The EIF Interview – Miles Erickson

Miles Erickson, 11-years old traveler, humorist, reader, Lego-Builder and occasional bather, recently agreed to sit down with ‘Ericksons-in-France’ for a rare interview. We caught up to him in his chateau in rural France, outside the village of Arthon.

EIF: Thanks for sitting down with us. It’s great to be here.
Miles: Yeah, well, ok, I guess. Am I getting paid for this or what?

EIF: Well, uhh, no, not really. Were you expecting to get paid?
Miles: Hey, man, I need 4 more euros to buy that thing I saw in Paris last weekend.

EIF: Umm… ok, I guess we can talk about it. How about we get started with the interview?
Miles: Oh yeah, “we’ll talk about it” – like I haven’t heard that before. Whatever. Fine. Go ahead.

EIF: Great. Ok, so, how long have you been in France?
Miles: Maybe a month or so.

EIF: Have you been enjoying France?
Miles: Yes, I have, so far… but, I don’t know… maybe it’s going to get harder. At school, people are always coming up to me, talking to me in French, and I have no idea what they’re saying.

EIF: Let’s talk about school. What’s it like?
Miles: Well, it’s different from my school in Seattle. We have to go to a different room for each class. The classes last an hour. We carry all of our books with us, everywhere we go. We don’t leave anything at school or in our desks, so my backpack is pretty heavy.

EIF: How do you like the teachers?
Miles: Some I like more than others. Some haven’t got it through their heads that I speak English, and some are sort of mean. For instance, when I’m not doing something, they come up to me and start talking at me in French. It’s weird because everyone else in the class is staring and the teacher is making mean faces. That happened a lot during my first week, but not too much anymore.

EIF: Have you made any friends yet?
Miles: Yeah. A lot of people in my class help me. They show me where the classes are if I get lost; they teach me French; in class, if I don’t know what we’re doing, they help me get the right books out and stuff.

EIF: Are you learning French?
Miles. Sort of… I know how to say what my name is, and I know colors and numbers and days of the week and stuff. I have a piece of paper I carry with me that has some of the important things I might need to say. Each week, while the rest of my class is studying English, I go to the library and work with a guy who’s teaching me French. One way or another, my classmates and I are going to be able to talk to each other someday.

EIF: Do you get recess?
Miles: It’s not really recess. Each class lasts an hour, so you take two classes in the morning and then you get a fifteen minute break. Then two more classes and it’s lunch – which lasts TWO HOURS! Then, in the afternoon, it depends: some days I have one class, on Fridays I have two classes after lunch, so I don’t get out until 4:45pm. Most days I get out at 1:45pm or 3:30p. But every Wednesday, I get out at 12pm and every other Monday I get out at noon too. It seems like I’m not going to school very much, but the bad part is that it starts so early. You have to be in your seat at 7:55am, so you need to get there at 7:45am or so. The other bad part is that you're not allowed to go to the bathroom or to get a drink of water during class, so if you have to go, you have to wait for like, two hours, until it’s break time.

EIF: So what do you and your friends do during the breaks?
Miles: Well, we play some games. I brought my wallet with me, and the kids like to look at my Starbucks card and my library card. They really like to look at a one dollar bill I have in my wallet. When I show them the dollar they all say, “ooooohhh” like it’s a big deal. Then they tell other kids, and they all come up to me now and say, “doll-air? You…. Have…a… Doll---Air?” So I take out my wallet to show them, but then they say, “oooh, no, no” and wave their hands around. I think they’re trying to warn me that the teacher might confiscate it or something.

EIF: So are the teachers really tough?
Miles: Not too bad. But, like, if you forget a book or something, even if it’s not important, they’re like “Ooh, you’re in trouble” (except, in French) and then they take you to the office. The people in the office ask you a bunch of questions, like “Why did you forget your book? Where is it?” Then they call your mom or dad and say, “Your kid forgot his book and you need to bring it here.”

