I'm Considering Vegetarianism

I love to cook things that "cook themselves". You just put them in the oven with some spices, a little wine, or something easy like that and then take it out and dinner's ready. That's why I like small birds, like cornish hens in the US and quail anywhere I can find it.

Last night's dinner took on a new dimension when I looked closely at the quail I'd bought. Yikes. Their heads are still on! I don't like to look into the eyes of my dinner. This includes fish. I also don't want to see feet, tails, or fur of any kind.



Of course Terry wasn't around to do the "dirty work". So, out came my knife. I tried not to look too closely (even when I took the pictures). I wonder why they left the heads on? No one would want to eat them, I hope! They are tiny.

I felt pretty brave after cutting off their heads. It wasn't very hard, since they're small. But, this doesn't mean I'm considering a job at the butcher shop in my neighborhood. Cutting the heads off almost took the fun away from cooking these lovely little things. But, I managed to cook them and eat one!




Without the heads, of course.

Dupuis, the French "Smith"

We are having dinner tonight at a woman's apartment. She gave us all the directions that we need. We hope.

In Paris, you need the person's street address, the person's phone number (for emergencies), the front door code and the person's last name to get into the inner door of the building. There are normally two locked doors, one on the street (where you punch in a code) and one inside the building that leads to a staircase or elevator. The second door usually has a buzzer that buzzes the person's apartment, you talk to them and if you're invited, they buzz you in.

For large buildings, you also need to know which building they live in which is usually designated A, B, C, etc.

Tonight we're thinking there might be a problem. We're going to visit a person named Dupuis who lives in a large building. Dupuis in France is the equivalent of Smith or Brown in the US. The woman told us that there are three Dupuis families in her building. And she lives in Building B. Imagine how many are spread over A-D combined.

Other common names seem to all start with D -- Dupont, Dugas.

We're leaving a little bit early just to sort through the Dupuis buttons on the inner courtyard door. Maybe they should have names like Dupuis-1 (the first Dupuis to live there) through Dupuis-3. That would work nicely.

Wish us luck. It's cold outside and we'll be buzzing every Dupuis in the building until we find the place that's got dinner cooking. Or until one of the other Dupuis families calls the police on the crazy couple carrying flowers that's buzzing every door.

Things Disappear

While we're in one place, things disappear from the other place. They are things that I like, that I rely on. I get on a plane and "poof" it's gone!

Restaurants and shops are the businesses that do the disappearing act the most often. But there's also the beloved hair stylist or esthéticien that moves away.

This time, I've lost two things important to my pleasure, although not my daily well-being.

L'etudiant, a dive restaurant and bar with great, inexpensive food has changed hands. We went by the other night and they were painting the inside white. White is the only color that wasn't present in the old, beloved L'etudiant. Cracked brown plastic booths, mosaic tiled floor, a wooden rustic old bar created the atmosphere of the place. I'm sure the prices will go up and the quality will go down.

But, the thing that has caused the most grief so far is the loss of my tennis racquet stringer. First match in Paris and I broke a string. I didn't think much about it at the time because we had a good stringer at a shop in Montparnasse called Roissy Sports. The next day, we went to the store and it was closed, "Fermeture Travail".

I went home and called their number and a man answered and informed me that the store will be closed until June (read November) and that the stringer was at his house and not working. Yikes. This lead to a flurry of internet searches and a few failed trips around Paris. The worst was at Decathalon at Madeline where the woman stringer suggested the "bas de gamme" stings (low quality) at a price of Euro 42.95. We dashed out of the store since a good string should cost less than 20.

Another search yielded something quite surprising, a tennis shop in our neighborhood on a street that we go down all the time. I called and yes, he was there! We went, dropped off the racquet and found out he could string it in one hour for Euro 15.

Now if I can find a restaurant to replace L'etudiant, I'll be even. There's even a cute boutique that took the place of a beloved card shop in the neighborhood.

Imperfect

Not me, what a silly thought!

The verb tense -- "imparfait". It's driving me crazy this week.

I'm in school these days to try to improve my french. Yes, I can communicate, understand, read and write, but it's not pretty, not elegant, in a word, imperfect.

The first few classes were a breeze. Even though I'm at least twice the age of the next oldest pupil, I seem to be keeping up, even achieving at a high level.

Until yesterday. A worksheet was introduced. We had to read a long paragraph with a description of a person's choice of education and career, based on experiences as a child. Easy enough. I understand it all. We were asked to place the activities and occurrences in the order in which they happened. Since some happened at the same or almost the same time, this was a little bit challenging but I whipped through that exercise with flying colors.

Then, the XXXX started to happen. Below this activity, on the same page it asked us to put other events on a timeline, with the verb and verb tense below. I froze. All at once, I was reading Chinese. My mind was spinning, out of control. When this happens, nothing enters or exits, it's a free-fall. The teacher came to the rescue, patiently explained it, I pretended to understand but was still in free-fall.

She gave us homework, also incomprehensible. I've re-done it at least 10 times, I've gone through an entire eraser on the end of my pencil.

Out come the books. I've applied myself to the theory, the rules of this verb tense. Terry thinks it's easy. I hear others use it with ease. Of course, I don't know if they're using it correctly or not, since I don't understand it at all. I'll be studying this today, trying to make sense out of the imperfect.

Another Line

I'm still not completely "over" my day at the DMV last week.

I am very impatient when I have to wait for something. Standing in a line is even worse than waiting while sitting down. They are both bad, a waste of time.

It's a weekend. We should know better than to go to a temporary exposition, especially one that is about to close. I've wanted to see the Henry Moore at the Rodin since last December. It will close soon, so off we went on a rainy Saturday.

We always get a bit lost when going to the Rodin. It is always my fault, according to Terry. We even question whether the signs are pointing in the wrong direction, it is a possibility...

Finally we find it. We can see the line before we can see the museum itself. It's the after lunch crowd, fully fortified and ready for the afternoon. Our spartan lunch (alcohol-free) will not keep us warm, I fear.

We hike to the end of the line. It's raining lightly. We wait. Didn't I just do this in California a few days ago. Is it worth it? Obviously it is for the 30+ people happily chattering in front of us.

More people arrive and the line gets longer. But, it moves fairly quickly. Perhaps it is just security? When we get to the door, we realize there is no security, only crowd control. They have one cashier at the desk. Kind of like the DMV.

Department of Motor Vehicles

It seems that some types of circumstances are universal worldwide, unfortunately.

One of them is dealing with civil servants. The State of California has been in financial trouble for several years. To help offset this crisis, state offices are closed for "furlough" days several times a month.

The already overburdened, overcrowded offices are now teeming with indignant, stressed-out customers trying to deal with the unhappy, underpaid, typically lazy civil servants.

I try to never deal with any of these offices. With the internet, until today, I've been successful.

Saturday (doesn't it always happen on a weekend) I got a notice from the DMV that I have to appear in person to renew my driver's license. Evidently, they are issuing new licenses with fingerprints and they wanted an up-to-date photo. I also needed to take a vision exam.

I didn't realize that if I am out of the country, I could have gotten an extension for up to one year. I guess you have to read the small print on page 14 of the 94 page document, "California Driver Handbook".

I cleared my calendar this morning, got up early and arrived at the DMV (a 40 minute drive) at 8 AM, opening time. I was about 200th in a long line (people without appointments) that snaked around the building. There were so many people that I couldn't find a spot to park in the lot and had to drive around on side streets until I found a place to park.

