Long time, no blog... what gives?

Hard to say where the time goes lately. Not too long ago, it seemed like I could while away the hours, alone in my room, blogging to my heart's content. Not much to talk about other than my introspective flights of fancy, but it was quiet.

Things have changed.

Ceil and the kids are great -- the effects of jet lag have subsided, so now we're casting about for other explanations of the craziness our kids treat us to each day. In the mornings, Lee and Ceil usually accompany me to breakfast and bid me good-bye by 7:30a. Miles arises at a more gentlemanly hour... as in "whenever the gentleman damn well pleases."

On most days, there is a morning outing, a lunch outing and an afternoon outing. According to the minutes of the Erickson Family Grievance Committee, two thirds of the participants on these outings describe the extent of travel by foot to be "ungodly", "inhumane", and "this sucks."

I strive to be home by 6:30p or so. On most nights, Lee runs into my arms, squealing "Daddy!" On other nights, Lee runs into my arms, crying "Mommy's so mean!" In both cases, there follows thirty minutes of debriefing on the days events and a discussion of where to eat the evening meal. We head out the door by 7:15p ("do we have to walk?! Daddy, can I have a piggy-back? Let's go to wherever is closest....")

Last week we had a great dinner at La Guillotin with our friend Eric VanAvery -- he joined our team recently, though his luggage has had second thoughts and pursued a career with British Airways at Heathrow Airport.

On Friday last, we met up with Dan Freeman and his wife and three kids. Dan leads one of the other "seat supplier support teams". The kids enjoyed one another’s company very much, and it was great to hear about Dan's trials and tribulations where he is working. One visual image to share: Dan and I go to the same gym-- we're each well over six foot and one-hundred and eighty five pounds... well over. Any way, when the time comes to collect the bill after dinner, we agreed to split the tab, and the two of us walked from the patio into the restaurant to find the waiter. The look on the maitre-de's face was priceless -- 600 lbs of corn-fed American beef, looming in his doorway, come to force our weird credit cards with the magnetic stripes upon him. Truly, he "turned a whiter shade of pale."

An update on the school, the house and the car
After visiting half a dozen different places, and thanks to the tireless efforts of Anne Marie Cruzet, we’ve finally settled on a place to rent for the remainder of our stay. Rather than rent a house in-town, within walking distance of school (and which we would need to furnish), we’ve decided to rent a gîte, or vacation home, on the outskirts of Chateauroux. Like many gîtes, this is a good sized house which situated along-side a positively enormous house – e.g. a castle or chateau. In our case, the chateau in question was once a hunting lodge for the local royal personage, and perhaps the house we’re renting was used by the chambermaids… six bedrooms, a large kitchen, fireplaces, and acres and acres of farm-land on all sides.

Late last week we learned that the school we had hoped to send the kids to was not interested in accepting them – understandable, perhaps. I can imagine that a kid who understands nary a word of French could be a distraction or disruption to a class.

We fretted about this over the weekend, but as with so many other things, it’s all working out for the best. Anne Marie has spoken to the director of the school her daughter attends and found a place for Miles – this is a very progressive school with an excellent reputation – and it promotes a “European classroom”, welcoming non-French-speakers from all over.

This leaves Lee out in the cold, a bit, but the French public schools are obliged to accept any student who applies, and Anne Marie contacted the ecole closest to the school Miles will attend. They said they would be happy to have Lee, but suggested we check out another place, not far away, which specializes in teaching French to young non-natives. Still more to be learned in the coming days, but we’re feeling optimistic again.

By the way, if you’re the praying type, please say a prayer of gratitude for Anne Marie and Jerome Cruzet, on our behalf. They have worked tirelessly to help us find a place to live, and a school for the kids. I cannot imagine how this all would have happened were it not for their unrelenting support.

And so, it seems that before school begins next Monday (mon Dieu), we will have set up housekeeping in Arcton, France and Ceil will be driving the kids into Chateauroux for school each morning. Which brings us to the question of a car for Ceil. We could rent one, but that's pretty spendy, so my next big adventure will be leasing a car in France. (Which, by the way, was the working title for an attraction Disney considered for inclusion in Epcot Center some years ago.)

More to follow. Stay tuned.

Twenty Questions with Lee, Miles and Ceil

Question #1) You’ve been in France for 24 hours or so… what’s your favorite part, so far?

Lee: Pipe and A… what’s it called?... Pat á Pain… it’s a bakery where they have croissants… we’ve been there two times already.

Miles: Ummm…. My favorite? Probably the… [yawn]… hmm… I don’t know… [yawn]

Ceil: I love walking on the cobblestone streets and all the nooks and crannies in the town… I enjoyed the petit train and how enormous the Cathedral… it’s so big… the colors in the stained glass are amazing… it makes you wonder about how they built it.

Miles: Um…. The trolley? No… pain chocolate… yeah.

Ceil: Maxi pain chocolate.


Question #2) Anything surprise you?

Miles: Ummm…. [yawn]… ummm… no.

Ceil: The banks are closed on Monday! Most of the stores are all locked up. And I don’t know any French.

Lee: Two things – The hotel doesn’t have a swimming pool, we don’t drive anywhere, and there are only two rooms in our hotel room.

Miles: Of course there’re only two rooms – what else would there be, Lee?

Lee: I’m thinking… don’t type yet… ummm… I can’t think or remember what the other hotels look like.

Question #3) What’s the biggest differences between Bourges and Seattle?

Ceil: Windy cobblestone roads, narrow… huge Cathedral right in the city center.

Lee: I’m hungry.

Ceil: You want some Wheat Thins?

Lee: No…. I want some water.

Miles: Ummm… in Bourges there’s no really tall buildings; there’s no [yawn], there’s no, like, tall apartments. Mmm.. [yawn]

Ceil: I like the way the red wine tastes… I had fun drinking red wine last night and tonight.

Question #4) Sounds like you’re sleepy… how’d you sleep last night?

Miles: Not too well. I fell asleep at 3am.

Ceil: … and then you slept ‘til noon!

Miles: No… it was eleven.

Ceil: I’m tired now.

Miles: I’m a little tired.

Question #5) How was the flight?

Ceil: Flight was amazing… great food and service. It went by quick

Miles: No it didn’t

Ceil: Lee slept.

Miles: It didn’t go by quick

Ceil: I thought it did

Miles: You’re just saying that so more people will come and visit us.

Miles, How’d the flight go for you?

Miles: it was good… they have cool little tv-like things that had games on the,m

Lee, how about you?

Lee: it was long.

Question #6) Is there anything you’re missing about Seattle?

Ceil: no, not yet.

Miles: Ummm…. [yawn]… seeing my friends… [leaves room to brush teeth]

Ceil: [yawn]

Lee: My friends, my house, my cat. Hang on… [leaves room to hit Miles with a pillow. A brief altercation ensues… Lee returns, victorious.]

Question #7) What did you do today?

Lee: we WALKED and I don’t like walking. I changed all my backgrounds on the computers… Mommy, come lay on me.

Ceil: [Lays on Lee] We [yawn] slept in, we showered and then set out on an adventure… and wound up at Pait a Pain! But we had jambon et buerre, and more Orangina. We went to a patisserie… but ordered the same favorites… croissants and pain chocolat.

Miles: We went on a trolley.

Ceil: We went on the train that Andy snubbed. It was a wonderful introduction to the history of Bourges. We loved it.

I heard that you all fell asleep.

Ceil: Yes… it was an hour ride, after a long lunch – we finished lunch at 1pm and the next ride was 2:15p so we played in the park, and got on the train at 2:15. We answered all the train driver’s questions in French. We got our headphones, got situated and we were ready to go. The trolley was full.

And… you fell asleep?

Ceil: and we saw… what did we learn, Miles?

Miles: There was a fire in 1949 and it was called Madeline because it happened on Madeline Day…

Ceil: It wasn’t 1949… wasn’t it 1449?

Miles: Whatever.

And the sleep?

Ceil: Well we did fall asleep around 3p or so. The kids were leaning on me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

Miles: I had my head on your shoulder because I was trying to look out the window.

