you succeed. Henry did. Why can't I?

And I did. I succeeded. I dropped in. Several times. And then I thought of Henry's current hero, Tony Hawk. (Click here to see highlights of his show, live at the Grand Palais, which we attended) And how he woud drop into a half pipe 15' high. And I felt good. Like I could do this.

And that little goddam board decided to squirt away, fast. And I teetered. Well, not really teetered. I plunged to the concrete, which isn't all that forgiving. And I couldn't breathe for over a minute. Henry ran over to ask if I was okay. It would have been nice to allay his fears by saying I was okay. But I couldn't.

And I sit here in a café, finishing my 3rd or 4th beer — I can't remember — writing this, thinking "what we do for our children."

PS Here's Henry doing his final ride of the day in one of the bigger bowls. Click here.

PPS Thanks for reading

Things I like about Paris, pt 1

2010-02-04T15:17:00.000+01:00

There are many, but here's a start. We chose this neighborhood, the 2nd arrondissement, because we had stayed here in 2007, and we had good friends from our building. The fact that it's on the bleeding edge of cool in Paris is just an added benefit, as is the market street nearby: rue Montorgueil.

The vendors on that street whom we frequent have well embraced us. Here are a few pictures of those people who have made life so much easier for us.

La Fermette is first; a fromagerie, cheese shop, it's filled with wonderful cheese, and really nice guys. Occasionally, they mock my French, mostly when I try to translate English idioms directly into French. For example, the term The Big Cheese, as in the Head Honcho, or President/CEO, really doesn't translate. Le Grand Fromage, well, is just that. A big piece of cheese.

The next is Paris Bio. Louis, on the left, opened this shop sometime after we left in 2007. I asked him once why he'd opened it here. Were you to walk out of his shop, and continue straight across the street, you'd find yourself in a "Sexy Shop," where you can find all sorts of necessaries. Though, I'm not sure they're biologique. Anyway, he said that he felt in 10 years, it'd be the neighborhood in Paris.

These are just two of the shops we frequent; it's why when we run out to do a few errands for dinner, it takes the better part of an hour to do so. You can't run in, buy something, and run out, like you might in NYC. Nope, you have to talk to them, discuss what you're making, how you've been, what the weather portends for the next few days, and the like. Though it does take some getting used to for an impatient former New Yorker, it's a much more civilised approach.

Thanks for reading.

The Language

2010-01-21T19:09:00.003+01:00

Henry was on the street outside school, getting his stuff together prior to heading home. As we walked along, I asked "tu es prêt?"

He inquired as to what that meant.

"It means, 'are you ready to go?'"

"Oh," he said excitedly, "say that loudly in front of Severine [the scary French teacher] and I'll say 'oui'!"

I did, he did, and, hearing us, she beamed out a huge smile towards young Henry. He is picking up this language, and best of all, he wants to.

Thanks for reading.

PS A picture from December as we headed across the Champs Elysees.

The Daily Routine

2010-01-21T10:34:00.003+01:00

The act of getting kids out the door on their way to school is a monumental effort under the best of circs. Who likes to wake up and get moving in the morning? Ne moi pas.

So, if you take an already difficult scenario and you add to it the following, then you have a recipe for ongoing exhaustion in the month of January:

We just came back from 10 days with friends and family, further reminding us of that which we miss; it's astonishingly cold, dark, and gray here, which we are not used to — when I think of winter in NYC, even with loads of snow on the ground, I think of bright sunlight shining of piles of white; the cold makes the round trip hour of riding that much more energy draining for all of us — I often do two or three trips per day; Sarah went away for a whole week, traveling to Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Dhaka, Bangladesh — we all missed her, the boys especially. I will dismiss, however, the barrier of language — it's there but I feel like it's become less of a hurdle.

One thing, of a more immediate matter, is the responsibility of schoolwork, an increasing load on 7 year old boys. Henry forgot his homework last night, Tues, Jan 19. And, concurrently, but with no connection, his leg seemed to be hurting him, though we're not sure why. So, perhaps not feeling as though he was being heard, or at least appreciated, he chose to express himself like some beggar out of a Monty Python movie; with a keen sense of melodrama and a true commitment to his craft, he crawled across the entire apartment on his stomach, as one of his legs "wasn't working." He kept it up through dinner to bedtime.