I got in line. Luckily it was warm, unlike France, where we are always standing outside the Prefecture de Police in sub-zero temperatures. But, it was early in the morning and the sun was low and right in our eyes.

The line was moving, slowly, but we made progress. I was inside the building by 10 AM, fifth in line to "take a number". At this point, a worker made an announcement that the computer systems, state-wide, were "down" and it would be at least 15-20 minutes before they could process anyone.

I thought that there would be a rush for the door, but no, no one budged and no one complained. We waited. Spanish was the predominant language, so I couldn't talk to my line-mates. There was even a homeless man with all his stuff in wheeled carts in line. I have no idea why he was there, since he obviously didn't have a car or all his worldly possessions would have been safely locked up.

We wait. My feet hurt, my back is in spasms. I'm missing my workout, I'm in hell.

Just when I think I can't take it any more, the system is restored. But, they don't start issuing numbers to our line. They clear the appointment line first, so we have to wait another 10 minutes for that.

Finally I get a number. I enter and sit down with about 100 people. We're sitting on little plastic chairs. Numbers are called but not quickly. I wait and wait. I pace around. No one else is pacing, they are all sitting quietly.

After another 20 minutes or so, my number is called. Everything goes smoothly, I pass the vision test, pay my $31. My last stop is the photo station.

I arrive at the photo station which is at the other side of the office. No one is there taking pictures. I wait awhile, no one comes, no one notices the line that is forming behind me of people that need their pictures taken. I call out to the people in the office, I can see them. Just like a French waiter, they see me but don't acknowledge me. I am now seething. I call and call. There are five people standing around, about five feet from me, laughing, talking, drinking coffee, telling about their weekend. Finally I get someone's attention and ask where is the photo person. He tells me that he'll go find them, but he goes back to talking. I scream some more. Finally, he comes over (it's obviously his post that was vacant) and takes my picture.

I'm outta there.

A Day of Frustrations

Air France is now Delta in the US. I hate to use the word "transparent", especially since the transition has been anything but. Today I got an email, in French, from Air France. It said that I needed to "click here" and enter my passport info and other sensitive data.

Afraid of "phishing", I knew I had to call the airline. First I tried Air France. All lines were busy and, as usual, after a 20 minute wait they hung up on me. I tried Delta and got a recording saying that their systems were overloaded with calls, try back later. I tried Flying Blue, the frequent flyer program for Air France, long wait. So, I gave up.

But, the letter said that I had to provide this info 72 hours in advance or we couldn't fly. But, I can't call you and I'm not entering all this stuff into an unknown site.

I went to the gym, did a few things and tried back later. After another 10+ minute wait, I got a woman on the phone who said, indeed, I needed to enter this info on line, they can't do it on the phone. Ick. So, I got out the documents, went on line (not by clicking "here"), but by trying to find it on the web site. Of course, it was buried and I had to go through about seven screens to get to the right place. I entered the info, and printed it, just in case.

The afternoon wasn't much better. My iPHONE wouldn't sync with my computer and I need to keep it all up to date. A call to an Apple "genius" required another 10+ minutes on hold while they figured it out and another 10+ minutes downloading new software.

It's starting to get dark now and I am happy to report that order has been restored and all these things have been fixed. What's in store tomorrow? I'm afraid to ask.

Speaking French Non-Stop

It is rare to hear French in Southern California but in the last two days, I've had two encounters with francophones.

In both cases, it was a surprise. Just now I was walking down the street and a woman was in the middle of taking a photo. I paused for a second but when she didn't move, I said, "Excuse Me" to the woman so that she wouldn't get my profile in her sunset shot. She replied, "Allez-y" to my surprise.

My head swiveled around, I smiled and replied with no hesitation, "Bienvenue a ma belle ville". This caused a flurry of conversation and laughing with her group but no other reply to me, so I continued on my way.

The day before I was at the gym and I passed by two women speaking french to each other. Automatically, I blerted out, "Par-don". They both laughed and remarked in English to me and we all thought it was funny that I automatically went into French with them. They turned out to be American and were much friendlier than the French group, surprise, surprise!

The best part of these exchanges is that I'm now responding, almost automatically in French, even when I'm in the US. Hurray!

Everyone Knows About French Strikes

France is famous. For many things, the food, the wine, the art.

I've run into several people recently who remark quickly about the strikes in France. Every visitor to France seems to have a story. Or many.

We've started to take them for granted. A little annoying but normally they don't cause us too many problems.

Visitors have problems getting to and from the airport during a strike. Their favorite museum could be closed due to a strike. Planes might not run. Walking down the street becomes a bit hazardous if you run into a demonstration. It even seems that there is less food in the grocery stores.

We all realize it's part of the culture of France. But it's not among the most charming attributes of a wonderful country.

It's Been 30 Years

Our city started a project to put the utilities underground many years ago. We knew it wouldn't happen quickly but we've been waiting almost 30 years for this day.

It looks like the pole is coming down right now!

Also, check out what a beautiful day it is, 80 and sunny. It's not normal for January but we'll take it.

The Northern Lights

For a beautiful slide show, go here:

http://www.vacationstogo.com/slideshow.cfm?set=Northern_Lights

Enjoy the show.

Pot Holders

My pot holders (oven mitts to some, gant isolant to others) were "over the hill" at Christmas time. Stained, burned, generally not fit for everyday use, let alone a party.

It's not that I don't want new ones, it's just that I forget I need them immediately after I put them away. Aghast the next time I take them out, I vow to replace them. I've done this again and again.

Until today. I guess it pays to shop sometimes. I mean "SHOP". Walk around a store from one end to the other, looking at everything. Needs get remembered. Like pot holders. I scored some this afternoon, brought them home and put the old ones out of their misery. What a relief. I'm having guests for dinner this weekend and I won't have to hide them between uses.

The French Have A Way of Complicating Things

Our apartment was broken into last month.

They broke the door and the lock but didn't get in. Of course, the door was left partially open for days because our neighbors and the concierge either didn't notice it or didn't do anything if they saw it. We'll never know for sure. It couldn't have been quiet.

Now, the hard part -- fixing it and getting our insurance to pay for it.

Fixing it should be easy. The first guy who came out to fix the lock and the door didn't align the door properly. The door would only open a little bit and even that put big scratches in the hardwood floor.

He came back to fix it. In fixing his first work, he burned two patches in the hardwood floor with a blow torch.

The door is fixed. The floor is a wreck.

Insurance should pay for the door and the lock, but it's the locksmith's insurance that has to pay for the floor damage, I think. Hard to say for sure.

First we'll have to prove that we didn't burn the holes in the floor using a blow torch. Kinda hard to imagine since we don't own a blow torch. Next we have to prove that the scratches weren't there before the door was fixed. Harder to prove but still shouldn't be a problem.

Also, we'll have to get the floor fixed. How many steps should this take? Not many. But, I'm sure it will take multiple visits and steps. Since it's right at the front door, we won't be able to go in or out and we probably won't be able to close the door.

I'm sure this is the tip of the "complication" iceberg. We're just happy the damage was as small as it was.

We'll be waiting for the check from the insurance company since we had to pay for the work "up front".

Band Aids and Other Household Supplies

Last month, I sliced a big chuck of skin off my index finger knuckle. It bled like crazy. Of course, I was in the middle of cooking a big dinner for Terry's birthday. Not wanting to put a damper on the festivities, I tried to bandage it up and press on. Don't they use duct tape in professional kitchens?