EIF: Has that happened to you yet?
Miles: No. But I forgot my lunch card last week. Luckily Mom noticed it and brought it to school before lunch.

EIF: Tell me about lunch.
Miles: The lunches are really great. The cafeteria is like a high-class restaurant (except you have a tray and you have to wait on line). The food is so good. There’s always a salad, bread and fruit, and some sort of meat or chicken or fish. They also have rice or potatoes. On Thursdays, there’s also a dessert which is good – a small pastry or something. Tasty!

EIF: Do you have to pay money?
Miles: No. You have a card that you have to scan at a machine, and it says, “Miles Erickson – accepted.” Except it says it in French.

EIF: Do they have Phys-Ed at your school?
Miles: No, but we have PE twice a week. We have two places we go – one is a nice gym, not as big as the one at home, but still pretty big. And then there’s another place we have to walk to – it’s a track with two soccer goals and some basket ball hoops in the middle. PE lasts two hours. They make us run laps for ten minutes and then stretch and rest for a while, and then run again for another ten minutes. On Fridays we pretty much run the whole time. On Tuesdays we run for a while and then play basketball or soccer. It seems like each time we have PE outside it rains and each time we’re inside the gym it’s sunny.

EIF: What do you do when you’re not at school?
Miles: Well, the house we live in doesn’t have internet, so I can’t really go on the computer very much. We’re going to get internet in a week or so… that’ll be good. We don’t have television either, so I read or I go outside. There’s a swing-set in the front of the house. There’s a creek in our backyard and my sister and I go down there sometimes. During the middle of the day we go lizard hunting.

EIF: Lizard hunting?
Miles: Yeah, there are these little brown lizards that climb on the outside of the house. They like the sun. They’re hard to catch – they’re really fast and they hide in cracks or holes in the wall. Right when you get close, they run away and hide. So far, we’ve only caught one. We let it go after a while.

EIF: What’s been your favorite part of your trip so far?
Miles: We’ve been to Paris twice, and we’re going again next weekend. That’s been fun. I like going to this English bookstore called Shakespeare’s. They have chapter books and comic books too. So far, I’ve bought a lot of Tin-tin and Asterisk & Obelisk books. I also bought a book called ‘Treasure Island’ and an Artemis Fowl book.

EIF: What else have you done in Paris?
Miles: We’ve gone to the Eiffel Tower, but we haven’t gone to the top yet. We’re going to do that next weekend, I think. They have these lines, and the sign says, “If you’re here, you’ll have to wait, like, two hours.” But we’re going to try it next time.
The hotels have been pretty good. The first time we had a good hotel, but we had to walk to the subway to go anywhere. That wasn’t fun – even though the subways in Paris are like three times nicer than the subways in New York City. The hotel we stayed at last time was cool – it was right next to a place my sister and I called “toy world”: it was all these shops with stuff for kids. They had a Lego store, figurines, radio-controlled planes and cars, stuffed animals. It was also close to a restaurant called “Pasta Papa” where they have, like, every kind of pasta in the world. The pasta I got looked like tennis racquets. Oh, and also, there was a Starbucks and a Hard Rock Café near that hotel.

EIF: What’s been the most surprising thing about France?
Miles: Well, there are lots of naked people.

EIF: What!?
Miles: No, I mean, like, lots of statues and they’re all of naked people. It’s sort of weird.
Another thing that’s weird is that all the stores and shops close at lunch-time. All the shop keepers and people close the stores and go to lunch. It’s kind of like the people who own the stores plan the day for the people who work there, and not for the people who shop there. If you want to do some shopping or something during your lunch break, you can’t because all the stores are closed!

EIF: What do you miss about Seattle?
Miles: My friends! I miss waking up for school later – I have to get up at 7am here. I miss my cat. That’s about it… oh, wait: I miss going to school in English!