Ceil: and then we had a long walk home which picked us up. No naps for us. I watched the last 20 minutes of “Ya Ya Sisterhood” in French on TV. I understood the word “ya ya” – that was it. And then I went for a walk – I wanted to go to the bank to exchange money. That’s what the hotel recommended. But they were closed.

Question #8) Any plans for tomorrow?

Ceil: Go back on the trolley? Get up in tome for breakfast. Walk in the gardens and explore the other side of town. We’re going to go to a new place for lunch. We’re looking forward to going to look at houses in Chateaurôux tomorrow night.

Miles, what are your plans for tomorrow

Miles: wake up at a reasonable time… that’s my goal.

What’s reasonable?

Miles: 8am… not twelve thirty.

[Interview draws to a close when the interviewer learns that Lee is hiding in the closet, reportedly, in tears. Hmmm….]

Ceil and the Kids Arrive in France

Sunday, August 20
Ceil and the kids arrived in Paris at 7:30am this morning.

I left Bourges around 4:30am to drive up to meet them at Charles de Gaulle. This is a ghost town at 3pm on a Sunday, so my chances of getting a coffee before 5am were nil. I discovered, however, that the gas stations along the highway are a) open 24 hours, and b) include small convenience stores, and c) at least, in the case of the rest area just outside of Bourges, offer fresh baked breads, croissants and excellent espresso. Heavenly.

Charles de Gaulle airport is huge but the short-term parking is right up close. I ran inside just at 7:30a and was distressed to see the reader board indicating the flight from JFK had already landed. Had I missed them?

I waited outside the international baggage claim area for about 30 minutes, worrying that they had already exited and were wandering around the airport, but at last, here comes a little girl I recognize, peeking around the corner. I wish I had captured a better picture of her smile as she saw me – it showed a mixture of happiness, relief and, I think a twinge of the sadness she felt while I was away.

We waited around a bit to connect with a co-worker of mine who had asked me to bring up a few items he had forgotten in Bourges. While we waited, the kids each took turns bubbling over with stories from their time in NY, or at summer camp before leaving Seattle. And then into the car and off for the long drive “home” to Bourges.

Miles was the first to fall asleep, and Lee fought it for quite awhile before surrendering. We arrived at the hotel before our rooms were ready, so we drove around for 45 minutes or so – I gave Ceil a wonderful, narrated tour, ceasing only when I realized she was fast asleep too, her chin in her chest.

Reunited with my family, driving around Bourges, listening to their breating as they sleep. What a great Sunday afternoon.

Once we got in the room, we all took long naps. We headed out for the first of many walking tours around 4pm or so, and had a very successful dinner at La Scala.

Lee watched me intently as I spoke to the waiters in French. “Was that hard?” she asked, after the waiter walked away with our order. No amount of coaxing could get her to say a word, French or English, to the staff at the restaurant or hotel.

We finished the night with a visit to the Cathedral and a walk along two or three stops on the “path of lights”.

The first night was a blur, with the kids shuttling from one bed to the next – usually pushing Ceil out of their desired spot. As usual, I put my ear plugs in and slept through the worst of it.

Day one…finis. 

Notes and updates -- Saturday Aug 19

Ceil and the Kids
By all accounts, Ceil and the kids have had a terrific week with the clan back in NY. Lots of visits to the beach, last minute shopping for clothes, playing with cousins and meals with family. Ceil sounds very relaxed and the kids are bubbling over when I speak to them on the phone. They've taken lots of pictures and we'll be sure to post them here.

The family boards a plane tonight -- 6pm or so, eastern time -- and lands tomorrow morning at Charles de Gaulle around 7:30am. Writing this makes me think that I better research this a bit more closely this afternoon! The recent security concerns have caused some uncertainty for Ceil over what she can and cannot "carry-on", but but everything I've heard from the other folks traveling to and from the US this week indicates that if you're flying directly to France, there at not too many problems -- woe, though, to those who have connections at Heathrow.

I plan to get up early tomorrow morning and drive to Paris to meet Ceil and the kids. I know they're bringing six suitcases between them, and I don't have a clear picture yet of how all that stuff will fit in the car. I considered taking the train up and back, but that would require taxis from CdG to the station -- more hassle than it's worth, I think.

The folks at the hotel have been very accomodating, reserving two adjoining rooms for us through early September. Ceil has talked about she and the kids enjoying "hotel living" before we get situated in a house. I've bit my tongue (or tried, anyway) when she says this. Indeed, this hotel is one of the nicest I've ever stayed in, but there is precious little room on either side of the bed; limited storage for clothes (let alone suitcases); and watching television (always a part of our hotel retreats in Portland, etc.) gets old pretty quick when you don't understand what's being said; pools and exercise rooms are not common in French hotels (or so it seems -- anyway they don't have any at this hotel) and the room service comes from the three-star restaurant -- chicken nuggets and mini-pizzas are not an option.

Anyway, after three weeks, this is beginning to feel like a guilded jailhouse -- but I must allow Ceila and the kids time and space to form their own impressions.

Along a similar vein, I've been composing lists of things Ceil can do with the kids when they arrive -- a daily scavenger hunt, a list of places to go, things to eat, etc. I've assumed they're going to be bored here, but Ceil sees it differently. What do you know: seven thousand miles from home and I'm still struggling with attachment to ideas and plans, and still tripping over myself to let Ceil have her attachments and plans even if they're different from mine. It's like someone once said, "Whereever you go, there you are." Indeed.


House hunting:
Jerome and Anne Marie have continued their Herculean efforts to help us secure lodging in Chateauroux. It's proven a bit more difficult than they / we initially hoped -- some of the owners are reluctant to rent their place out for only six months; other places turned out to be less furnished than we thought. I'm willing to buy some simple furniture, especially if we can ship it home at the end of our stay, but outfitting a kitchen seems like a bad idea.

I'm going to Chateauroux this afternoon to meet with Jereome and Anne Marie, and visit a couple of places she has leads on. More to follow when I return.

Banking:
Success... but the mills grind slowly: on Wednesday, my bank account was officially opened, but it'll take another ten days or so for the Bank of France to process the paperwork necessary to print checks for us... same goes for the Carte Bleu.

Carte Bleu is a ubiquitous "cash card" her in France -- it seems to be accepted virtually everywhere. Unlike US credit cards, it relies on a small chip, rather than a magnetic stripe. When you make a purchase, the merchant inserts the card in their register and you enter a PIN -- not unlike using an ATM card at the supermarket.

I'm looking forward to having this because our corportate Citibank credit cards have proven unreliable -- a couple of merchants have flat out refused to work with a card with a mag strip on the back, and in several other establishments, they've struggled to get the mag strip to work. Add to that some complications we've had with Citibank -- they de-authorized my card when they had a piece of mail sent to me returned to them with a change of address notice, and just this week, they turned the card off again when someone in the fraud division decided that charges in France might indicate that the card had been stolen (this, despite the call I made to them before I left home).

I forget who warned me to always carry sufficient cash to cover any credit card purchase I might make, but that's been terrific advice.

Reading
I've been making my way through the bi-lingual / english shelf of a book store here in France. The selection is limited -- either pulpy, mystery novels or "classics". I've stuck to the latter: Hemmingway's Snows of Mount Kilamanjaro, and The Old Man and the Sea; a book of short stories by Ray Bradbury; The Man with the Twisted Lip and other Sherlock Holmes stories by Conan Doyle (??? is that right???). Right now, I'm enjoying (sort of) Phillip Roth's Everyman.

The change in my perspective is evident in my reaction to each of the books: I pick up on themes I might not have noticed six months ago -- outsider-liness, personal courage and interior fortitude, etc. That last sentence sounds ominous -- but please don't take it that way. I'm not feeling lonely, but I'm beginning to have a different understanding of ways in which one can be alone.

Music
My iPod has been a blessing, but I'm running out of Podcasts. I have yet to have success downloading new Podcasts from iTunes -- the connection times out before a 30 min segment of NPR can be pulled across. Perhaps they have an international site I should be connecting to.

By my estimation, the hotel has three CDs in their changer -- and I am getting damn tired of the same caterwauling chanteuse seranading me during breakfast each morning -- if I hear her nasal interpretation of "Put a Little Sugar In My Bowl" once more, I cannot be accountable for my actions...