The show must go on. I went to the bathroom cupboard, which was almost bare. We had about five band-aids, all of them tiny; totally insufficient for this job. Isn't that always the case? It's almost impossible to supply the house with every possible product for every possible eventuality and need. Band aids seem like an easy thing to keep on hand, but only if the person who uses the last one remembers to add it to the shopping list. And, in the heat of bandaging something up, the last thing you think about is the grocery list.

I put a big piece of gauze over the cut and then taped my finger up.

Within five minutes blood was coming out both sides. A lot of blood. So, I put an even bigger piece of gauze over the original one and re-taped it up. It held.

The next day, the whole thing came off and the bleeding started up where it left off. So, I replaced my improvised band aid and pressed on with family fun. Still no band aids in the house.

Days went by like this. I never thought to buy band aids because I was using my improvised band aid. Finally the cut healed.

I never bought band aids. Today, Terry sliced his finger on a tape dispenser. Almost as bad as mine but not quite. He used the same basic method of tape and gauze. Seems to be catching around here.

But, this afternoon, I decided to go to the store and stock up. Now, we've got every possible size, shape and color of band aid, all in bathroom cabinet, ready for the next mishap.

What else is missing for the medicine cabinet? We'll never know until we need it, I fear.

Heating

It's cold everywhere right now.

Inside it's warm. It's great to have a warm home, warm water for a shower. I take these things for granted.

Living in Southern California most of my life, I thought that everyone used the same system(s) to heat the house, heat water, wash dishes and laundry. We have a balloon water heater that holds a large capacity of water. It keeps the water constantly warm so that when you need it you get it. Hot water is not instantaneous since it has to travel from the tank through the pipes to the needed spigot. But, eventually it is nice and warm. Since most of the time there are only two of us at home, we don't run out of hot water. But if we have visitors, we have to remember that the amount of water is limited by the size of the tank and not immediately replaced. So, if four or five people take a long hot shower while the dishwasher and the clothes washer are going, we will be out of hot water. Don't take the last shower or you'll be out of luck.

The dishwasher and the clothes washer rely on water heated by the hot water heater so they use up their share.

In France, there are many systems for heating and hot water. On rue de Seine, we had electric heaters on walls that you turned on individually. We had a balloon for hot water in the closet. The place was so small that we never ran out of hot water and we rarely turned on a heater. If it was cold, by the time I'd finished cooking dinner, the place was nice and warm. Even candles helped.

Now we have a "chaudiere". It is one of these instant hot water things. It is used for both hot water and heating the apartment. It works really well. It is economical since it doesn't heat the water until you need it. Water is instantly hot. Warmth starts coming out of the radiators the minute you turn them on. We never have to worry about who will get the last shower since the water will be hot whenever it is needed.

The most unusual thing about french appliances is that both the dishwasher and the clothes washer use only cold water. The machines heat the water during use. You can tell the machine how hot you want the water to be. So, these machines don't compete with showers either.

I think the French have been much more conscious of their usage of gas and electricity. Lights are not on in the hallways of buildings. You have to turn them on. Then they are on timers. You're left with enough time to go up about three flights of stairs and then the hallway goes dark again and you have to turn the lights back on again. People don't leave lights on when they leave a room. Lights switches (no idea why) are often on the outside of the bathroom.

I wonder how long it would take for the US to change to these systems. It seems that it would save a lot of energy consumption with an added benefit that everyone would always have a warm shower.

The Christmas Decorations Are Down A Little Bit Early

I had some time yesterday and decided to take the Christmas decorations down. It's a bit earlier than usual.

Every year, I love the tradition of getting them out and putting them up. It's festive. I've collected these decorations over many years. Each item is special.

With the fireplace crackling (it's been cold) and the decorations up, it really seems like Christmas.

This year, ever since the day after Christmas, the decorations started to seem bothersome. Too much stuff. I prefer less clutter. So, down they came and back into their boxes.

I'm quite organized. I label the boxes and try to put "like" things together. It's never perfect but it's much easier to decorate next year if I know what's in each box.

I stopped at the market and bought some tulips which now are my only decorations. They haven't opened yet, but they will last for at least a week. It still looks a bit empty but we'll get used to it, we have 11 months until the next round of decorations.

"That's As Close As I'm Getting"

Chloe won't admit it, but she's afraid of Christmas decorations that are at eye-level. Every elf, candy cane and pointsettia got a round of barking, hackles up or running away.

Rough time of year!

Rosé Champagne

I've experimented with rosé champagne in France on several occasions and never been disappointed.

When faced with the difficult task of selecting a glass of champagne for my Christmas meal yesterday, I took a chance on Etoile sparkling rosé wine. Yum! It was incredible.

Happy Holidays

It's never hit me quite like it has this year.

Yesterday was Christmas Day. Why not just say, "Merry Christmas"? There wasn't another holiday yesterday. So, why say "Happy Holidays"? Is this phrase supposed to include New Year's Day, which is next week? Although it is politically correct to say Happy New Year it is generally considered more "correct" to say Happy Holidays for Christmas.

I disagree. You don't have to say anything if you don't want to acknowledge a Christian holiday. And, on the other side of this, if it's Hanukkah, I might say, "Happy Hanukkah" although I guess I'd be saying it for 8 days. I wouldn't say, Happy Holidays.

While I was out walking yesterday morning, everyone I encountered said "Merry Christmas" to me and I replied in kind.

I don't think it's insensitive or incorrect to acknowledge a holiday for what it is.

Exercise In the Snow

Normally I prefer to exercise by going around the inside of the fence. Due to snow and probably ice, the Luxembourg Gardens was closed.

That's never stopped me before. Nor did it stop the "regulars" that I see every day when I'm out. We were all out, circling the outside of the fence, trying to stay inside the sandy areas to avoid ending up on the ground. It's not even that cold, it's just snow.




And, it's beautiful. I try to imagine being a princess inside the chateau looking out at this Winter scene. Of course, my imagination doesn't take me to the part of 15th century with no running water, electricity or toilets. That's not the dream.

Instead, I'm in a red velvet dress, low cut. My hair is up in the newest french style. Red velvet shoes, almost Pope-like adorn my feet. Jewels are everywhere including pearls, diamonds, rubies in gold. I'm warmed by the enormous fire in every room.

Quite different from the bundled up girl in ASICs shoes slowly making her way around the outside of the fence on a snowy December day.

Nespresso Came Through For Me

The day after our 11 hour flight, we needed coffee badly.

We turned on the Nespresso, put in a pod, pushed the button and nothing happened.

In our brain-dead, jet-lagged state, we repeated the same action a second time without really investigating. Suddenly brown liquid started pouring out the bottom of the machine, not into the cup. A coffee flood in the kitchen is not what I needed at this moment.

It took all my emotional strength to not throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum. Is it too much to ask to have a cup of nice, freshly brewed coffee? Evidently.

Necessity required a phone call. I went to the internet found the number for Nespresso and called. I was connected instantly with a nice man who said he could help. I was not optimistic, but he was my only hope.

We went into the kitchen, he was on the phone with me and he put me through a number of steps. Finally, it worked. He reported that it was just an air bubble, call anytime. And, he told me that if it ever really breaks, they have a program to send a new one. Customer service exists, at least at Nespresso.

Cambriolage

We got a call on Sunday morning. Our apartment had been broken into.