EIF: How’s your family doing?
Miles: Well, my sister – not so good. She cries a lot and doesn’t want to go to school in the morning, even though her school starts an hour later than mine, which is totally lucky.
My mom is pretty good. My dad is pretty good. And I’m pretty good.

EIF: Thanks for talking with us, Miles.
Miles: Ok, so do I get paid or what?

EIF: I’m still thinking about it.
Miles: Whatever.

French Vocabularly Lesson #129: "En Greve"

Repeat after me, class: Je suis en greve.... I am on strike.

Good. Ok, class, now follow me -- we're going to stand out in front of the school, shouting insults at the principals office and drinking wine. This is an imporant part of your training to become a worker in a French factory.

+++++++++

The big news this week was that the hourly folks at the company I'm supporting went out on strike. This was a bit confusing -- their annual contract is not up until the end of the year, so what gives?

I've since learned that labor unions operate much differently over here -- there is much more control at the local level (e.g. much less control), and folks can walk out any time, over any issue. Your buddy got written up for being late to work? No problem: tell the guys to put down their tools until management apologizes. Don't like the way your manager talked to your team during today's crew meeting? Easy-peasy: go invite the rest of the lads to stand in the parking lot until the manager grovels a bit.

Most of these actions only last a few hours, or at most, a day or two.

This was a bit different... or so it seemed.

A few weeks ago, seven or eight guys from the Prototype Shop met with their manager to ask why they had not received the cash bonuses that Assembly Shop guys were given last month. (I wish to all heaven that I knew how much money we're talking about here -- I think the bonuses in question were on the order of $150 per person. Small potatoes.)

I'm not sure what the manager said, but the Prototype guys weren't satisfied, so they de-camped to a spot across the street, painted a few banners ("Honey, have you seen the sheets from the guest room?") and set up a card-table and barbeque. Each morning for a couple of weeks, I'd drive past these guys, my windows up and radio blaring, and give them a friendly wave (like some nobleman, deigning to acknowledge the unwashed masses while passing through town in his coach-and-four.) Weird, I thought.

So I was quite surprised last Tuesday to walk out at lunch time and discover that the small troupe had grown to over two hundred, and they were standing in the road, milling about, slowing traffic, etc.

It turns out that the Assembly guys got to talking with the Prototype guys, and realized that altough they had received bonuses, they had not received the salary increase that the Prototype team was given back in January. I assume they did some quick calculation and realized, a) the company is in a tough spot right now -- way behind schedule with some critical orders yet to be processed, and b) the weather is excellent and c) italian sausages and boxed wine are on sale at the supermarket across the street...

You do the math: they had no choice but to join their proletarian brothers at the barricades. (Please que the soundtrack to Les Miserables.)

At frist, we were told that the strike would not last long... a day or two. But it was a problem, since the stikers were blocking access to all the gates -- thus, although there were a few non-union workers still inside building seats, they could neither deliver them or receive parts for the next batch.

The strike continued through the week -- at first, the company refused to negotiate. The head guy was out of town (as he often is), and it seemed to me like the managers left behind were reluctant to take action. But as the week wore on, things became more intense.

On Wednesday, the strikers stacked wooden pallets in front of the gates, and built a fire in one of the drive-ways. We could drive past, but only if you were willing to nudge folks out of the way.

On Thursday, about 150 strikers occupied the lobby of the administration building, whistling, shouting and using a bullhorn to make a general racket. Late in the day, the managers had to call in the cops to keep peace while the non-union workers (and folks who had crossed the line) left the premises. Apparently, there had been one incident in which a contract laborer got roughed up.

On Friday, they were back, and bolder, occupying a few conference rooms, and over-turning chairs and tables. They had painted slogans on the road leading to the Admin Building, and replaced the company flag with their own. Our team got a phone call at 6pm saying, "Time to go... the cops are here and you need to leave now."