In the morning, remembering the forgotten homework and wishing to escape the wrath of his feared French teacher, he returned to the prostrate. (Didn't stop him from peeing standing up, though. He said he wasn't bending the sore leg, so it was okay.) With help from his blessed mother, he raced to the end of the homework, and came out of his room announcing that while his leg was still sore, magically he could walk again! I had to bite the side of my cheek to stop myself from guffawing and loudly praising the baby Jesus.

It seems as though in some cases an external solution to what are otherwise internal problems proves to be successful; and I expect that the external effect that warmer, longer, and sunnier days will have on us will be profound. They will be our magically completed homework. And we will feel good about it.

Thanks for reading

Riding in Paris

2010-01-20T22:29:00.001+01:00

Garmin Connect - Activity Details for Cold and rainy day in Paris

For ride details discussed below, click on above link.

Okay, I promise not to post rides all that often. Interesting perhaps for the cycling minded, but what should be noted was that it was fully raining and about 32°F. I took Fred to a doctor's app't in the 16th arrondissement, all the way from the 7th, then back to the 7th where I picked up Henry from a playdate, and then home, on which leg, Freddy began to fall asleep, bobbling back and forth in my arms, all the while protesting that he "wasn't tired and [he wasn't] going to take a nap!!!" He was, but he didn't.

In any case, it was cold and horrid weather, and though it was only 10 miles of riding, it just plain old took the piss out of me.

Thanks for reading, et bonne année!

The Cold in Paris, Homesick, but Happy, too.

2010-01-19T10:25:00.007+01:00

Well, we're back from our holidays back aux Etats-Unis. It was a whirlwind:

Dinner in NYC with former neighbors. And breakfast, at Barney Greengrass. Sarah tells the waiter that I'd been planning it for 6 weeks and he should be impressed. He replies "I am. You wanna order?"

Connecticut to visit parents for a night, where we played in the snow. You just don't get that much snow in Paris.

Massachusetts for a plethora of parties, dinner, and wine. I was sure that I'd be a whirling dervish of nervous energy, trying to fix things, look for missing things, or just puttering about our house in Berkshires. Instead, I spent time cooking, working on the fire, and selecting the wine, for the dinners. It was a most enjoyable visit.

Sarah and I were worried that the trip home would be difficult, given that this was our first visit back to the States. Our fears proved to be unfounded, though there has been some homesickness this month. The everpresent gray skies, the 8 hours of sunlight a day, and the weeklong business trip that Sarah took in the middle all didn't help that process. Plus, it's been cold!

Fortunately, she's returned. The skies are still gray but it's getting the slightest bit warmer. Things are, for the most part, better.

Thanks for reading.

Bone Année and Mac and Cheese

2010-01-01T19:11:00.003+01:00

Bonne Année à tous!

The holidays were lovely. More on that, later. But first...

My boys like macs-n-cheese. I do too, for that matter. But what they really like is Annie's Microwaveable or just plain old Kraft. Nothing wrong with either, but hardly economical or interesting. I had ventured into Mark Bittman's recipe from How to Cook Everything as well as others, but they were too fussy. Yes, I think that adding Coleman's dried mustard is the KEY to interesting macs-n-cheese, but kids, less so. And onions, really? Onions?

Tonight, I have mastered, mastered, I say, the perfect children's macs-n-cheese, and I share it below. But first, you must master Mise en Place, the art of getting everything ready, and you must seek buy-in, what we call getting the kids involved. I think that was a rather important element to the success of the below dish.

Ingredients (note that I've not given amounts; how much your kids eat guide the amount of noodles, which guides the amount of sauce, which guides the amount of butter and flour, etc.)