Sports on TV
I've been pleased to turn on the tv on a few occaisions and find extensive coverage of rugby, track and field, and of course, soccer. I've also enjoyed watching bull-fights on Sunday evenings. One of the programs I caught last Sunday followed the bulls from the farm, onto trucks, into holding pens t the arena, and then showed four fights. It was amazing -- the styles of the four matadors were very distinctive, and with so much Hemmingway swirling around in my head, I could easily see the appeal of this sport / spectacle.

I hasten to add that although they showed the bull being killed, they did not include footage of what happened after it was dead. For that, I had to go to another station which was televising what I assume were less experienced matadors fighting much smaller bulls. That program showed the matadors cutting off the bulls ears before the carcasses were dragged from the ring by a team of horses.

Anyway, it was mesmerizing, and despite my better judgement, I have an urge to share it with the kids.

Food
This just in: they have good food in France.

Last night I dined alone (a guilty pleasure). I decided to explore a different part of town, and went into the smallest, most French-looking place I could find. I'm learning to order le plat du jour at lunch (whatever it is... bring it on), and le menu at dinner (usually a three or four course affair). It's much more expensive to order a la carte (individual items off the menu). I am clueless about which wines to select, and generally I ask for the house wine.

Last night, my meal began with an apperatiff -- a small glass of a light, sweet wine from Sancerre and a small plate of hor d'heurves (pate spread on small pieces of bread, topped with a slice of pickle); the salade was amazing -- greens topped with two kinds of ham, served warm, a pat of goat cheese which had been breaded and fried, pieces of potatoes, tomatoes and a boiled egg. Did I mention that it was amazing? The main course was d'agneau (lamb) with frites and a saute of onions and celery.

I don't have the words in English, much less French, to describe the tastes -- for whatever reason though, each item was memorable for me.

Dessert was a apple something-something with a scoop of ice-cream. And, of course, you finish the meal with un cafe -- an espresso. Mind you, I had to say no thank you to the cheese course and a digestiff (after dinner cocktail).

I was at the restaurant for 90 minutes or more (a sprint, by French standards, but an eternity compared the the way I eat at home). My bill came to 33 euros -- about 40 dollars. I bet the same meal would have been twice as much back in the states.

Excuse me for a moment... "Georgia on My Mind" has just come on the hotel sound system. Give me a moment to go pull a fire-axe off the wall... I'll be right back...

Finishing up before the police arrive
Ok, folks, enough for now. I've got more to say, but I'll leave it for later.

Hope you're all well.

Peace.

A Walk Through Bourges (pt 1)

Tuesday, August 15:
Today is a holiday in France – the feast of the Assumption of Mary. This being a Tuesday, and August to boot, this is essentially a four-day weekend for most folks. Knowing that shops and museums would be closed, I decided to spend the day walking around town playing the tourist and snapping pictures.

Cue the Mr. Roger’s music – “Care to join me on my walk? C’mon along, kids.”

Before we get started: keep an eye out for the dog poop. It’s everywhere: big, huge steaming land-mines, lurking on almost every block. Apparently, the notion of picking up your dog’s still-warm dung and carrying it home in a plastic bag strikes the French as unappealing, (go figure) and by the look of their droppings, most of the dogs are the size of small horses. Anyway, keep your eyes peeled.

I’ve been surprised by the number of dogs I see around town – although may that’s not it. I’m surprised less by the number of dogs than I am by the fact that folks bring them into stores, restaurants, hotels, etc. When I first arrived, I would do a double-take whenever I saw a pooch lying under a table at a restaurant. No more.

I’ve had a similar reaction to the cigarette smoke. I won’t say there are many more smokers, but they are more prevalent – restaurants have no smoking areas, but most places still reek of smoke: ash trays every where you look in the hotel, clouds billowing out of bars and cafés.

It makes me think we’ve banished dogs and cigarettes from society in the US: walk / smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em, but the rest of us don’t want to see it!

I love the name of this place: Speed Rabbit Pizza. I picture a bunch of really skinny, twitchy guys working there, biting their fingernails close and pacing while they wait for the pizzas to come out of the oven:

Guy 1: “C’mon man, let’s open it, I think it’s done.”
Guy 2: “BE COOL man! It’s not done yet!”
Guy 1: “C’mon man, I KNOW it’s done… just let’s open it!”
Guy 2: "Dude, you need to chill..."
Guy 1: "C'mon man, let's just check!!"

Here’s the competition, down the street. Yep: Domino's Pizza. God bless America.

Both places deliver the pizzas in hot-boxes on the back of the scooters you see in the foreground. These little two-stroke contraptions are the bane of my existence – the whine of their engines is everywhere, interrupting your thoughts and conversations. Motor cycles, too. Apparently, mufflers have yet to be introduced over here.

Anyway, for the rest of this tour, you can play along and imagine someone walking by with a leaf-blower or weed-whacker every four or five minutes. That’ll capture the ambience

Here’s a better alternative for pizza: La Scala. Natalie is the head waitress and she’s very nice but not a word of English. There’s another guy who’s very friendly – he may be the manager or something. But look out for the olive-skinned girl with jet-black hair and dark eyes. She is “too cool for school” and definitely can’t be bothered to help you sort through your French – so she just stands there, staring at you impassively, as you fumble through your order. Makes you realize how much we rely on the feedback we get through the facial expressions of others – and she’s not playing.

You can sit out in front of La Scala most nights, but be warned, it shares the square with Domino’s and Speed Rabbit is just down the street. By the end of the salad course, you may find yourself fantasizing about stringing piano wire across the street… right about chest high…

Next stop: Le Palace de Jacques Coeur. I’ll be honest here – I have no clue who this guy was. I think he was a successful merchant in the 1400’s who loaned some money to the king, and then the king decided to throw him in jail instead of paying him back. There may have been woman involved, I’m not sure. Anyway, the guy died five or six hundred years ago and he’s still the biggest thing going in this part of France. Everywhere you go: Le Place de Jacques Coeur; the Rue de Jacques Coeur, la Video Rental de Jacques Coeur.

I’ve never spent any time in Boston, but I bet there’re signs all over town: Paul Revere worked here; Paul Revere lived here; Paul Revere was born here; Paul Revere spilled a glass of wine on a guy here, and the guy was pissed, but got over it when he realized it was Paul Revere. It’s the same thing with Jacques Coeur.

Here's Jaques Couer's house. I'm told that he spent many years building this, but got thrown in jail just as it was being completed... never got to live there.

I was going to go inside, but just before I bought a ticket (7 euros, I think), I could see through one of the windows that they're in the middle of a big re-model, and most of the interior court-yard was wrapped in tarps -- maybe they're sand-blasting.

So, Jaques Couer didn't get to enjoy the place, and nor did I. But at least we can keep walking.

Let's move along, shall we? Mind your step.

This is Pat à Pain – I think that means Hunk ‘o Bread in French. It’s one of the few chain restaurants I’ve seen in France: there are several around Bourges, and I've seen them in other towns too. Unlike most places, Pat à Pain is open on Sundays, and Monday mornings when most French shops are closed. Pat à Pain is a bakery but they also serve sandwiches, coffee and salads. It lacks any sort of authentic French charm-- you might as well be eating in a Burger King -- and they fact that they're open on a holiday like today seems a touch shocking -- a capitalist intrusion on this socialist / agricultural environ.

I recommend the jambon et beurre. Just so we're clear -- that means "ham and butter". Didn't sound so good to me at first, either. But try it. I've always thought the ideal sandwich came stacked high with lots of meat -- thick, two-handed numbers like the kind they serve at the Carnegie Deli in NYC. But this is a different kind of sandwich -- only three or four slices of ham on the entire baguette, and a bit of butter. That's it. And it's ambrosia. I mean: out-of-this-world, never-want-another-kind-of-sandwich, bury-me-with-one-of-these-in-my-casket good. Of course, my old shoe-laces would go down easy on fresh-baked bread, but the ham in France is especially good. Already, I know, this is one of the things I'll miss about France when I get home.