This is a shocking phone call to get at any time, but we felt that our place was pretty secure. We have a reinforced, armored door, double glazed or "effraction" (non-breaking) windows. Evidently it's not enough if someone targets the place for whatever reason.

Our door looked like this:



And, it couldn't be opened, it was jammed shut so we had no idea for more than 24 hours if our apartment had been ransacked or not. Unfortunately, this all happened on Sunday (does anything ever happen Monday through Friday from 9 to 5?) during a huge snowstorm so not much could be done until Monday morning. We agreed to leave the door as it was, hoping that no one else would see it in this state, since it was partially open.

We spent Sunday morning calling our insurance company (not there) our syndic (ditto), a trusted worker (he answered), and emailed everyone. Barbara, who watches our apartment, was wonderful, running from the police station, getting bids for the work and keeping us in the loop. Then we had to wait.

With nine hours time difference, we knew that our night's sleep would be interrupted as Paris came to life and it was. But, it was worth it.

By noon our time, the locksmith was working on the door, the insurance had agreed to pay and the police station would release the report for insurance purposes.

Is there a lesson in all of this?

While we try to be vigilant, we don't want it to run/ruin our lives. The door held the bad guys off long enough that the only casualty was the door, they didn't get in. Even if they had, we have very little of value inside -- an eight year old TV and stereo, the cables for our computers that aren't in the apartment, some winter clothes. Not worth the hard work of taking a crow-bar to our door, guys! Next time, try our rich neighbors with the antiques and the paintings, the jewelry and maybe even some cash!

We feel lucky that it wasn't worse. And upon our return, we will install more security features for sure.

La Neige

This photo was taken out of our window on Wednesday. It snowed all day.

Snow is beautiful. I love it.

Having grown up in Southern California, snow is unique.

Before coming to Paris, I didn't even have a true winter coat. Now I have about five of them, long ones, short ones, dressy ones, casual ones, even the huge full-length down coat (with a hood) that's gotten a lot of action in the past week.

A Birthday at 37,000 feet

We missed our flight due to the snow. We've heard that this was the worst snowstorm in Il de France since 1987.

The cab company called to tell us that the cab wasn't coming.

We momentarily toyed with the idea of consolidating enough stuff to hold us over into one suitcase and making a dash for the RER. But the fear (we watched the news all morning) that we'd be stuck at the airport, sleeping on the ground with one of those ugly blue blankets made the decision easy.

After being put on hold by Air France for 30 minutes, they announced that we'd been on hold for too long and terminated the call. Great! So, we called back and finally got someone. I don't know how it will all turn out because they charge for the call and we were on hold, in total, for over an hour.

Travel plans in the winter are notoriously fragile. We're now spending the morning re-grouping, canceling and re-scheduling.

One date that can't be changed is Terry's birthday. Instead of a sushi dinner and a movie, he'll be crammed into an Air France seat at 37,000 feet. The only thing that will make this bearable is that they still serve French champagne, even in coach.

What is the translation for "Aller Retour?"

Yesterday, Pierre asked me (not knowing about this blog) what is the translation for "aller retour". When I told him, "round trip" he didn't believe me. It's too boring sounding, not at all magical. Round trip? Yes, Pierre, I'm afraid it's true.

Then he asked for the translation of "retour". I told him, "return". So, why can't you translate "aller retour" literally, to go, to return, hence a round trip.

It's another one of those things that just doesn't translate very well.

Looking Back

It's cold and dark outside. It's only 4 PM but I'm not motivated to go outside at all. So, I'm doing indoor stuff this afternoon. Did a little bit of organizing and cleaning (collectively known as "nesting") and now I'm on the computer, backing up, organizing, cleaning out. I feel so much better after I've done this.

I've downloaded all the photos from my camera and my phone(s) (don't ask...) this afternoon. Looking at them is like a review of the last few months of my life. I can see the weather change from summer to winter, the activities I'd already forgotten about, the things I do every day.

I have pictures of summer artichokes, horses at the Republican Guard headquarters, a trip to La Defense, a long line to buy honey at the beehives of the Luxembourg Gardens. I have plenty of photos of the strikes in Paris, lines of gendarmes, the frenzy of demonstrators with their noise music and huge balloons. I have some photos of the WICE Open House and more recently our Noël Sing-Along last week. The street light that illuminated our bedroom when it was removed (a good thing), Cecile's cooking class.

Digitial photos are great. I tend to take a lot more photos. Any that aren't good, I delete immediately. I store them on my computer although I keep a lot on my phone and camera too. Friends show each other photos from their phones. The only thing I don't do any more is print them. I really should. But that's another project.

The Last Concert of The Season

The Organ At St Sulpice

Conferences, art exhibits, concerts, they're everywhere in Paris. It's exhausting. I choose carefully. If I try something new and it's a hit, I go again and again.

The organ concerts at St Sulpice are on this list and today is the last one until February. They don't follow the normal concert schedule during Lent and Advent.

This organ is in the back of the church. People turn the chairs around to "see" the organ, even if there's nothing to see. There is a smaller organ at the other end. I think they use this with the choir.

The large organ was inaugurated in 1862 and is classified as a "Monument Historique".

Today we will hear Pierre Arditi and Sophie-Veronique Caucher - Chopin.

Dressing in Layers

The weather here is really cold. It's dry, a little bit windy. It snowed on Friday afternoon but it was a wet snow and it didn't stay on the ground.

Like a little kid, I went out and jumped around, then took the long way home from Odile's apartment just so I could enjoy the snow.

To go out in this weather, I need to plan. Layers are required. I forget this every year until the first time I go out and the cold comes right through the cashmere sweater and lined wool coat. Dressing in layers is an art. Trying not to look like a snowman, it's best to have multiple thin but warm layers.

I start with a silk camisole. If it gets much colder, I'll have to switch to a long-sleeved silk undershirt. Then I add a sweater with some kind of high neckline. Then I add a cardigan, buttoned. Next a coat. Right now it's a full-length down coat. On top of this, a cashmere scarf and lined gloves.

All of this doesn't keep me completely warm, it just prevents hypothermia.

I guess if we were going from a heated apartment to a heated car to a heated restaurant, theatre or another apartment this wouldn't be necessary, but last night we walked to and from the metro and a long way to the restaurant.

Counting Down

This is last year's haul. I'm already starting to stress out. I have to go to about five stores, all in different parts of town to find my Thanksgiving necessities. I also have to get a few new things -- serving dishes, some napkins, maybe some new water glasses. I also saw some great china at a second hand shop and probably would have bought the lot right then except the shop had an "fermeture exceptionelle" at 2 in the afternoon on Friday. I haven't gone back because they are only open from 2 PM to 7 PM Tuesday through Friday. Philosophical question of the day: If they're closed during the few hours that they're supposed to be open, are they ever really open? I'm not taking any chances when I'm so busy.

Cranberries are unheard of in France. They have these tiny little bitter things that they think are cranberries but they're not. So, when I find them in the "Ocean Spray" familiar plastic package, I buy two packages, just to be sure I've got enough. Stuffing is for tomatoes. What's a sweet potato? Last year I served corn muffins and the french had such a hard time with them (they broke them into tiny pieces, tried to put the meat or gravy on it, etc) that this menu item has been replaced with a baguette this year.

