Breaking news: French cable companies just as annoying as American ones.

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But really, who needs internet and phone service at home when you’ve got sunshine and free wi-fi and a pain au raisins in the park?

Oh, pain au raisins, with your crisp, buttery outer rings and dense, chewy middle. You are the perfect marriage of croissant and fruit. (Raisins are fruit in my world). You keep me sane when I have to call the french cable company for the 10th time in a week to say that the internet is still not working. Your eminent goodness reminds me that all is well in the world, even when that french cable company tells me that, oh yes, the internet was fixed yesterday. Even though it wasn’t.

Pain au raisins, you alone prevent me from hurling my cell phone through the window when the french cable company asks me for the 10th time, “Did you unplug the modem?” even though we all know it’s not my modem, it’s some mysteriously unfixable problem outside my building.

And when I want to hunt down the french cable/internet company and impose some hammer-like American justice, I think of the pain au raisins in my belly, and how such anger would surely disrupt its blissful digestion.

Sweet pastry of the gods, you are my guiding light in times of distress. And for this, pain au raisins, I salute you.

The most amazing thing I saw in the Louvre.

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Priceless.

Was not the Venus de Milo. Not the inverted pyramid. Certainly not the Mona Lisa.

No, it was this young woman, who I’m pretty sure is wearing a Bump-It.

Many thanks to Anna for catching it on film, and for knowing why it needed to be documented.

Mistress of Misinformation.

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A famous statue in the Tuileries, titled "Duuuude, Where Are My Pants?"

It’s a well known fact that I have just a smidge of my mom’s type A personality. So of course I approach my tour guiding duties here in Paris with a certain level of intensity, unloading facts and tidbits and trivia on my guests at every turn. I figure a little context goes a long way, right?

Unfortunately, since it is only just a smidge of type A, I don’t often do a lot of fact checking before I start opening my big mouth.

But seriously, when there’s a medieval church or classical statue on every corner, what are you supposed to do? I can’t very well admit that I have no stinking clue what half of that stuff is. My guests would be disappointed. And type A’s don’t disappoint guests. Oh no, they forge ahead with the utmost confidence and hope you don’t check Wikipedia later.

So when Chris and Anna came to visit, the faux-facts flowed like the Seine. I wanted them to have a really good time ! To discover something wonderful ! To totally fall in love with the history of this city ! Thus they learned many interesting things, like :

– The whole French royal family was totes guillotined during the revolution. Yeah! Even the kids! And that was the end of the monarchy in France.

– Sainte-Chapelle isn’t that old, it’s just got some big stained glass windows.

– That *insert random imposing building here* is the Grand Palais. It houses congress/a museum/Nicolas Sarkozy.

– Northern Ireland is definitely not a part of the UK.

– The actress that played Miss Geist in Clueless? Totally the same lady that played Miss Davis in Varsity Blues!

Isn't that interesting?!
Anna and Jen, learning about that time Julia Child cooked dinner for Marie Antoinette

Amazing, right ? Paris is just full of surprises. I really think Chris and Anna enjoyed their educational foray into French culture and will share this incredible learning experience with the folks back home. And the next time they visit, I hope to dive deeper into the longstanding history between the Eiffel Tower and Quasimodo…

A moment of unlikely glory.

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According to WordPress, someone out there in the land of the interwebs found my blog by searching for “shart.”

That may just be the crowning accomplishment of my blogging career/life.

Overheard at Versailles this morning:

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Right before I drop kicked 3 errant tourists in the head.

After shooting the early morning metro accordion player a death stare, pushing through a group of French preteens on a field trip, yelling at a Spanish lady meandering in front of the ticket machines to get out of the (flipping) way and finally conquering the entry line to Louis’ spectacular golden palace:

“WE ARE SO WINNING THE (FLIPPING) AMAZING RACE RIGHT NOW!”

God I’m a good tour guide.

***


Til death do us shart.