One aside: on Friday afternoon, I spoke with Francois who is the number two guy at the company. I expressed sympathy for his situation, and asked if there was anything the our team could do to help. He replied in his good, but not perfect, English, "No, but I want to make sure you are safe... some of the strikers are very... very... ummm..." He hesitated and I began offering words: passionate? angry? frustrated? "No," he replied, "Drunk."

On Monday, things were even worse. The strikers occupied the admin building at the end of the day, this time bringing their BBQ and boxes of wine inside. Later that night, I'm told, they physically blocked Francois from leaving the building, in effect, holding him and three other directors hostage until about mid-night.

So where are the cops in all this? The strikers are trespassing, vandalizing company property, holding people against their will, for Pete's sake! Also, I learned from the Airbus guys, it's illegal for strikers to block access to the factory. So what the heck? Bring on the gendarmes!

On Tuesday, the managers decided to close the company before things got totally out of hand. Our team set up shop in a local conference center / monastary, and took advantage of the time to re-set our plans and do a bit of team building. Eric (the boss) would get updates a few times a day, and brief us on the latest developments.

During Wednesday and Thursday, there were legal hearings -- the company suing the union for breach of contract and illegal acts preventing the operation of the buisness. The union counter-sued, claiming that by closing the facility, they were denying their members the right to go back to work (!!!!!!).

Being American, I was shocked when I heard that the courts ruled against the company on all counts -- and ordered them to resume operations. When the company requested support from the local police, they were told to take it up with a different judge... which they did on Thursday.

So on Friday, the gendarmes were on-site, and the company called the truckers in and cleared the piles of stuff blocking the gates. We were asked to stay away, but I'm told that things went okay -- it was raining, so maybe the strikers had poor turn-out; also, it was early in the day, so folks were not yet drunk enough to tangle with semi-trailers.

By the end of the day, the team was back in our offices -- the strikers still outside, but operations were underway. We gathered at my house for a BBQ / boxed wine festival of our own that night, and Eric had a call around 11pm saying that the strike was over. Still not sure of the terms, but we're back to work on Monday.

I imagine, though, that the problems are just beginning. Post-strike emotions will run high, with reprisals and recriminations against those who crossed the line. The management team is not especially assertive during normal operations, and I fear for what might take place, performance-wise, during the coming weeks.

Stay tuned.

Le mort de les frelons... and other news

Folks,

This will be the briefest update imaginable -- the battery on my PC is about to die, and I don't have my g--d--- power adapter with me.

Les Frelons -- are dead. Despite my plans to do the job myself, Ceil mentioned the yellow-jackets to the "housekeeper" at the "castle" which casts it's shadow over our little cottage -- and she said we absolutely, no kidding around, needed to call the Fire Department -- and indeed, she called them herself.

I'll save the full version of the story for later, but rest assured that they did the job with no problems and the threat has passed.

Les Enfants and L'Ecole -- are great. Miles and Lee are enjoying their school experiences. Night-times are stressful for Ceil and I, though. It's tough enough to read Miles' handwriting in his assignment book, but when he is mis-spelling in a foreign language, it's too much! Also, the French are zealots for paperwork -- I'm not sure what the teachers say to the kids, but they come home with the fear of God in them: "Mom, you have GOT TO GET THE HEALTH INSURANCE FORM TURNED IN!!!" Interesting.

Le Maison -- is ok. Ceil is casting about for a different house which might be a bit smaller and less rustic. I like the place where we are, but it's not cozy and the drive to work is a chore.

Le Grand Tours -- continue. We've gotten into the habit of visiting one or two sites each Sunday. So long as we keep the duration short, and the pace high, the kids are great.

Paris et le return -- we're heading back for another visit to Paris this weekend. Stay tuned.

Greve -- the French word for "strike". The company I'm supporting has had a nasty labor stoppage this week, with the striking workers periodically occupying the headquarters building and even barricading some of the directors in their offices one night. The members of our team are all safe -- the company closed it's doors on Monday and we de-camped to an off-site location for the duration. We think we'll be back on-site later today.