The most interesting part of the traditional Thanksgiving meal is that it is basically served on one plate. In France, meals are comprised of many small courses, served on small plates. Last year, I had to go out and buy American sized plates for this meal. I had to measure my dishwasher because it is smaller and I wanted to make sure the plates fit. I have to warn the guests that this is the meal except for dessert so they can judge their portions properly.

I also had to measure my oven and the pan intended for the turkey. The turkey has to be able to fit in the pan and the pan has to fit in the oven. In the US, we never worry about this kind of thing.

Making pumpkin pie requires research. Last year, I wrote down my ingredients so that I didn't have to recreate the wheel this year. The flour, sugar and butter are different. I can find the pumpkin and the milk. The whipping cream is another story. I bought something called "fleurette" and when I whipped it, it grew exponentially. I had so much fleurette (whipped) that I had to put it in a plastic bag and throw it away. (We don't have garbage disposals in France either).

Wish me luck. The best part of the meal is that we can sip real French champagne, which, by the way, tastes great with turkey.

American Healthcare

The French don't understand why a rich country like the US isn't able or willing to provide affordable health care for it's citizens. I agree.

I was angry when the Obama health care proposal became so watered down before it was voted in. Now it seems that one of the first things that the newly elected Republicans will do is try to stop funding for this bill or repeal it all together.

What are the 40+ MILLION Americans without health care going to do? What are senior citizens who can't afford their medications going to do? What am I going to do?

My insurance costs have skyrocketed in recent years. I think the insurance companies were trying to get in "under the wire". But now with changes coming again, I'm afraid to change my plan. They could cancel me completely and I would be among those 40 million.

Now that I've seen how it works in France (called a "European Nanny State" in the newspaper a few days ago) I can't believe that the US isn't anxious to adopt something similar. It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing. Everyone can afford to go to the doctor if they're sick, they can afford the medicines they need. They can see a physical therapist for more than 10 visits for something as serious as a joint replacement.

It would require a change of attitude, that's all.

Trick or Treat

Well, it finally happened.



After eight Halloweens in Paris, without a sign of a child in costume, we heard that familiar "whoosh" outside our door last night. Terry opened the door, but I wasn't prepared, I didn't buy any candy. The last thing we need is a bag of Halloween candy hanging around the house. Up the stairs, empty-handed, the two witches left us.

Then I realized a hidden treasure. I'd brought Hershey's kisses to Paris to show French people a treat that we have in the US. But the bag hasn't been very popular so it rested in the freezer for a "rainy day". Ha! I told Terry who re-opened the door and called out to our witches. They came, he gave them each a handful of treats and they thanked us and left, whoosh, just as they came. Terry said they had a couple of treats in their plastic jack-o-lanterns, not much of a haul.

So, next year I'll be prepared and the bag of candy will rest, in the freezer, with the Hershey's kisses for eight more years.

It's Starting To Annoy Me

Trash that is!



We've had intermittent trash pick up and mail delivery since the first few days of the "reform rebellion" in France. The reform, which is about to be signed into law, is set to change the retirement age from 60 to 62, in a country where workers already work 35 hours per week. So, we're being punished by those who want to retire at 60. It seems small but the trash is accumulating at a rapid rate. I've even seen guardiennes from one building dropping trash off in another's pile. It's war!



I am getting afraid to open my windows, it's going to get icky out there. Rats, just in time for Halloween, will start to feel welcome.

Double Success

Finding pumpkins and getting the "Carte de Sejour" all in one morning.


The most dreaded day of the year is the day that we have to go to the Prefecture de Police to renew our "carte de sejour" which is a temporary residence permit. I prepare obsessively, yet our experience has always been difficult. There is always some subtle thing that is missing. And, if not, the "foncitionnaire" (civil servant) has the right to request just about anything they want from us. We usually leave the office exhausted and dejected.

The normal preparation and review took place during the last week. Hundreds of copies were made. Files were organized. Spreadsheets were done and then re-done. We always think we're in good shape.

Today, we were worried about the transportation strike, so we got up even earlier than usual, dressed, grabbed the huge stack of paperwork and left. No problems on the metro. No newspaper, but that's normal during a strike. We got to the office at the Prefecture. Terry got two seats (premium, since standing for an hour or more is not fun) while I waited in line several people back while a woman was arguing vigorously and rapidly in french. Trying, unsuccessfully to break a rule, I'm sure.

We waited and waited. There is one woman, guichet #5, who has consistently given us a hard time. We were hoping to get another person.

It's hot inside. It's raining outside. More and more people come in. Finally an American couple with a lawyer come in, demand that we vacate the seat next to us (our stuff was on it rather than the floor). Then, they proceeded to speak, very loudly. Then man was sitting next to me and had oozed into my seat. I pushed back a little but he just didn't fit in the assigned seat.


We waited and waited. What are they doing down there? Torturing others. Maybe they'll get it out of their systems by the time our numbers are called... We can only hope. Eventually one of our numbers is called. We both sit down opposite a woman who starts working on Terry's file. Abruptly, she looks up and tells me to go across the way to meet with her associate, the "difficult" one. Think positively, smile, I say to myself. Maybe she doesn't remember me, but I certainly remember her.

What does all this have to do with pumpkins?



We got out of there pretty quickly this year, each holding our receipt for the renewed "carte de sejour". They really didn't give us any trouble at all, didn't reject anything, didn't make us jump through any hoops, provide any explanations.

Out we went into the rain. Right opposite the "Prefecture" is the flower market at Cite. Prime shopping for pumpkins. The first market we went to had nothing. The second one had a nice big one for Euro 3. When I only had a Euro 20 note, she promptly only gave me Euro 16 in change, then insisted that it cost Euro 4 instead. Small price to pay. Then next shop had even more -- small pumpkins, gourds, Indian corn! I'm rich in "harvest" decorations and we got our "carte de sejour" renewed. Double success.

The Pumpkin Search

This is my 2008 pumpkin

Every year, it's the same thing. I start out on October 1, invigorated and ready to find pumpkins for my Fall decorations.

It is now October 17th and I don't have one. That's why I had to use the picture of my 2008 pumpkin in this post.

In the US, the pumpkins start to show up in the stores at the end of August. In September, it is easy to buy them, along with candy and costumes. Not so in France. Pumpkins are to be eaten. I can buy a nice slice of pumpkin in the grocery store, but not a whole one. A whole one is huge and really doesn't look like the normal, orange pumpkins in the US. It's more of a large, pumpkin-shaped squash. So, I've been happily eating pumpkin in soup, steamed and baked pumpkin for more than a month. I eat it because I like it, I think it is very high in nutrients and it is filling while being low in calories.

So, why can't I find one to put on my table? I don't even want to carve it for Halloween, I want to keep it through Thanksgiving as part of my "harvest" scenery.

Every year I find the pumpkin in a different spot. Every year, I go to all the places I've found a pumpkin in the past, but the same store never has pumpkins twice. I have no idea why this happens. I saw some pumpkins at a florist a couple of weeks ago, but by the time I got back, they were gone. They were good ones, too. American-looking, orange, big and misshapen.

Tuesday I'm hitting the flower, plant and bird market at Cite. That's my last hope! Wish me luck.

Where Do All These Leaves Go?

We know where they all come from -- the trees -- which will soon be bare for months and months.



The gardeners can't keep up with the falling leaves. They are everywhere. Luckily it's not raining or the ground would be a natural compost heap. Dogs love the smell, I can see them, walking, nose down, enjoying the smells of Autumn. Crunch, scrape, crackle, I walk through them every day, crushing them when they are dry enough. I think they are beautiful, but they have to go!