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Rain, rain and more rain.Yes, you read that title correctly, and I’ll get to that later. First let me say that I have the best family and most understanding husband on the planet. Hands down. Not even the Von Trapps or the Osbournes or the Obamas could come close to their awesomity.

Why? Because even after a whirlwind week spent touring London and Paris, with four children crashing in my apartment and 3 failed attempts to climb the Eiffel Tower, we’re still speaking to each other. I think we might even still enjoy each other’s company. Maybe.

But the point is, we survived! And we certainly covered a lot of ground. Louvre? Check. Steak frites? Check. Getting ripped off by street artists and paying $10 for a soda? Check and check. I could go on and on about all the magical details of this epic cultural journey, but I don’t want to make anyone too jealous. So here are the highlights:

Day 1, London: Jen and Husband enjoy a day at the Tate Modern and a lovely indian food dinner.

Night 1, London: Jen gets violent case of food poisoning, sharts in pajamas, spends night on hotel bathroom floor.

London pub.
Just about sums up my time in London.

Day 3, Paris: Family accosted by flock of gypsy women at train station.

Day 4: Attempt to get to the top of Eiffel, but line is too long. Attempt to go to Louvre, but it’s closed. Attempt Eiffel again and get caught in a monsoon hail storm with no umbrellas.

Day 6: Wait in line for Eiffel for 2 hours, only to have the elevator break right when we get ready to go up.

Day 7: Bro-in-law steps in dog poo. Twice. Decides he hates the French.

Last  day: Family sprints toward the Air France airport bus with just a little too much spring in their step.

The elusive Eiffel
That's about as close as we got.

See! Our family bond is so strong that not even explosive gastrointestinal distress could tear us apart. Or maybe it’s just the power of wine and chocolate croissants that held us together. Either way, the mutual feelings of love and the excitement of being back together in this beautiful city were just incroyable. I’m sure they can’t wait to do it again. Right guys? Right?

Pardon this interruption.

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But I must take a minute to vent about the health care insanity going on back home. If you can, please check out this example of 1) Why the healthcare reform will make a positive difference for many people – many hard working, self-employed people who can’t get insurance coverage at any price. And 2) How bat-shit crazy fear mongering doesn’t help anyone.

Did anyone ever think that perhaps this could have been an even better bill if the antagonizing arguments weren’t reduced to DEATH PANELS! And BABY KILLERS! And let’s secede from the union to escape everyone who’s a democrat and not white and hetero!?

Seriously. I feel really bad for all the normal, well-reasoned republicans out there (they do exist, right?) who end up getting represented by a very vocal, very much uninformed, uber-conservative few who’s motto seems to be, When in Doubt, Call Someone an Abortionist. We could be talking about building highways and somehow they’d bring it back to baby killing. And it’s not helping anyone. Anywhere. Anyhow.

Now before I start getting hate mail, let me state that Dems do plenty of their own reductionist issue-clouding. It just doesn’t seem to be as vitriolic as what’s coming from the other side. Either way it’s frustrating, because ultimately the people lose out – we get crappy, half thought out bills that kind of help but could have been so much better.

Bon sang. I think I just had an out of body experience. Quick! Back to your regularly scheduled program, complete with champagne and stinky cheese. And DEATH PANELS!

Test Guests and Butter Brain.

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We may or may not have eaten all of this cheese.

It’s been far too long since I updated you (few) loyal readers on my latest Parisian antics. And that’s in part because I’m kind of working (booo! hiss!) and taking too many French classes to count (mon dieu!). But it’s also because we had our very first guest, all the way from Finland!

This was a momentous event for many reasons, but mostly because in my 30 years of life I have not yet been forced to be a real grown-up host. You know, someone with an official guest room, someone who provides matching towels, someone who isn’t totally satisfied letting you pass out on the sofa with a sleeping bag for the night.

Believe me, I certainly never thought I would be such a person. It’s not that I don’t love having my friends and family over. But your hosting standards have a hard time evolving past those of a college undergrad when, well, you still live in a hobbit hole of an apartment like a college undergrad.