A Walk Through Bourges (pt 2)

[Note: I wrote this material last Tuesday, but I’ve had difficulties posting it – not sure what the problem is, but at this point I’m grasping at straws – so, I’m dividing this post in halves. What follows is Part Deux]

These narrow, twisting cobblestone streets are a constant reminder that "we're not in Kansas anymore" -- but it makes your heart jump when you see a car barreling down at you. Grab some stone and make yourself skinny while this guy in the Puegot squeezes past.

I'm also charmed by the alley-ways or passages between some streets -- very quaint, but my friend Daniel explained that the French word for these sorts of stairways is the same as the French word for "broken neck". I don't doubt it.

If you get weary of walking, or if you're hankering for a tour guide who actually knows something about this town, think about hopping a ride on le petit train. Many towns in France have these things -- they remind me of our "Ride the Duck" concessions.

For five or six euros, you get a 1 hour ride around town, with recorded narration available in eight different languages. Personally, I'm far too cool to be caught dead in such a droll, touristy contraption, but you go ahead. I'll wait here and scrape some of the dog poop off my shoes.

Well look, it's getting late and I know you haven't shown you very much, but the bars in France start serving beer first thing in the morning and all this walking around is making me mighty thirsty, so let's make one more stop and call it a day.

Ok, so let me just throw some pictures at you -- kind of the way I first saw it. You know, you say to yourself, "wow, look at that... yeah, amazing, un-hunh, really old, lots of carving... mm-hmm." Or at least, that's what I said...





Ok... so now let's step back a bit... there's a lovely garden just to the south of the cathedral and it offers a terrific view of the whole thing. And it was this view-- in fact, it was the third or forth time looking at the Cathedral from this spot when the enormity of the structure, and moreover, the enormity of the effort it took to build this thing -- the utterly incomprehensible scale of time, labor, lives which went into constructing this -- it all sank in suddenly and it was as if I saw it for the first time.


So now I'm all "awed" out. Can we go for a beer now? Say, on the way, let's "window shop" for an apartment. This is an immoblier -- a real estate agent. Most places show places a vendre -- for sale, but there are a few that have apartments a louer. We're on the lookout for a T4 with cuisine euippee en centre ville.

There are dozens of choices for beer and/or lunch. Cujas is pretty famous, I guess-- maybe like the J&M or Doc Maynard's back in Seattle... except that Mr. Cujas was probably selling beer here before white-folk had arrived in what we now call Pioneer Square. Let's have a beer and think about that.

This is another good spot -- La Guillotin. Actually, it's better for dinner. They have a grill right out there in the main dining room and they do a terrific lamb chop. Fair warning though: if you're going to order beef, you better know the words for "well done" (bien cuit)... the French prefer their steaks on the rare (e.g. still mooing) side. I was in the Guillotin the other night without my French dictionary, and the wait staff and I had a terrible time communicating. Finally, I threw up my hands and said, "Comme votre plasir." As you please... Well they "please" to have their steaks cold and blue in the middle. Very discouraging.

All-righty. Thanks for taking this quick walk. It's taken me longer to type this thing than it did to actually go out in the world and snap these pictures!

Thanks too for all the comments you've been sending me. I finally got re-connected to my Comcast email account, and I'd love to hear from each and everyone of you.

Peace.

An Abbot and Costello Moment

I’ve been struggling with the word une recently. Une. One. Not two or three. Une. Say it with me: une.

On Sunday, I went into a busy bakery and asked for “une piece de pizza” (one piece of pizza). The young girl looked at me warmly and repeated, “Deux?” (two)

“Non, une, sil vous plait,” I said.

“Deux?” came the response.

This time, with my thumb extended: “Je regrete – UNE piece de pizza.”

“Ah, oui: une. Bien sur monsieur” as she went to get my pizza.

I stood there, somewhat shaken. What was I doing wrong? I thought I had this kind of thing sorted out by now.

Fifteen minutes later, after eating my une piece, I decided that deux would have been a good idea, as I was still hungry and dinner was a long time away… maybe that’s what was going on: she was recommending I have two pieces… or maybe they’re on sale and she’s offering me two for the price of one. No matter… I go back for seconds. I have to wait on line, and as I justle to maintain my position, I try to time it so that the same girl will help me again – she seemed sympathetic and surely, by now, we understand one another.

“Une plus piece to pizza, sil vous plait.”

“Oui, monsierur, deux.”

Breaking out my trusty thumb earlier this time, and with my voice raised in exasperation, “Non, non, non… sil vous plait, ma accent c’est tres mal: UNE piece”

“Oui, monsieur”, though from the look on her face, I could tell she was thinking, “Oui, large, crazy person who will be leaving my store soon, I hope.”

I’m as shaken as she is. Grinning broadly, I think to myself: Gimme my g—d--mn pizza, lady, and quit messing with the helpless foreigners.

So… fast forward a day: I leave work around 5:45p or so on Monday, and stop in at a grocery store on the way to the hotel… a picnic in my room tonight: baguette, terrine, goat cheese, and mineral water.

I stride confidently to the bakery counter: “Une baguette, sil vous plait.”

“Oui, monsieur, une euro vignt-cinq” (One euro, twenty five cents.)

That’s quite a bit – in the boulangerie baguettes are usually seventy or eighty cents. The mystery is resolved when I hand the lady my change and she gives me back two g—d—m baguettes.

Deep breath. Fine. It’s not worth the coins for me to try and sort this out. I’ll take the two loaves and go. Deep breath. What is the problem? I talk to myself, aloud, all the way back to the hotel: “Une baguette, sil vous plait. Une. Je voudrais UNE baguette. Une. Une. Une. Une bier; une voiture; une marché. Pas deux: UNE. Trois c’est trop de baguette – UNE. Soulement UNE. Une.”

This morning, confidence renewed, I head out early and stop in the café down the street for a quick espresso: “Une café, madame.”

“Deux, monsieur?”

I snap. “Non, UNE.” Thumb up.

As she’s making my coffee, I say alound, though mostly to myself, for lord knows that no one else seems to hear me very well: "Je ne comprends pas. Je dit une. Tout le monde responde: deux. Qu-est-ce c’est le problem?” (I don’t understand. I say: one. All the world replies: two? What’s the problem?

The lady returns with my coffee says, “Ah monsieur, vous parlez tres bien le francais.” (You speak French very well.)

Yeah, right. Except for une.

Posting pictures... finally

I've had a heck of a time posting photographs since I arrived in France. Not sure what the difficulty is, but I may have found a solution -- I downloaded Google's picture organizing application Picassa tonight and it has a feature allowing me to publish photos on a blog. Not sure yet how to put get pictures into my previous posts, but I'll keep working it.

In the mean time, here are some photos of the place where I'm working.

Here's an exterior shot. The building on the right is a fabrication shop; the glass building houses the managers and salespeople; the assembly hall is behind the offices -- you can see a bit of it on the left. It's not a very large facility, by my company's standards, but it's not small either.

Here's my little work area. I sit in room adjacent to my counter-part's office. I share this area with Jerome and Fatima; lots of space for meetings and workshops; the whiteboard is connected to a printer, and Fatima makes coffee for us each morning. Unfortunately, I've got to go to another area to access the internet.

You can see some of our handiwork on the wall. We led the leadership team through a mapping exercise to documement their over-all processes for selling, designing, producing and testing a seat. The pink post its reflect chronic problems which impact their ability to deliver on time.

Here's a business class seat being assembled. They produce eight or nine different models of economy, business and first class seats. Note the video monitors coming up out of the arm-rests. This "in-flight-entertainment" hardware is a real bottle-neck. The airline chooses the vendor and rarely is the stuff available on-time.

The factory is a mess, but it's not as bad as it first appears. There are six different "lines" -- on a few of them, the line really is an "assembly line" but on the others the build process is more of a "cell" with one or two people building a seat from start to finish. If I had my druthers, they'd move all of their operations to a line design -- it makes the delivery of parts to the operators much easier, and simplifies the challenge of documenting and standardizing build processes. Also, it makes it much easier to see how things are going. It's hard to tell if this seat is ahead or behind schedule-- it's a safe bet that it's behind though!