No, this is not a haystack, it's a leaf bin. This is actually a metal wire cage that the gardeners fill up with leaves. I think they burn them, but I'm not sure. This one is filled to the brim, so I know they have to do something with them. We'll smell it if they burn them, a lovely smell, not like burning wood but still fresh.



And, here's another load coming. They need heavy machines to keep up with the workload that nature leave us every year.

Why Is Everyone Speaking English To Me?

I have good days in French (the language) and bad days. I think everyone learning a new language goes through this. I think I'm making steady progress toward fluency.

Some days, though, the rest of the world doesn't see it that way. Today was one of those days.

There are days when I encounter a french person who wants to practice their English, that's fine. Sometimes when someone starts to talk to me and I reply, all those American-English accented words tumble out. I'm sure they can understand me, since I can understand french people speaking English quite easily. But, they insist on speaking in English.

Today my downstairs neighbor caught me in the hall because he thought he got our tax bill by mistake. When I answered him that it wasn't ours, he started speaking about it in English, as if I hadn't understood what he said in french even though we'd finished the conversation. He got half way through the sentence and got stuck (a familiar feeling). So, I finished in french with him. When he answered it was again in English. Hmmm!

The grocery store was on the list of chores. They know me there and know that I am English speaking. Today I asked a question and the woman answered in french and then decided to try to translate it into English for me. Very cute, but not necessary.

Tail between my legs, English thoughts coursing through my brain, I'm at home now.

Our Street Light

Here's the street light. This photo was taken last Spring.




It's GONE! Here's the guy in the bucket -- too bad you can't see his face, he certainly could see mine (through the window)

There has been an on-going project on our street to replace the street lights. It started last Spring. I took the first photo of our street light, just in case they somehow (!) messed it up, I wanted photographic proof.

New street lights with bright yellow bulbs were installed up and down the street during the summer. Our old, white light remained right outside our window, unlit. We didn't know what to think and it seemed like the project was completed. Still, we were happy, the bothersome light right outside our window was dark.

Surprise, surprise. Last week the unimaginable happened. A guy in a little bucket, suspended on a mechanical arm was hoisted up the side of the building and the light was removed.

Of course, the guy showed up right outside our bedroom window when I was in the middle of changing clothes. Stark naked, I looked up and there was a guy in a bucket looking right in at me. A small price to pay for removal of a bothersome street light.

Fête du Miel au jardin du Luxembourg

It's worth waiting for!

I had to get out early this morning and get in this line. Last year I lost out because I came too late in the day.

We were all waiting to buy honey today. It's special honey that you can only buy once a year and only if you get in line early. I was about 100 back and I arrived 30 minutes before it opened. By the time I left with my five 500g containers of honey, the line was about 200 long behind me. It's the honey made by the bees of the Luxembourg gardens.

I haven't tried it yet, it looks like ordinary honey to me, but I'm sure it is a mixture of all the marvelous plants that I pass by every day.

The Strike

We're always prepared for the worst.

A few years ago, the strikes went on for 10 days or so and it became a little bit old. Normally, the strike lasts for one day and it's over.

Yesterday was the second strike in September. Workers and unions are very unhappy about a number of things, but mostly that the French government is trying to add two years to the retirement age -- from 60 to 62. The system will go broke if everyone continues to live longer and longer but still retire at 60, so something has to be done.

The workers don't think so -- let someone else (maybe their children) pay.

The strike was scheduled to be a big one. The unions always try to make it sound worse than it is (more people demonstrating, etc), the government always tries to downplay it.

Life goes on. The French don't complain very much, even if it their day is disturbed. It's part of life here.

We have learned that sometimes a strike will mess up our day's plans. One time during a strike, we got to the tennis club, played tennis but on the way home (one hour on the metro if there are no problems) the entire metro line was stopped and we had to figure out an alternative to get home, unfortunately carrying all our tennis stuff.

Yesterday we played tennis again. We looked on the RATP website to see which metro lines might be the best to use. We plotted the best route. We left early since tennis courts in Paris are not readily available, if we miss our reservation time, we lose our court.

We got to the first metro, line 12. It arrived in one minute and it was empty. We got to the second stop, ditto. The third line, the same. We arrived 30 minutes early.

The way home was just as easy. We wondered where everyone was. Finally above ground after an easy metro ride, we Rounded the corner and there it was -- a HUGE demonstration. We walked right by it, locked our door and watched it on the news.

A Green Lemon

There are millions of ways to get tripped up in the French language. The most obvious is that all nouns are either masculine or feminine and there are no rules to help out with figuring it out. You must memorize them. What goes along with this is that adjectives must (in most cases, don't ask...) agree with the noun in gender and number. The number is easy, one or more than one.

But, there are many words that we English mother tongue French speakers must watch for and worry about.

Today I sent my sister a postcard with citrus fruit pictures on it and the names of each item. The tricky one in the group is "citron vert" which is a lime. But, the word for it means "green lemon". Purely from the standpoint of taste I know that a lime is not a green lemon. Another crazy one is raisin. In french, that means grapes. Prune means plum. Luckily when I grocery shop I can usually look at the item and figure it out. The only time I have a problem is when I need to ask someone where something is.

Other words that are similar or difficult in the grocery store: poire (pear), poireau(x), leek (note the plural, another difficulty), poivre (pepper), poivron (pepper as in green or red), potiron (pumpkin). I didn't have to search very far in the dictionary to make a great soup (potage).

Les Journeés du Patrimoine

This year's "Heritage Days" in Paris was a big bust for me.

I am the kind of person, I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but it's true, that if I go to a restaurant and find a particular dish that I like, I will order it every time I go back to that restaurant. I often think of the restaurant in terms of that meal. I know it's a little bit limiting but there's nothing worse than taking a risk on a new dish and being disappointed, especially when I could have had the meal I knew would be good.

I guess it's the same thing with activities. In the past, I've gone to the greenhouses at the Luxembourg Gardens first thing on Saturday morning, Day 1 of the Journées du Patrimoine. I don't have to stand in line, I get to look at everything thoroughly and I enjoy this activity.

Terry wanted to break with tradition. We have never seen l'Assemblée Nationale. It is nearby, why not? So, I broke with my Plan A and went with him. I was prepared for the line out front.



Yes, it was cold. Yes, there were a lot of gendarmes, which worried me, because the terror threat is high in France right now. The line moved pretty quickly, no one crowded, pushed or tried to cut in front of us. So far, so good.

We entered the grounds and it was beautiful. The first few rooms we saw were opulent, each one with a theme. Chandeliers were everywhere.

The rooms weren't crowded. We thought we'd gotten lucky. But, it was not meant to be.

About half way through, we were herded into a line, and herded into a garden, single-file. The line didn't move. We were standing on cold cement. We couldn't leave if we wanted to, we were between metal barriers. Maybe it will end soon, we thought. We figured that the line was for the Hemicycle, the debating room.

We plodded along. Smart people brought sandwiches and were munching while in line. We were out of luck. No snacks of any kind. We went on this way for close to an hour, finally got to the debating room. The big hang up was the photo-taking. Every person lingered taking dozens of photos of the interior. And, it is small! We pushed past everyone, raced through the last few rooms which were pedestrian anyway and grabbed the metro back home.