Macaroni noodles (For my kids, the shape matters; more like real Kraft noodles, the better. Does it matter? Nope.)
Equal parts butter and flour
Warm milk
Grated cheese (I achieved success initially with parm and packaged, grated Comté. I know that packaged cheeses are essentially flavorless in the US of A, but not so in Paris. Clearly they're not as good as fresh, etc., but are just fine for kids. YMMV.)
Pinches of salt for sauce and pasta. And, whatever spices your kids might like. I went with none.

First, mise en place. Get everything ready in little bowls with the water boiling. Your child can determine where in the process she wishes to join. Mine started at butter in pan.

Toss in a pinch of salt and the noodles. Stir occasionally.
Heat a small sauce pan under med-low heat. Add the butter.
When the butter has ceased foaming, add the flour and stir for 2-3 minutes. (If you want darker macs-n-cheese, stir until it's golden brown. Since kids seem to like albino food, for some odd reason, I wouldn't do that.)
Pour in small amounts of warm milk, stirring with metal whisk, until you have a somewhat liquid-y sauce. (Don't let it get too thick; you're about to add the cheese which will thicken it enough.)
Add the cheese in small amounts, continuing to stir.
When the pasta's done, drain and add to the sauce. Voila!

As I said, I've been working on this for a while, and that I finally did it, well, it felt pretty good.

Thanks for reading.

French Documentation Requirements

2009-12-17T12:00:00.007+01:00

Sarah and I had to go to some medical office to get our Certificate de Controle Medical. Exactly what this is, I have no idea. What it did get us was another totally cool thing to paste in our passports, which look awesome now with stamps, and visas, and more stamps. Voilà.

Below are the SMSes we sent back and forth after they separated us upon arrival, with commentary in [brackets]. Sarah, being “salarie”, had to undergo a more intensive interview; I, just a lowly “visiteur,” only needed cursory questioning.

15/12/09 8:45 AM: What r u doing? [Tim, to Sarah]

15/12/09 8:46 AM: Sitting in another room. They have cookies!!! [I had no cookies. Not fair.]

15/12/09 8:49 AM: Just wait until they call you.

15/12/09 8:49 AM: What do I do? [Tim, again]

15/12/09 8:50 AM: Yes. I am sure. Just relax.

15/12/09 8:50 AM: Will someone call me?

15/12/09 8:50 AM: It's'ok.

15/12/09 8:50 AM: I have no papers [Tim]

15/12/09 8:51 AM: Chill out!!!! [Sarah, natch]

15/12/09 8:52 AM: Only at defcon 3 on freakout scale. [Tim, again]

15/12/09 9:07 AM: Am in another room. Waiting for them to horribly mispronounce Eustis and then try to kill me and serve me in grecque sandwiches. I bet i'd taste good. [Tim]

15/12/09 9:07 AM: Yes-this is what will happen. I am watching a movie about how glorious life is in france. [Sarah]

15/12/09 9:08 AM: In English? [Tim]

15/12/09 9:08 AM: No [Go figure]

15/12/09 9:20 AM: I'm telling you, people keep going into this room [with doctors who probe, poke, and prod them] AND NO ONE COMES OUT [Tim]

15/12/09 9:20 AM: OmG

15/12/09 9:21 AM: Dr said I may not get insurance. [Tim]

15/12/09 9:21 AM: What???i am sure you will be covered under my carte vitale

15/12/09 9:23 AM: Uh huh. At defcon 2 [Tim]

15/12/09 9:28 AM: Dr shoves a card under my chin and asks me to read a word. It's 1 pt type. I have to bend my neck down like a yoga stretch. I can't see shit. I take off my glasses and voilà. I pass. [Tim, again]

At this point, I am waiting in line, to be x-rayed. It's all very impersonal. But, you do get free rubbers.

15/12/09 9:30 AM: Now, I'm topless in a room waiting to xray my lungs. I'm freezing and the irony of waiting to have someone look at my lungs in a country where even non-smokers smoke and have this be the determining factor to whether I Am allowed in, well, it's not lost on Me

15/12/09 9:31 AM: Think of the nice lunch we will have if we get out of here by 12! [Sarah, brightly]

15/12/09 9:34 AM: And then she asked me to "keep my breath." The highlight of my day, I told her, it's "hold your breath."