The biggest problem in the factory is not in the factory: the folks who assemble the seats suffer terribly from part shortages. Unfortunately, they choose to begin "the build" before they have the full compliment of hardware -- this means partially complete assemblies stack up all over the place. To my eye, they waste time, effort and space with all this starting and stopping -- better to wait and not start the build unless all the parts are available.

Here, some economy class seats wait for video-monitor screens from a supplier -- without these screens and associated cables, the assemblers cannot mount the upholtsry on the seat-back.

Glad to finally be sharing images. Take a look at the "back issues" -- I'll be working on adding pics there too.

Cheers.

A walk in the “swamp” and my first French hair-cut

This morning I went for a long walk around town – I wanted to visit a spot on the map labeled les marais. On the map, it looks like a large park, but according to my dictionary, marais means “swamp” – so what gives?

I’ve never seen anything like this place – I’d guess the area is about 100 acres or so, criss-crossed by streams and man-made canals. The land is divided into small plots – much like a P-Patch community garden in Seattle. There are some houses, but most plots have only a small tool shed. Along the shores of the larger creeks are flat-bottomed boats in various stages of decrepitude. The paths are wide, but not paved. It’s a terrific place to walk or jog, but it doesn’t seem to be maintained in the way a park or public space might be; the entrances are not marked – it felt like I was walking up someone’s driveway, and suddenly I was in this… well, swamp.

After kicking around there for a while, I went looking for more English language books (some success), and bought some cheese (don’t judge a cheese by it’s cover – what I thought would be soft, spread-able goat cheese is a well aged hockey puck) and finally, screwing up my nerve, a hair cut.

I always introduce myself in shops by saying, “Ma Francais c’est tres limitée”, but that seemed grossly insufficient in what amounted to a uni-sex beauty parlor. In most places, I’ve been able to get by with a simple vocabulary and some gestures – but I was not prepared for how unprepared I was to describe the kind of haircut I wanted! The scissor gesture with the fingers is a good beginning, but how to pantomime “clean above the ears, tapered on the sides and back, thin it out on the top, but leave enough so it lays over”?

As ever, things worked out very well. The woman washed my hair (never had that before – it felt strangely intimate, and quite pleasant… how long has it been since I’ve seen Ceil?), and she did a terrific job with my coupe. We managed to converse a bit, though on at least three occasions, I thought she was telling me “Ok, we’re done” and I panicked a bit, given the half-finished state of my coiffure. I would begin to stand up, and then she would panic… and finally I’d sit down and we’d keep going. Too funny.

Dinner with "my banker"

I was surprised to receive a call last night from Daniel, one of the men I met at Credit Agricole as I opened my account last week. Daniel’s English is quite excellent, he having lived in the US for a while. He asked if I was free for a drink or perhaps dinner that evening. My first thought was “no, I want to go to my hotel, leave me alone”, but my better angels recalled my ruminations on the wisdom of showing up, and I agreed to meet him for a drink. One drink became two, and two drinks became dinner. We had a very French meal at a small restaurant – the kind of place I would not have noticed, let alone entered, on my own. The food was terrific and the conversation was easy.

Later, we did a bit of sight-seeing about town, and Daniel explained something I had already noticed but failed to understand:

Last Sunday while walking home from dinner with six or seven other folks, I heard music coming from a down an alley which opened onto the street. Uncertain whether I was entering a private home, I entered the passage and crept forward as quietly as I could – the alley opened onto a beautiful courtyard, filled by beautiful poly-phonic choral music which I assumed was coming from a church or performance hall within. And to my further surprise, projected images appeared on one of the walls – medieval paintings of saints and angels. I was dumbfounded and enchanted by the music – I left the alley in search of the door to whatever chapel or receital hall lay on the other side of the courtyard – I circled the block but found nothing, I went back and sat on a bench in the courtyard, listening to the music – by now, other folks were coming and going and I no longer worried that I was trespassing. I sat there for twenty minutes relishing the music before finally heading home.

As it happened, Daniel took me to exactly the same spot a few nights later, explaining that Bourges puts on a “path of lights” each summer. The path is marked by blue lights overhead and in-laid into the street – and there are perhaps a dozen stops along the path and historical buildings in the center of town. And at each place, the same beautiful music is playing and similar images as projected on the walls.

Anyway, it’s a neat little tourist attraction, and I look forward to sharing it with Ceil and the kids.

Bienvenu Chateaurôux

Last week I was talking with Jerome, one of the guys at work, and he mentioned a college (high school) his daughter attended in Chateaurôux – the school strives for a “European classroom”, with kids from various countries, and classes presented in different languages. He offered to find out more – I fairly leapt at the chance. Oui! Sil-vous plait!

The next day Jerome and I go to lunch, and after the initial chit-chat about business, he says, “My wife and I had a long conversation last night about your situation. May I tell you about it?”

I cannot imagine how long they must have talked, but the thoughtfulness and thoroughness of their examination of the issues astounded me. Jerome and his wife recommend that Miles attend the collegè which their daughter attended – it is “of a good level” (meaning, I infer, it has a reputation for good quality), the teachers are very open and energetic, and there will be other English-speaking students. Lee should attend a small, private Catholic school near their house. The families which send their kids to this school are mostly well-to-do, doctors, lawyers, engineers, and the mothers of the students do not work – Ceil would be able to join them for coffee or jogging or shopping after she drops the kids off to school. We should live in the neighborhood close to Jerome’s house because it is nice, and quiet and an easy walk to the schools. And Jerome’s wife has made several phone calls, and knows of four or five houses which are unoccupied – but would we mind living in a place that was already furnished?

I was as delighted as I was stunned. A man whom I’ve know for about a week and a half, and his wife, whom I’ve never met, must have spent an hour or more working through the needs of my family, and were ready to make calls, connections, introductions… provided it was okay with me.

I thanked Jerome profusely, and we agreed to visit Chateaurôux together that evening.

As it happened, late in the day, a crisis broke out which required Jerome to work late. No problem, I said. We can do it another time.

“Well, Andy, if you wouldn’t mind, you could go without me. My wife has made some appointments and she is anxious for you to get there, so if it’s okay, I’ll make some directions.”

Again, I was touched and overwhelmed. And a few minutes later, I was on the road. A comedy of errors ensued as I try to connect with Anne Marie – I could not find the train station, our appointed rendezvous – and nor could I describe my location to her when she called my on my cel. After a few fits and starts, I hailed down a lady passing by, thrust my phone into her hands, I asked her to talk to my friend and explain where I was. The two women talked and a few minutes later, Anne Marie turned up.

I can only assume Anne Marie is in the employ of the Chateaurôux Chamber of Commerce, because she gave me a wonderful tour – all the while apologizing for the small size of the town and the provincial attitudes of it’s inhabitants. Our first stop was at the home of a delightful couple whose name I cannot pronounce, but it begins with a very complicated positioning of the tongue in the roof of your mouth combined with a small cough from the back of your throat.

She is English and teaches English and does some translating for UNESCO, commuting to Paris one day per week. He is French. They lived in Toronto for many years. We sat in the most charming little courtyard behind their house, at a small table beneath a plum tree. We had a glass of wine, and our hostess put three small bowls of snacks.

We had perhaps the best conversation that I’ve had in months, let alone since my arrival in France. Monsieur ____ has a very cynical and sarcastic sense of humor – and I played the part of the American naïf for a while until I caught on to his manner.

“Why,” he asked, “are you doing this to your children? Why do you want to complicate their lives?”

“Ummm… well, uh…” I stammered, “I guess I want them to know a bit about the world – to not become Ugly Americans..... uhh, I guess I think it’s good for them to learn another language.” I was beginning to sweat.

“But that’s just it,” he replied, “If you would only leave them well enough alone they could grow
up without the burden of perspective or of different points of view. Why deny them the comfort of self-assuredness?”

“Umm.. well, uhh…”

“Don’t you see, if they come here for six months, they will speak French fluently. Heaven forbid, they may even develop the ability to see the complexity of things. What a terrible thing to do to
them! ”

I began to see his point.

We had an excellent discussion of Anne Marie’s proposal for which schools the kids should attend – and we all agreed that it would be better for them both to attend the same school. The school with the “European classroom” is terrific, but Miles’ primary task will be to learn French, and the finer points which recommend that school would not benefit Miles much.