Even though I was tired, I thought I'd make it over to the greenhouses before they closed at 5:30PM. I raced across the Luxembourg Gardens, it was a gorgeous afternoon, with the sun shining through the leaves of the trees. When I got within sight of the greenhouses, I knew I'd made a mistake. The line to enter was huge.

I did not have the patience, tenacity and physical resilience to stand in another long line, I left.

Next year, you will not find me at any monument with a long line, I'll be at the greenhouses when they open to enjoy myself in the way I choose.

A New Market

Our Paris neighborhood is wonderful in many ways. The best part is our proximity to the Luxembourg Gardens, which is less than one block away. When we first moved here, I craved green space and being in nature. Now, I take it for granted, watching the seasons change, the gardeners working and the other joggers every day.

One thing we are lacking is grocery stores. There is a small, dirty Franprix that is about a 5-10 minute walk. The other direction there is a larger one, but it is still fairly small. The best store around is Monoprix, but that is a 15 minute walk to the store and a 20 minute walk (heavy cart) home. So, with the shopping included, I have to allow two hours to go to Monoprix.

After we arrived I needed some things at the store so I decided to go to the larger Franprix on Saturday afternoon. The stores in our area are closed on Sunday, so my motivation was high. Terry went with me to make sure that I bought all the things that he wants that I don't ordinarily buy unless he is there -- juice, cookies, crackers.

Things change in both locations whenever we're gone, even if we're only gone for a few weeks. New neighbors move in, the old ones leave without a trace. Stores go out of business, restaurants are remodeled. The mailman is new.

I'm used to being surprised by new things. As we were walking toward the store, I noticed a sign that I'd never seen before -- G20. That's a grocery store! The front of the store looked small, so I told Terry that we'd go in briefly and if it wasn't any good, we'd just continue on. We have plenty of little stores and "alimentation" places already. But, this is really a grocery store. It's not as big as Monoprix, but it is clean and serviceable and it is one block from our apartment. The employees are nice, helpful, unlike some of the other stores. It is clean and tidy. It has fundamentally everything I need for daily living.

I've already been there twice.

Labor Day Comes Twice A Year

For me, that is...

Labor Day in the US is the same holiday as May Day in France (and most other countries I might add).

This is Labor Day weekend in the US. I'd almost forgotten about it until I tried to drive somewhere around noon yesterday and the street (Sepulveda Blvd) was a parking lot. At first I worried that there was an accident but then it occurred to me that everyone was leaving work early. And at the same time. It's Labor Day weekend in the US.

Typically I am in the US for the summer months.

I try to avoid the major holidays in both the US and France. They all seem to involve crowds, traffic, noisy nights and a general disruption of my life. I am usually successful in missing most of the summer holidays by being strategic when I select my travel dates.

In the US, I miss Memorial Day (traditional start of the Summer) and the Fourth of July (Independence Day). In France I miss le 14 Juillet (la fête nationale) and l'Assomption (August 15).

The only holiday I can't seem to avoid is Labor Day. I'm not ready to miss the last few glorious days of summer in Manhattan Beach to go back to Paris in early September.

I will be staying home this weekend, hoping that it's not too noisy at 2 AM when the bars close.

The irony of this is that Labor Day in France is May 1. I am always in Paris in May.

Nearly all businesses celebrate May Day. Depending on what day of the week it lands, the holiday disruption could go on for days. If it falls on nearly any day but Wednesday, everyone will try to take off the days surrounding the holiday. If May Day is on a Friday, people will take Thursday through Sunday. If it falls on a Tuesday, forget getting anything done from Saturday until Wednesday morning. At least Labor Day in the US is always Monday so that everyone can plan the long weekend consistently.

So, I am unlucky enough to have to endure May Day/Labor Day twice a year. I guess it makes up for all the other holidays I've managed to avoid.

What To Pack

Our Air France flight allows only one checked bag of 23kg or less. We can pay for extra bags, of course. Each extra bag is $55. Bags weighing over 23kg are OK for an extra $110 for each overweight bag. I did the math and decided that it is much cheaper to pack a lot of medium-heavy bags. Our only scale is on the top floor of our house. It is not portable, so I will be banging the suitcases up and down the stairs to make sure they are not overweight. Maybe I should invest in a normal small scale at Target.

I am used to bringing two very large and heavy bags each way. Luckily I brought mostly summer clothes with me. But, there will be new purchases, supplies and gifts to bring. I need my regular luggage allowance.

For awhile, earlier this summer, I'd made a resolution to limit my packing to one 23kg bag. I was optimistic that I could pull this off. I don't need shoes, I have them in Paris. I don't need books, I have a Kindle. I don't need to shop this summer... whoa! I have to draw the line somewhere and this is it.

The fall clothes are just coming out now. It's hard to tell what I will want to wear in November, but I have to try to picture it. The better I am at visualizing myself in the fall, the more shopping I do. The result is that the one bag is now a fantasy that can never be fulfilled.

On The Way To The Cafe Yesterday

When I'm in the US, I try to practice speaking french. It's difficult because there aren't many native french speakers in Southern California. I don't want to practice with other Anglophones because I will pick up their accent (just like mine so that's easy) and reproduce their grammar errors.

An ex-teacher of mine, Nadine, now gives private lessons in a cafe in Redondo Beach. I share the lesson with a fellow french student, Jean. We speak only in french. We enjoy each other's company, share stories and ideas. It is very convivial.

The cafe, the Coffee Cartel has been around forever. Instead of cafe chairs there are big, overstuffed, kinda dirty couches to sit on. There are no servers, you order your drink at the counter and take it to a couch. Most of the people in the cafe are young, tattooed, and using computers. Wifi must be free with the coffee.

This is our meeting place. It's close to the beach, relaxed.

Jean and I carpool to the cafe. We've known each other for a long time but only get together for our lessons even though she lives a few blocks away.

Yesterday she was telling me (in English and French) about her recent trip to Mammoth.

She went with her son's family. During the trip, they visited a ghost town called Bodie. We took the kids there, maybe 25 years ago and I remembered it very well. It is a place that was abandoned when the California Gold Rush ended. There are still bottles in the pharmacy and the saloon, furniture in some of the little houses, it is a snapshot of what life must have been like 150 year ago in California.

As we talked I realized something. While the US has a much shorter history than Europe, we have some very interesting historical events. I'm most familiar with California history. As we drove, we discussed our history. The California missions are wonderful. The Gold Rush, the railroads, the ranchos. I'd forgotten about this until our drive to the cafe.

Margaritas?

It's been sunny and warm in California -- finally -- after six weeks of gloom.

Saturday night called for margaritas after a day at the beach. We bought the ingredients -- that's easy. But, we'd forgotten where are margaritas glasses were stored. It's been ages since we've had margaritas. We're more on the french champagne circuit these days and I know instantly where the champagne glasses are.

A trip to the garage was needed. I keep many of our older glasses stored in boxes in our storage room. I went through box after box and finally found the margarita glass box, buried about six deep.

I brought the box upstairs and started to unwrap the contents. Eventually I found three of one kind and two of another. At some point in the past, we must have broken a lot of margarita glasses. As I took them out of the newspaper they were wrapped in, I looked at the date on the yellowed LA Times pages. Evidently the last time we used these margarita glasses was in 1993 and 1994. Could it be possible that we haven't made a margarita since then?

How Do The Pros Do It?

Changing locations involves a lot more than packing a suitcase and canceling the newspaper. We are constantly adjusting. Food, language, activities all differ. Even the time of day when we do things is different. In the US, we eat dinner earlier. Errands take much longer in France. We just adjust.