Ok... sorry to blurt all this out. Hope you're all well. XXOOO

A message from Ceil: WE HAVE NO INTERNET!

Ceil asked me to relay the following message:

Dear friends,

I love and miss all of you very much. I want nothing more than to send you emails, do my own blog entries, and, I don't know, maybe do a bit of on-line banking from time to time.

Alas, my husband, entertaining agrarian fantasies, has set us up in a house located just south of the middle of nowhere.

As a result -- we have no internet connection, and the cel phone reception is unreliable.

I have taken to parking near the local McDonalds once per day and mooching off their free Wi-Fi service. I've figured out the technical aspects of this operation, but this has done nothing to make it any less pathetic.

Please continue to send me your emails; if you need a speedy response, email Andy at his work address.

Thanks for your patience. We miss you!

- Ceil

La Nuit de les Frelons

A few nights back, the Erickson family was comfortably ensconced in our “drawing room”, when Miles pointed out some surprisingly large bumble-bee looking creatures mingling with the moths gathered at the French doors.

“Dad,” he said, “Look at those surprisingly large bumble-bee looking creatures mingling with the moths gathered at the French doors!”

Maybe that’s not what he said.

I think, in fact, he said, “Sweet Jesus, Dad! What the hell are those things?!? Damnit, this place freaks me out! When can we go home?!”

Indeed, these insects were startling – three times larger than any bee I’ve ever seen. Look at your thumb for a second. Now imagine a ¾ pound pre-historic looking winged beast, clad in black and yellow, swooping down and biting it off. That’s what I thought of, anyway.

But windows were closed, Lee was arguing that she didn’t really need to attend the third grade after all, and soon the bees were out of sight and out of mind.

On Friday, our friends Eric and Jen VanAvery came over for dinner. We had just sat down to eat (at the very French hour of 9:30pm), when Eric realized he had left his wine glass out on the patio table. He excused himself, returning a moment later with a wild look in his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, Erickson, you’ve got bugs the size of crows flying around out there. One of them nearly took my head off!”

Hmmm…

But the windows were closed (we double-checked, this time), and dinner was served, and soon the bees were out of sight and out of mind.

Come to last night, when we hosted our first true “dinner party” in the new house. (Dinner with the VanAvery’s, they being every bit as American and culture-shocked as we are, did not count as ‘entertaining’ – therapy, refuge-taking, yes – but not ‘hosting’ per se.) We were joined by our friends Jerome and Anne Marie, their daughter Jade and her boyfriend Jules, and later, by Philippe and Francoise Nallet.

My new barbeque is nothing like the one I’m used to back home, and French charcoal is quite different – so nightfall found the three men standing in the backyard, coaxing the coals to life. It was well-and-truly dark by the time the meat was on the grill, so I asked Ceil to turn on the light above the back door.

Some time had passed when I looked up and noticed the bees flying around the porch light. Philippe must have noticed them too because he exclaimed something in French – I’m not sure what it was, but from the tone, I’d guessing he said, “Sweet Jesus, you crazy American, don’t you know what those things are!?”

I said, quite casually, “Oh yes, those. We saw a few of them the other night.” Sensing Philippe and Jerome’s concern, I swallowed and added, “but there’re a quite a few more of this evening.”

Jerome is the epitome of measured-response and understatement – engineer, pilot, and husband of a Corsican fire-brand. So I was concerned when he said in his inimitable accent, “Oh, yes, Andy. These creatures are very dangerous. They are, how do you say, rather aggressive. You have them in the States, no?”

Maybe in the States – like in the Everglades – but not in Seattle.

Philippe explained that they are called “frelons” – similar to yellow-jackets, I guess. He said we needed to be very careful – “It’s important to find the nest tomorrow, and call the fire department for help in handling it. These are very bad.”

Gulp. Ok… so, we’re cooking… we’re cooking.

The women-folk, meanwhile, were absorbed indoors, Ceil wrestling the cap off a fresh bottle of gin, while leading a trans-national dialogue on the shortcomings of middle-aged, white men.