Still in the “throw some chips in a bowl and call it a party!” mindset, I even foolishly put all my hosting-appropriate wedding gifts into storage before moving to Paris. I thought I was too cool for chafing dishes. I scoffed at crystal stemware. A dining room table? Whatever.

And then we moved in to the most ridiculously opulent apartment I will ever live in. Suddenly I would give up anything for a silver Well and Tree.

(Attention young readers: once you desire something like a Well and Tree, your life is over.)

Anyway, Dylan from Finland was our first real official visitor. A Test Guest if you will, because I planned on trying out all my hosting best on him. I ran around for groceries, I stocked up on wine, I scrubbed the toilet and the bidet (don’t worry, no one uses it. Right Husband?). I figured if all else failed, I would ply Dylan the Test Guest with enough champagne and French food to thoroughly blur any real recollection of his trip.

So from the minute he showed up on my doorstep, we ate. Cheese and champagne, pâté and rabbit, even pancakes and bacon. We plowed our way through onion soup and macarons and a ludicrously wonderful pain au chocolat aux amandes. By day four we were slowing down a bit. But somehow we made room for roasted goat cheese with honey granola and, craving some vegetables, settled on a lentil soup topped with foie gras.

(This is where things get hazy, but somewhere along the way we did see the Pantheon, and then I got hit by a bicyclist as I crossed the street in a pastry-induced stupor. I think that might of hurt, but I don’t remember.)

After a final morning of crepes and a quick pre-lunch stop for a mille-feuille, I left Test Guest at the Arc de Triomphe, dazed and smiling and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Success!

I returned home to detox, assured of my hosting prowess. That is, until I got a rather urgent sounding email from Dylan. Seems he missed his bus, then got on the wrong bus, then got on the right bus, only to miss his flight back to Finland. He didn’t make it home until 4am.

Uh oh, was that a hostess-fail? I don’t know. He looked pretty damn happy when I left him. But perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned here: maybe it’s best not to get your guests hopped up on pastry cream and goose liver and then send them out into the city to fend for themselves.

But then again, maybe that’s exactly what they’re coming to see you for in the first place.

What kind of shell has a nut like this!

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French textbookTen points to anyone who can place that quote.

Twenty points if the absurdity of this French textbook title made you giggle.

Fifty points and all my life’s possessions if you can engineer micro-chip to be placed directly into my brain so I will never have to open such a textbook ever again.

You see, despite years of dedicated formal study, I am still exceptionally non-fluent in French. Ok, dedicated might be an overstatement. But I did take classes all through middle and high school and even some college. It’s just that I may or may not have had emergency verb conjugations printed on my shoe during exams. And in college I may have stooped to sneaking into a high school SAT 2 test to try to pass out of my university’s language requirements. (No, I did not pass.)

The point is, I may be headed to hell in a hand basket, but it seems that speaking in tongues is not my forte.

Oh of course I have the basics mastered. I can say hello and order food and generally make my way around the city. I can express opinions: Le fromage, bon! Le football, mal! I can even fudge my way through basic conversations about the weather or the news or what’s for dinner.

“Fudge” being the critical term here. Because I’m now at a point where I may not understand everything people are saying to me, but I get enough to fill in the gaps with contextual clues or good old guesses and come away with the gist. I think.

Take for example the coffee table I ordered. Emboldened by an afternoon with Rosetta, I bravely strode into a shop and successfully made it known that I wanted a table and that I needed it delivered. I was still beaming from that grand coup when we slipped into the dangerous conversational landscape of delivery options:

Do you have a car? Because that would be easier.

Sorry, I don’t have a car.

Ok, well then blah blah blah poste. Blah blah call you but blah blah when it will arrive.

Um, quoi?

Blah blah delivery blah blah POSTE.

Uh, right. So when will it be delivered?

I just said I don’t know. Blah blah blah blah!

We were at a linguistic impasse. So rather than mining for critical details and frustrating the saleslady even more, I took stock of what I understood and handed over my credit card. Poste. Delivery. I got it. I said merci and headed home to tell the Husband that I paid for a table and we may receiving it in the mail. Someday. I think.