One of the things that is the hardest to adjust to is the different types of tennis courts. In Manhattan Beach, we only have hard tennis courts. It's what we learned to play tennis on. This type of court is faster (the ball hits the ground and then comes up faster and usually lower), it is usually green. In France the courts are usually red clay although we've seen a variety of other types of courts, usually in a public park. Red clay is very gentle on the body, the ball bounces up higher, giving you more time to plan your attack. But hitting it really hard doesn't insure that the other person won't get it because the court slows it down.

Every time we change locations, we have to figure out how to play tennis all over again. We look like beginners the first couple of times we play in each location, slashing at the ball, overrunning it (running past it), actually swinging and missing. You have to hope no one's watching when that happens.

It's also easier to fall down on the red clay because it is slippery. But if you fall you don't get hurt, where if you fall on a hard court (cement) it will definately hurt.

Tennis pros play on all kinds of surfaces and seem to be able to play on anything. I watch the players week after week, on grass, on hard courts on clay. They always play well, they never swing and miss. How do they do it?

Health Insurance

We had hoped that Obama's healthcare reform would help us with our health insurance needs. Every year, the premium goes up and the coverage decreases. It's now to the point where we might be better off having only the most catastrophic coverage since we spend more in premiums than we ever incur in actual medical costs. This is combined with the need to have a second policy for France. Our US policies don't cover us outside the US.

We've been buying French insurance for a few years that covers the essentials for our trips. We've actually had to use it once, but, again, the premium costs exceed any medical costs that we've incurred.

So, I'm in the process of looking at the whole thing from a different point of view. Knowing that we need insurance in both places doesn't mean that we have to continue doing the same old thing. I'm investigating worldwide coverage through the insurer who has done our travel health in the past.

This is a lot of work, though. Analyzing co-pays, maximum lifetimes, exclusions, pre-existing conditions...It's all so complicated.

This has been on my desk for almost two weeks and I"m almost ready to take the step toward paying much less money to Anthem. I'll still be covered, but only for a REAL illness, not the everyday visit to the doctor for a sore throat. Typically I don't go to the doctor for that anyway. We'll see.

The Getaway

We did not have a smooth getaway yesterday. As usual, the unexpected happened. Again and again. I didn't breathe a sign of relief until we locked the front door last night.

It all started first thing. When we called for a cab, we were told that none were available between 7 AM and 10 AM. Hmmm. They would book our reservation but nothing was guaranteed. Having no other way to the airport, we decided to take our chances.

Our bags were packed and we headed out the door about 30 minutes early, leaving in plenty of time. When we pushed the button for the elevator (lots of heavy bags), nothing happened. The elevator is fairly new, maybe five years old and it has never been broken. But, it wasn't coming. Terry rushed up the stairs to find our guardienne, Maria, huddled on the floor of the elevator. It is glass so he could see her. She said that she'd been stuck for over an hour between floors. Yikes! So, we dashed down the stairs and started pulling the suitcases down, one at a time.

As we got outside with the first load, we saw the elevator repairman going up the stairs. He said he'd have it fixed quickly. Sure enough, in five minutes, Maria came running down the stairs, mumbling in Portuguese but smiling. Crisis solved.

So, I jumped in the elevator with one suitcase, pused the "0" buttom, the elevator started to go down, then with a clang, it stopped between floors.

One more detail, at 9 AM, it was already about 90 degrees and humid.

I yelled at the repairman who yelled back not to get in the elevator, it's not fixed. DAH! I said I was stuck. Eventually, the elevator started to move up. It stopped on the 5th floor and the elevator repair guy started to yell at me, but I grabbed the suitcase, now having to pull it down five flights of stairs.

We got all the bags onto the sidewalk. We have a one-lane, one-way street. Just then, a huge truck pulled in front of our building and stopped, put on his blinkers and the driver jumped out. Terry went and yelled at him to move the truck, as did a guardienne from another building. He wasn't moving it. Now the cab can't/won't get down the street to us.

Panic averted as the cab came, put our stuff in the car, the truck moved and we were off.

The autoroute was a mess and it took more than an hour to get to the airport. We got there, found the line to check in and it was about 100 people long. We waited, no movement. There were two people working behind the counter, there were loads of people, wheelchairs, luggage. Everyone is going somewhere. Or nowhere.

We changed lines, thinking we'd found a better one, but no luck, two workers, big problems. We eventually got through it, got to security. We'd left three hours at the airport and now we had one hour left before our flight left. I put all my stuff into the plastic bins, went through without a beep but then a woman looking at the stuff in the machine told me to send my bag through again. I started to take it back and a guy barred my way. One woman told me to stay, the other one told me I hadn't passed. We went back and forth about four or five times before they finally let me take the bag back, take more things out of it and then pass through again. I must look suspicious (probably because I was so sweaty from all the commotion) because then they really searched me thoroughly.

We passed, hit the terminal. Inside, it was about 100 degrees, but our flight would be leaving soon. We thought.

The plane was supposed to board at 12:45 but at 12:40 they said that there was a delay, it would board at 1 PM. This went on, in 15 minute increments for two hours. In the heat for two hours, waiting for the plane to board. Luckily we'd grabbed a snack because the 1:30 flight didn't take off until almost 4 PM.

In the air, our luck of the day was consistent. A woman with three children sat one row away. The entire flight, they all yelled at each other, trashed the entire area and the baby cried.

We got all our suitcases, so that's a relief, but the Immigration Officer flagged our Customs Declaration with a BIG BLUE "A". We didn't know what that meant, but it means "agriculture". We'd need to have our bags checked for contraband food. This last drama of the day involved the only nice person along the way. He kiddingly told us that if we had any contraband from France (the usual pate, cheese, etc) we should dump it now. We didn't, our bags passed and we were free from this horrible day.

Regime

These happy women have been dancing in the Luxembourg Gardens for several weeks now. I went this morning to visit them and try to take a better photo, but the workers were taking them away.

They are happy, joyous and beautiful. They are alive with action. They are naked. (Remember this is France).

The best thing about them is that they're not afraid to show their "stuff". And, there's a lot of it. Bellies, boobs, butts. All beautiful, curvey, voluptuous. Womanly.

But, not our culture's ideal. (... meaning both the US and France). In both countries, thin is the standard. Young is also good. I even think that thin women, as a general rule, look better and healthier, their clothes certainly fit better.

So why didn't the artist create a sculpture with thin women dancing? I can only guess.

I personally don't think this would be as interesting or as beautiful if there were runway models depicted in this dance.

But, this brings up the topic that's ever-present, in every ad and pharmacie window right now, probably on most people's mind -- weight loss or body improvement.

There are tons of products in pharmacies in France for cellulite, stomach fat, dieting. The push is on to look less like these women as we pull out our bathing suits and head for the beach.

Reporter Sans Frontieres

Out with my iPHONE for my morning exercise in the Luxembourg Gardens, I came across this scene. I feel like a reporter myself sometimes. When I see something newsworthy, I try to capture it. It seems like every day something is going on here on the blvd. St Michel side of the "jardin".

Today, a group of reporters were out to bring awareness to the issue of reporters who have been captured and held hostage for political purposes. Some have been held for a long time.

I think this will be on the news tonight, as there were several camera crews capturing this.



I feel like a reporter sans frontieres myself, equipped with my iPHONE and ready for whatever is happening.