We continued discussing the pro’s and con’s of living in France in general and Chateaurôux in particular – this couple shared Anne Marie’s sense that it’s a bit of a “hick town” (their words), but the train ride to Paris is less than two hours.

Anne Marie and I made our farewells, and continued the tour. We drove past the school, library, cinema, restaurants – all the while with Anne Marie pointing out places where we might live: “I k now the family who lives there, and they spend most of the year in Paris… I’ll call them; that place belongs to a man I know and it’s vacant… do you like it? I’ll call him.” We drive past the park, bowling lane, swimming pools – on and on.

And then we dropped in on another couple – the Nallets – for another round of introductions in another picture-perfect, postage-stamp back-yard garden. The Nallets have a daughter a year or so older than Lee who attends the Catholic school in town. Jerome, having solved the problem at work joined us at last, and on the way to dinner, more sightseeing: L’Ecole de Beaux Arts where they offer painting classes for children and adults alike (hadn’t Ceil mentioned an interest in a painting class), over there are the football (soccer) fields – are you’re children interested in football?

I left after dinner thinking this is the place. The city is not as large as Bourges, and there are fewer shops and restaurants, but neither is it a small village. And given the entrée offered by Jerome and Anne Marie, it seems like we could make some lasting friendships.

On Friday, Jerome and I talked some more. Anne Marie continues to make calls on our behalf – what was I willing to pay for rent? I am excited about Chateaurôux it seems likely we’ll wind up there… and I’m going make a few more inquiries about the options in Bourges before committing. Either way, it feels like we’re less than a week away from having settled on a home / school situation.

What NOT to read during your first weeks in a foreign land

“You can’t understand. How could you? – with solid pavement under your feet, surrounded by kind neighbors ready to cheer you or to fall on you, stepping delicately between the butcher and the policeman, in the holy terror of scandal and gallows and lunatic asylums – how can you imagine what particular region of the first ages a man’s untrammeled feet may take him into by the way of solitude – utter solitude without a policeman – by the way of silence – utter silence, where no warning voice of a kind neighbor can be heard whispering of public opinion? These little things make all the great difference. When they are gone, you must fall back on your own innate strength, upon your own capacity for faithfulness. Of course you may be too much of a fool to go wrong – too dull even to know you are being assaulted by the powers of darkness.”
- Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad

I read that passage at breakfast last week and I all but rose out of my chair. That’s it! I thought, That’s what I’m feeling – the solitude, the silence that descends when everything I hear is unintelligible to me. I don’t, for a moment, see myself as traveling up-river into a dark and savage land – I am not playing at being Marlow here – but the rush of recognition I felt was strong. And how could you understand?

At home, I seek out solitude – the chance to be alone with my thoughts, or without thought, for an hour or two; to be spared the interruption of co-workers with small questions and sordid gossip; to find refuge from the noise of children and too many electronic gadgets in too small a house.

But here, even on a crowded street, I am alone. If I wish to be heard (seen?), I must make a conscious effort, exercising my brain and my courage to address someone in French. And even then, I do not experience connection or an abiding presence of another – we interact only so long as we each concentrate on overcoming our lack of a common language. Should one of us lose interest or patience, the thing is lost, and we are alone together once more.

The other side of the same coin – the ingredients of a “life”
Sitting at dinner the other night, I reflected on the depth and breadth of my “community” in Seattle and in the US.

I was dining in a restaurant I’ve been to on a few occasions – often enough, and conspicuously enough that the manager and head waitress come over to greet me now when I wander in. And I take such delight in their handshakes!... in the words they say, and which I parrot back to them (understanding only the intention and context, but not the specific meaning). So this got me to thinking about just how many people I know at home – how many places I can appear and be welcomed. There being too many friends and family to list individually, I instead catalogued the various circles, groups, communities and cliques to which Ceil and I belong – so many people, so many ties.

And yet, in the summer of 1989, I arrived in Seattle with only a phone number – Rachel Bravmann’s parents. I knew Rachel from Hamilton College and she assured me her parents would welcome me in – and so I showed up, was welcomed, and began to build a life. And seventeen years later, it’s a full, rich, huge thing! How did that happen? What effort, what energy, what ingredients did I add? And how to do it now, in this new setting?

By the end of the first glass of wine, the answer occurred to me: show up.

Every friendship, every connection Ceil and I enjoy began with one of us showing up. Nineteen-ninety: Ceil’s friend Lisa asks if I’d be interested in playing softball with her husband’s team. I show up to practice – and sixteen years later, Richard, Rick, and Phil and their families are amongst my closest friends.

And it’s not always easy – there’s that hesitation – not shyness per se, but sloth or hesitancy to take the risk, to make the effort associated with small-talk or finding topics of common interest. It’s a matter of showing up and showing up again.

That same year: Wendy Tyer invites us out with some guys she met – "they’re from Albany, really funny. C'mon out." Although I don’t recall our first meeting with Matt, Nell, Michael and Todd, I’m pretty sure I had to be talked into it… why not stay home and order a pizza. No doubt Ceil dragged me… and again the next weekend… and then to some party… but by then it’s done: a new web has been woven, and we meet Bruce, Katie, Betsy, Tony, Heather, etc., etc.; we hear about a school called Assumption St.-Bridget – and then there’s more “showing up” to be done, but before long we have the DelValle’s, Scherger’s, Gavins, MacVicars, Dangla’s, Riordin’s et al.

So that’s the watchword for me here in France. Show up and show up again.

Remind me of that, gently, should I forget.

Banks, Apartments and Schools, oh my.

J’aime le banque Crédit Agricole
I took this morning off to attend to our banking needs. As I mentioned in a previous post, on Saturday I wandered into a branch of the bank Crédit Agricole, where I met the manager, M. Bartelana and his English-speaking associate M. Aviles. Today, I returned with proof of my employment to complete the process of opening an account. Mssrs. Bartelana and Aviles were there to greet me at 10am. Everything was in order except for a photocopy of a recent utility bill from our home in the U.S. – they’re willing to use this for the proof-of-residence requirement. I’ll ask Ceil to fax it over and we’ll be all set.

After the banking was over, through, we got to talking about my plans to rent an apartment in town. In France, it is necessary to have renters insurance before signing a lease – Crédit Agricole can handle that for me. It will be necessary to provide proof of my bank account – M. Bartelana gave me his card and private phone number, and told me to have the agents call him directly. And then he made several phone calls to landlords and real estate agents around town, with M. Aviles translating – how many bedrooms did I need? What price range? How many cars? Etc., etc.

At the end of our appointment, M. Aviles gave me his cel phone number and invited me to call him off-hours should I need any help translating. And then, to my surprise, M. Bartelana put on his coat and asked me to follow him out the front door – he led me a few blocks into the heart of the city to an immoblier (real estate agent) and introduced me to Sylvia. Apparently, during his phone calls, M. Bartelana was looking for agents who could speak English, as well as vacancies. All told, the folks at Credit Agricole spent well over an hour of their time with me, and offered me every assistance short of helping me unpack after we move in.

So – my solemn pledge – from now on, regardless of who leads the CA team in the Tour de France, I will root for them each and every year. I invite you to do the same. Vive Crédit Agricole!

Apartment Hunting
Sylvia showed me photos of three or four apartments on her computer – I’ve asked for something in centre ville, le quartier annciennes – the heart of town, the old quarter. A parking spot seems a necessity, given the crowded and narrow streets. We also want cuisine equipee – a kitchen with appliances already installed. In France, when you move into an apartment, it is typically bare: no light fixtures, no appliances, no window coverings, etc. I figure we can buy a certain amount of furnishings, but I’m not ready to spring to a fridge, etc.

These requirements narrowed the field quite a bit, and we wound up walking to visit two candidates. The first place has a two-car garage, and was rather modern, and utterly lacking in charm. There was a fridge and range in the kitchen, but pas four – no oven.