It did spontaneously arrive a few days later in a package marked ChronoPoste. So all is well. But do you see where things could have gone terribly wrong here? Need I remind you of the two soccer tickets purchased for different rows?

I’m really only kind of understanding things. Which leaves a whole lot of grey area in every conversation. It’s this aptitude for complex misunderstandings that makes me a danger to myself and others. Maybe I should just stick to loud English and hand gestures.

This sad sentiment is only reinforced when your French teacher meets your attempts at speech with a withering stare and a few choice words. Well, I think they were choice. I know they were words.

Because after all of my very proficient-sounding classmates introduced themselves, they got a tres bien or some other friendly quip. I got:

Your accent is American. I know it’s hard for you.

Well, the nerve! I was embarrassed and even a little outraged. I think. Because it also could have been:

Your accent is good, for an American. I know it’s hard for you.

Jury’s still out on which interpretation is more accurate. But clearly my Americanness puts me at some inherent disadvantage when it comes to the French language. Of course this hurts my pride and makes me angry and also makes me want to cry a little (ok, a lot). But I can tell you from experience – that’s exactly what learning French is all about, in a nutshell.


Le football.

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booooooooooooooringI’m not usually a fan of le football. It’s long and slow and unless David Beckham is running around naked, I could care less. Actually, unless David Beckham and Thierry Henry and that Brazilian Portuguese guy who carries a man purse are sitting naked with me on the sofa, I would usually rather poke my eyeballs out than watch professional soccer.

That’s not a personal attack on FIFA. It’s just that I find it hard to sit around for 90-plus minutes waiting for maybe one goal. And since I spent my brief soccer career picking buttercups and practicing cartwheels, I have little to no appreciation for the intricate footwork that’s going on in between all that not scoring.

Yet somehow I married a man who loves soccer with all of his body and soul. A man who regularly says things like, “I can’t wait to rip our future children from the womb and sell them directly into the Real Madrid farm system!”

So for his birthday I bought us a pair of tickets to the pre-World Cup friendly match between France and Spain. Yes, these are the things we do to score mad points as a wife. Besides, soccer games in Europe have a reputation for getting a little nuts, so I at least expected a cultural spectacle. Oh yeah, I can get on board with rowdy fans and flag waving and chanting and of course, beer! They would be drinking beer right? Or maybe sloshing around glasses of red wine with a side of foie gras nachos? If I was really lucky, maybe I’d get to hear the announcers shout GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLL! And then I could sit back and let my eyes glaze over in front of the jumbo-tron. I’d be totally fine.

Well, the trip to Stade de France was promising. There was singing on the train, face paint galore, even some potential fighting. Awesome!!! Allez Bleus! But once we got inside, and realized I had bought two seats that were not next to each other, things were a little less awesome. I got the impression that the French guy next to me wasn’t really interested in my witty American commentary. And where was the beer? Or the nachos? Or the bleu cheese truffled pretzels or whatever it is they eat at sporting events here?

Not to mention the extreme lack of jumbo-tron entertainment. What, no Kiss Cam? No sound system blaring da da de dadadada – ya’ll ready fo this! That's the spirit!

Nope. The French fans were too busy dutifully waving their French flags and intently watching the game to need concessions or fist fights or even people shooting t-shirts with a giant sling shot.

Save for a few wily Spaniards, the crowd was incredibly well behaved and oddly focused on the match below. So out of desperation, I spent a good hour just wondering when American sports took such a drastic turn toward obnoxious mid game diversions. Are we so lazy and short of attention that the game we just dropped mucho bucks to see isn’t even enough entertainment?

Well if you’re asking me and I’m at a soccer match, then yes. But I’d assume real fans would much prefer this pared down, purist approach. That’s why people love Fenway, right? It’s old and decidedly less flashy, but who needs a gimmick when Jacoby Ellsbury is right there, diving to catch a fly ball? In those tight baseball pants? And for a second you make eye contact and the world stops spinning on it’s axis?

Go Sox!