15/12/09 9:36 AM: Now I'm waiting surrounded by coeds all giggly. I think they had to walk topless to get x-rayed. Giggle giggle. [Tim, again; things are looking up by this point]

15/12/09 9:43 AM: Now they're discussing their weight and the girl next to me is converting her weight in kg to lbs. It's too fun. [Tim]

15/12/09 9:45 AM: You have to put all these comments on the blog...at least it's'amusing!! I am sitting waiting for my medical exam. The woman who showed the film kept leaving the window open-it's'fucking freezing!! I got up and shut it and everybody smiled. [Sarah]

15/12/09 9:46 AM: That's rich. [Tim]

15/12/09 9:55 AM: What if I need stamps? [Tim]

15/12/09 9:55 AM: Where are you? I'm near coffee machine [Tim]

15/12/09 9:57 AM: I am still in the blue room- i think you can come in if you want. [Sarah]

15/12/09 10:09 AM: It's not a Xmas tree. It's a f'ing plant. Wait, I see a roach! [Tim]

15/12/09 10:46 AM: Waiting for xray-should be fun. I need to see an eye doctor...

15/12/09 10:48 AM: Wait, Today? Or in future?I wonder why so long.

15/12/09 10:55 AM: In the future...just waiting for the papers!

15/12/09 10:55 AM: Ok

15/12/09 11:07 AM: Thinking it could be fun to send a email christmas card-even though it is a bit cheezy. Maybe just an email with good wishes and a picture of the boys. Just to remind people that we exist. [Sarah, and yes, we’ll try to send one out]

15/12/09 11:09 AM: I agree. I am bored. [Tim]

15/12/09 11:12 AM: Can I wait with you! [Tim]

15/12/09 11:15 AM: I don't see why not...

15/12/09 11:16 AM: Can't find you. Am at coffee. Where r u [Tim]

15/12/09 11:17 AM: In the room where you waited for the medical appointment with the blue chairs.

And we received our beautiful new, holographic stamps certifying that for one year, things are okay. Then, you have to renew again. And again. And again.

Thanks for reading.

PS We did have a glorious lunch, at Petit Bofinger.

Thanksgiving pt. 2

2009-12-13T12:35:00.007+01:00

After our inclusive, but not traditional, Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday night with random Parisians, we planned a fully stocked meal on Friday, complete with family, good wine, and marshmallows on sweet potatoes. How traditional.

It was a great dinner, and we were happy to be joined by Sarah's brothers. Pictures below, thanks for reading.

Great wine

2009-12-13T11:52:00.006+01:00

There's a great organization in Western Massachusetts, called CATA (http://www.communityaccesstothearts.org/), for which I had the pleasure of being on the invitation committee. Their fundraiser last year was a fun gala, the highlight of which, for me, was picking up a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild. With perfect provenance. Given that its current auction price is just over $3k, well, it was a deal.

I carried it over to France -- I know, coals to Newcastle -- saving it for a special dinner. We are fortunate enough to have many good Parisian friends, and top on the list is a couple who we consider our Parisian Parents. Their knowledge of and appreciation for great wines is paramount amongst our friends and family; and we can't imagine who would appreciate this wine more than they.

We began with an Autumn Celery root/Leek/Potato soup with chestnuts, paired with, initially, a Colin-Deleger 1999 Puligny Montrachet "Les Demoiselles." I say initially because the early oxidation problems with the '99 white burgundies are legion; this wine a lovely dark sherry color and was fully cooked. We replaced it with a Michel Niellon 2002 Chassagne-Montrachet "Les Champgains."

The next course was a simple gigot d'agneau (leg of lamb) with potatoes and carrots, paired with the Lafite. Though some out there think the '82s are dead in the water, we found quite the opposite. The level of complexity in this wine was amazing. I have found that older wines on first sniff often have a dustiness on their shoulders that they need to shake off before opening up. Not this wine. From the first, it had that lovely old Bordeaux nose, but didn't lack any fruit. Not to get too technical, but this wine was into its secondary aromatic profile, and had only hints of tertiary flavors! Truly amazing.