The second place positively exuded charm – precisely the kind of place I imagined, but no parking and no fridge. (Right away I began to rationalize – why not buy a fridge? I could bring it home, re-wire it, and turn it into a keg-erator in the back room. Sure.) It had a nice patio where we could BBQ, lots of space, beautiful old wood floors, etc. And it matches my image of what an old apartment in an ancient city in France is supposed to look like. I thanked Sylvia and agreed to get back to her next week.

Clearly, it’s too soon to jump at anything. I’m going to visit other immobiliers this week and see what my options are.

School Hunting
The apartments I saw today are close to one of the public schools and it would be a bit of a walk to the Catholic School I admired during my walk-about on Sunday. At work yesterday, one of the team members mentioned that his daughter attended a high school in Chateauroux which emphasizes foreign languages – he thinks the primary school attached to the high school might be a bit more “accessible” for Miles and Lee. He’s going to check into it and get back to me tomorrow. I also plan to visit le maire (the mayor’s office) in Bourges and see what more I can learn about options for school.

Finding our way at work
After one full week on-site at the supplier, I’m beginning to understand exactly what I / we will be doing. We’ve had good success meeting with the managers of the company and agreeing on the core issues preventing them from shipping good quality product on-time. Although their factory is a mess, with dozens of half-finished units line up all over the place, the real problem lies in their (in-)ability to get the airlines to finalize the design early enough, and their (lack of a) process for documenting a “bill-of-material” and getting parts made / purchased in time. Tomorrow we’ll have another “workshop” and charter teams to attack three or four specific issues in these areas.

I also sat in on the weekly status teleconference between the supplier and Boeing. What a mess – on both sides. The supplier guys don’t have their information gathered and organized; the Boeing guy in Seattle was calling in from his car and didn’t have his “stuff” together either. If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s running an efficient and effective meeting, so I told participants from each side that we would be making some significant improvements beginning with the next session.

So I think that’s how it’s going to go – I’ll spend about 1/3 of my time acting as a focal point for communication between the supplier and Boeing (striving, always, to get the supplier to assume responsibility for running the meetings, etc. – don’t want to build reliance on me personally). The other 2/3’s will be spent planning / facilitating improvement activities to ensure that the designs are completed and parts are ordered in a timely fashion.

A Welcome Addition to the Boeing team
Yesterday I learned that the folks organizing this project had found a senior manager to come over and lead the team. This is a terrific relief to me. I’ve been an “acting” supervisor for these folks, and although by all accounts I’m doing a great job, with each passing day, I’ve been reminded more and more of why I decided to get out of management years ago. The people on the team are great and have been doing well – but I’ve been carrying stress (on their behalf) while we sort out precisely what we’re going to do over here. I don’t mind having to sort things out for myself – in fact, I’m good at seeing what needs to be done; but it’s weary-ing to do the same (or at least, to feel as if I need to do the same) for four or five other people.

The new leader is a guy I know and like very well – we worked together years ago and we’ll make a great partnership on this project. In many respects, the timing is perfect – we’ve been over hear learning, laying the foundation, and he can arrive after the French holiday season is over, and help us stay focused, manage the bosses back in Seattle, deal with all the expense reports, etc. And plus, he is bringing is wife and kids too, so hopefully, this will be a bit more community and support for us. Amen.

C’est tout pour maintenant, mes amis. Ou revoir.

My first Sunday in Bourges

Touring the schools of Bourges
I hope to find an apartment close to whichever school the kids will attend -- and of course, should we decide to put them in a public school, the selection will be based on our address. So, I’m keen to sort out which school we’d like the kids to attend before looking for a place to live.

Yesterday I visited L’office de tourisme á Bourges and received an excellent map, listing all the libraries, museums, city offices, and most importantly to me, the schools.

This morning I went for a long walk around the city, visiting each l’ecole primarie shown on the map. My understanding is that kids attend l’ecole primarie between the ages of 6 and 11… what we call first through fifth grade. (In France, the grades count down rather than up, with the youngest children in grade eleven, and the oldest in one.) Miles turns twelve in January, and I’m not sure if that would put him into collège (e.g. high school) or not. I’ve read, however, that it is common for kids to repeat grades if their test scores are not up to snuff, and my preference would be to keep Miles and Lee in the same school. Miles will have enough on his mind – no need to push him too far!

All of the schools I visited today were closed (it being a Sunday in August), and I’m trying not to form strong opinions based solely on their appearance (e.g., “curb appeal” in real estate terms). Nonetheless, I cannot help but react to the size of some schools (smaller seems preferable) and the neighborhood (I like quiet, quaint and close to the center of town). Two or three schools stood out above the others – one being a private, Catholic school just down the street from the main cathedral in town. Perhaps we’ll have an “in” at this school as the kids are currently attending a Catholic school in Seattle. We’ll see. Enrollment doesn’t begin until August 20th, so we won’t know for a while.

Opening a Bank Account
I screwed up my courage and presented myself at the local Credit Agricole branch yesterday. I waited on line, rehearsing my French, muttering to myself: je voudrais commence un comptè, sil-vous-plais… One of the branch managers brought me to his office, and between his English and my French, we had a nursery-school level discussion. (“See Jack run. See Andy move to France. See Andy write a check. Spend, Andy, spend.”) Thankfully, another guy came in and bailed us out. As I had been warned, the first obstacle was the requirement that in order to open an account, I have proof of my residence (and I cannot get a residence without proof that I have a bank account). I told the bank manager that I am living at le Hotel de Bourbon (a fancy address if there ever was one) and he called over there. I can’t be sure what was said between the hotel clerk and the banker, but it seemed to go well. I was asked to return at 9am on August 10th, with proof of my employment and salary in order to complete the transaction. Getting this sorted will be a big help, and enable us to begin the apartment hunt in earnest.

Looking for something to read
I finished the books and magazines I had with me on the plane. What to read now? The hotel has copies of the International Herald Tribune, which is nice, but I need something more substantial.

I went into a very serious-looking bookstore yesterday and asked the clerk, “Est-que il’ya des livres dans anglais?” (Someday I’ll be confident that what I’m saying is what I intend to say – for the moment, I’m operating mainly on intuition. I would not be surprised to learn that I’ve been asking for sanitary napkins and slip-covers when I really want a sandwich and a beer.)

The bookseller said many things in response, including the word non (no), and it seemed like our conversation was over. But as I turned to go, he remembered something and began hustling about the shop pulling a few books off the shelves – turns out he sells bi-lingual versions of certain ‘classics” – that is, books by Hemmingway, Faulkner, Conrad, etc. with the English text on one side of the page and French on the other. “Magnifique,” I exclaimed (meaning to indicate pleasure, though perhaps indicating that I had just seen a manatee swim past, or that I wished to eat a small pair of shoes).

So, I bought the lot – and thus I sat in a café last night, eating alone, sipping vin de rouge and reading The Snows of Kilimanjaro by Hemmingway. Magnifique, indeed!

Plan for the rest of the day
It's lunch time. It would be easy to go down to a cafe, but I'm feeling ambitious: I'm off the le boulangerie for une baguette and then to the butcher (begins with the letters ch) for some slices of ham or pate. A half-empty bottle of wine in my room needs tending to. And the sun is out. A great day for a picnic. Could it be that I'm getting the hang of this place?!

Ou revoir, mes amis.

The rest of the story… filling in the gaps in the past week

Given the perspective offered by a week’s time, my flight from Seattle and arrival in Paris, while not uneventful, were nonetheless quite pleasant. I took some notes along the way, and will transcribe some of the highlights:

Checking in at SeaTac – the enormity of my luggage and the physical challenge of carrying all three bags at once did not truly sink in until I stood there at the tail-gate of the Windstar, curbside at SeaTac airport. Good-bye kisses to Ceil and Lee, and Miles agrees to help me bring a bag inside… and thank heavens he did. We get to the end of the line (it’s good to fly business class—I have a very short line to wait on), and Miles drops the bag and turns to go. “Hey”, I said, “gimme a kiss!” He turns his lips up towards mine, but the rest of him is straining towards the door. “See you in a few weeks, pal. I love you.” And he’s gone. And I’m already homesick.

Flash-back to saying good-bye to my Mom and Dad – we had a nice day together with my family before I left, and then a quick take-out dinner the night before my flight. Still so many things to do – helping them relocate back to their apartment after some remodeling work; I need to get home and pack; what time do I need to be at the airport, anyway? So many things swirling through my head. When the time comes to leave, I give Mom and Dad a hug… I think I linger and am present for the moment, conscious of how long it’ll be before I see them, and how much might change in the interim… but after saying good-bye to Miles there at the baggage counter, I begin to wonder – did I also have one foot out the door as I said “good-bye”?

Standing in line at baggage check – Listening to a guy behind me talking on a cel phone, I wonder what language he’s speaking. Might be French but it’s way too fast – not at all like the Rosetta Stone language lessons on the computer. [Even then, I suspected the truth: of course it was French. A week later, I’ve concluded that the Rosetta Stone folks probably use a lot of lithium or thorazine during their recording session.]

Standing in line at security – A guy (the same guy?) behind me on line, inching closer and closer, as if he might squeeze ahead of me should I turn my attention away for a moment. What’s up with this? [Four days later, standing in line at a sandwich shop, and an elderly lady hip checks me out of the way, just in time to catch the clerk’s attention. So it’s true, the things I heard about the French having a different conception of queues and waiting in line.]

Standing in line at Starbucks – My last Starbucks (could it be?)… what to have, what to have? The same thing I have all the time – as a celebration of what I’m leaving behind; or maybe something entirely new, to commemorate this new chapter. Well, crap, they’ve run out of everything anyway. “Gimme a tall drip and a banana bread.” Sigh. But note the Italian (?) guy ahead of me in line – counting out exact change. What’s up with that? [One week later, I find myself compelled to walk around with a pocket full of coins – better to endure the jingle-jangle as I walk, than the glare of a shop keeper when I lay down a 20€ note to cover a 1.78€ purchase!]

Changing planes at JFK – this airport has been under construction for the past ten years… and it’s still a mess. I have to walk a mile or so to get from one terminal to the next… along a busy street with little or no side-walk. An informal group of passengers (west-coasters?) forms, and we search for the international gates together. My nose is running interminably – hay-fever season in NY? How do you say, “Kleenex” in French?

Boarding Air France flight 017 -- A 777! Hooray! My first commercial flight on the plane I spent so many years building. I take a moment to fasten a 777 pin to my lapel. Walking down the jet way, I overhear two women talking about the plane – one asks, “Is this one of the good ones?” I cannot help myself, and I interject, “This is the best one.”

As we board, I’m stunned by the beauty of the flight attendants (men and women, both). But what’s that they’re saying to me? Oh my, God, we’re still on the ground but I’m already in France. Deep breath: “Bonjour, Oui. Merci beaucoup. Chasson trios-jeh, sil-vous-plait.”… whew…. That wasn’t too bad… though I wonder what “chasson” means? Did I just ask for ‘chariot 3G’? [I should have said, “siege”. “Chasson” doesn’t show up in my dictionary.]

Note: I’m sitting here in my hotel room, writing this. It’s 5:45am, and the sun is not quite up yet. As I reach down to the mini-fridge and pull out a bottle of Perrier, I wonder to myself, “Perrier before 6am… what would Peter delValle have to say about this?” In honor of Peter, I stick out my pinky and say a prayer of blessing to Bill and Hillary Clinton as I drink my mineral water. A blue state guy in the blue-est of countries...

Over the Atlantic – I’m seated next to a couple of very young Frenchmen – fifteen or sixteen, perhaps? I find their behavior to be obnoxious – talking loudly, throwing things on the floor, making a nuisance of themselves with the attendants. I attribute this to them being teenagers… rather than their being French. The flight attendants are charming. The food is great. I fall asleep quickly and sleep well. I awake a few hours before landing at 7:30a local time.

Les valises est perdu – Charles deGaulle airport is also under construction, so we descend an air-stair from the plane and board a bus which takes us to the terminal. We move, as if a heard of cattle, most of us mystified by the directions being called out by the folks in uniform. We scan the signs overhead, and tentatively move, en mass, onto an escalator. In this case, the wisdom of the crowd is sound, and we wind up at Customs. The guy behind the counter barely looks up as I hand him my passport. “D’accord,” he says, and I move through the turnstile. That’s it?...

I wait in baggage claim, and it’s a long wait. To pass the time, I look at a map on the wall, searching for the rental car location. How in the h--l am going to carry all these bags? I notice a young security guard standing near-by… Deep breath… “Excuse-moi, monsieur… ou est les voitures a louer?” He answers in rapid fire French, slowing down a bit as he goes – perhaps my poker face has slipped a bit? I catch the words “gauche” and “droit” – left and right, and the hand gestures indicate that there are stairs (or perhaps, rock-climbing) involved. He asks if I understand, and I repeat the directions in Frenglish (my combination of what few French words I know, with the rest in English, but pronounced as if I was imitating Inspector Clousseau in the Pink Panther.) He repeats the directions in excellent English. Feeling grateful, I say, “Votre Anglais c’est plus de ma Francias… merci beaucoup.” He replies, “But you are making an effort… that is very good!” Never was a schoolboy more proud at hearing praise from a teacher.

The bags finally begin to come down the conveyor belt. A group of thirty or forty Christian missionaries (their name tags proclaim their purpose) gather their bags and go; several extended families find their stuff and head out; down to ten of us waiting, and now five, and finally just two. I turn to the lady and ask, “Parlez-vous anglais?” “Yes,” she replies, “do you?” And so we’re connected… she from San Francisco, me from Seattle, standing there on the out-skirts of Paris wondering about our bags. We wait ten more minutes before setting off to find help. I speak to two people along the way and we manage to find the Air France baggage office… the clerks there have good English. It seems likely that our bags did not make the connection, and are still in JFK. Air France will deliver the bags. Where will I be staying? (Hmmm… good question… I think the address is packed in my luggage.)

And suddenly, I’m done. Good-bye to the lady from San Francisco, out the door (no more customs? Really?) and on to the rental car counter.

Driving in France – Despite my fears of being given a very small car, I wind up in a wonderful Citroen C5 – four-doors, standard-transmission, diesel, terrific acceleration. Great. I have driving directions and follow them assiduously… but at some point I begin to doubt them… did I miss a turn? Surely this next exit should have come by now. The car is equipped with a GPS mapping system, and I decide to abandon the directions and change course, heading south. After bouncing around surface streets in the suburbs of Paris, I find a highway that looks promising, the sign listing cities near where I want to go… and so I'm off, and flying along. Soon, though, I realize it’s not where I want to be. On this French version of the autobahn, the exits are few and far between and I drive 15 miles or so before I can turn around.

At some point, I begin fiddling around with the GPS system, and realize that I can enter a destination point, and the computer will work out a route to follow. And so I do -- following the pink line along the screen, I careen down picturesque, two-lane highways, slowing as I pass through villages every 5 or 10 miles. [I later discover that when I entered my destination on the car’s computer, I also checked the box for “avoid toll roads” – thus, it takes me along ‘the road less traveled.’ Pas de problem.] I stop along the way to snap a few pictures. The towns each look like a postcard.


The song “Five Days in May” comes on my iPod, and reminded of Matt Ball (“strident!”), I perform the first-ever documented James Reed on French soil. The locals are stunned.

Two hours later, and I’m in Bourges. The hotel is easy to find, and after parking, I sit in the car for five minutes: Holy s—t. I’m in France. Breathe, man, breathe.

Le Hotel de Bourbon – the Boeing travel agents have done well by us: this place is great. At least part of it once was a church, or abbey of some sort, and we eat breakfast each morning in a rather grand setting. The scrambled eggs are a bit underdone, but the breads, fruits, yogurt, cereals, preserves are wonderful. And the café au lait… love it.

The room is small, but comfortable. The toilet is separate from the bath, which, upon reflection, makes quite a bit of sense. I have A/C and a shower – not to be taken for granted in France. And my room faces a very quiet street. All in all, a great place. (And it’ll never work with kids – so I gotta get busy finding an apartment!)

Ok, folks. A very long post this morning. Congratulations to those of you who made it all the way through!

Today being Saturday, I’m off to find weekly “market” and with any luck, make a list of schools in town, and begin looking for a likely place for us to live.

More to follow.

Peace.