We followed it with a charming Clos de la Roche 2000 from Virgile Lignier that suffered only by comparison. On its own, it would have been a spectacular wine.

Thanks for reading

Parisian restaurants

2009-12-02T09:06:00.006+01:00

Paris has a few restaurants. And given that fact, it sure is hard to decide where to go when we have a night out. The Paradox of Choice, writ large. I came up with a brilliant — I think — idea of focusing on our neighborhood, the 1st and 2nd arrondisements. It's not as though they are lacking in quality fare, and geography is as good a theme as any, or at least we hope.

We discovered our first restaurant on the list because of skateboarding — which seems to effect our lives more and more these days. Henry was practicing in the Palais Royal; I was watching him, and looked around. Across the way was Table d'Hote du Palais Royal, on Rue Beaujolais. It looked cute from the outside. And Gilles Pudlowski wrote a nice review of it in his 2007-8 Pudlo Paris guide to Paris restaurants. Convivial he called it.

Uh huh. Maybe 4 years ago. Next to our table was a vase with leaves, dried crusty leaves that looked like they'd been dead 4 days ago. Which, was when the bread on our table had been baked. Pudlo had mentioned the ever-changing, seasonal menu. Well, no. The menu hadn't been changed for years. I could tell because though there was a bright neon sign noting the Caves of the owner, which would lead you to believe there's a serious wine list here, about a third of the list was unavailable, having been pasted over, and of the remainder, most the vintages had been pasted over. A serious list this was not.

Our first bottle was seriously corked, a Montagne St. Emilion from Ch. Chatain, 2001. No worries, we quite liked the replacement bottle. And at a decent price. But it went downhill from there. The ambiance was horrid. Bad popular R&B, my most detested style, was the background music of choice. Why? Why would you play that music in a restaurant?

The smoked salmon in Sarah's appetizer must have come from Marche U, the local supermarket; it lacked all semblance of flavor. The soup was quite tasty, but came out at about 245°F, showing a serious microwave overload. The sauce on our entrées was pleasant, but I could have, and have regularly, done much better. The warm chocolate tart was fudgy and nice, but at 11€ a bit steep. The owner was moderately convivial, but looked like an older I Dream of Jeanie, and drank red wine out of a plastic Vittel bottle. The feeling about the place was of a formerly good restaurant that had clearly lost its way. It was, if nothing else, sad.

When judging anything, one needs to know the range of possibilities. There's value, if only academic, in splurging on an absurdly expensive bottle of wine or a 3-star restaurant. Just as it's important to try Two-Buck Chuck and go to Applebees. (Well, maybe not.) Anyway, this has to be one of the bookends of our list. I hope it's not exceeded.

PS Salt in the wound came when we rode home down Rue Tiquetonne, a street near us with wonderful restaurants filled with people we would want to sit next to, serving food we'd be quite happy to eat, and drinking wine that had been carefully and thoughtfully chosen. Oh well. Thanks for reading. (Picture not from Table d'Hote; just for illustration.)

Thanksgiving pt. 1

2009-11-27T10:34:00.003+01:00

Thanksgiving to me is an inclusive holiday. All should be invited, and guests and strangers together welcome at the table. And there should be lots of wine.

Sarah's brothers have both joined us for the fête; one from Massachusetts and the other from Athens. We'll be having the actual feast Friday night, so on the actual Thanksgiving day, we had what I consider fast food around here: fish soup. You heat it to a simmer, toss in some cut up pieces of fish and shrimp and let it stew for about 10-12 minutes. Voilà. All you need is a lot of bread; oh, and wine is nice, too.

Our upstairs neighbor knocked on our door, searching for milk for a recipe. But she locked herself out of her apartment, so joined us for the fish soup. A little later, we heard some minor yelling out on the street. It was her friend who had planned to join her for dinner. He joined us. So there're your guests and strangers, all around the table on Thanksgiving. With lots of wine.

Hope yours was good too. Thanks for reading.