So, we’re still cooking, we’re cooking – maybe lamb doesn’t need to be medium after all – rare is good too.

The swarm around the porch light was growing, and now there were dozens of bees pressing their noses (do they have noses? fangs, perhaps) against the back door of the house. Clearly, we could not enter the house that way! But how to get out of the back yard? It’s well-fenced and the gates are all padlocked!

Miles, standing by, was beginning to regret his decision to hang out with the “men”, as we were all beginning to laugh a bit too much, a bit too nervously.

We shouted towards the house: “Ceil, can you hear me?”

“CEIL! Come to the side of the house!!”

No answer.

“CEIL!!! Hello CEIL!”

And, sure enough, she walked right up to the back door, popped it open and began to say, “Quit yer yapping! We’re trying to have a conversation!” – but she only got about half a syllable out before recoiling in horror at the bees swarming before her. She slammed the door, and began doing an odd dance, trying to avoid the bees now buzzing around the living room.

“Come to the side of the house!” we yelled.

“Sweet, Jesus, there are bees swarming around the back door!” she shouted back. “You better meet me at the side of the house!”

Good idea.

So Philippe and I, leaving Jerome at the grill to tend the last of the lamb chops, went to the side of the house and arranged lawn chairs so that we might climb over the fence. The women arrived. (Lee, shining a flashlight in my eyes, asked, “Dad, did you know that there are bees at the back door and some of them are in the house!?” Thanks honey.) We began passing the cooked meat, wine bottles, etc. over the fence.

Miles climbed over – he’s quite spry and agile when properly motivated. Jerome called out, suggesting that lamb tartar is really quite good, and that the remaining chops were plenty cooked. We pulled them off the fire, and took turns climbing over the locked gate.

What was the name of the US Ambassador to Vietnam back in ‘75 – the last guy to get on the choppers during the Fall of Saigon? That was me last night – gallant to the last, making sure my guests were safe, before tending to my needs. (“Sweet Jesus, move your French asses! Those things are coming to get me!”)

We reconvened in the foyer – all a bit sweaty and anxious. “Gee, honey… umm… why don’t we sit down and eat? Heh… heh…”

Jerome said, “Andy, you must take care of the ones in the living room, no?”

Actually, I thought, we should begin looking for a different house. Like, tonight.

“You’re right, Jerome, we should go do that.”

(I don’t know what the French equivalent is, but I bet Jerome thought to himself, “Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about, white man?”)

I grabbed a dust mop from the closet, and Jerome and I went into the living room. (I think Phillipe was phoning his lawyer.) We turned on the light, and the bees (seven in all, maybe more) began to land on the ceilings and the chandelier. The ceilings are very high, but with the help of the mop, I could just reach high enough– twisting the mop back and fourth to squish the first bee.

I released the pressure on the mop – but did not see the bug guts smeared across the wall – crap! I tapped the mop on the ground, and sure enough, the bee fell out, a bit dusty, but none the worse for wear. I applied a coup de grace with my right foot.

Having mastered the technique, Jerome and I found a rhythm – he playing Sancho Pancho to my Don Quixote: I trapped the bees up high and stunned them before bringing them to the floor for a rendezvous with my size 13’s – Jerome followed in behind collecting the carcasses in a dust-pan.

In five minutes, we had dispatched our foes, and we displayed the dustbin, filled with our trophies, to the women and children.

Dinner was terrific – the wine and adrenaline combined to raise our spirits. We talked about all manner of things, lingering over our meal until nearly 11pm.

As we bid our guests farewell, Jerome pointed to the window and said, “Andy, I made, beneath the window, a tombe – this is the word, yes? – a tomb for les frelons – you will see it in the morning.”

Sure enough, Jerome had made a small pile of stones over the dead bees – though when I looked this morning, I think some might have made a full recovery and flown away.

This afternoon I found the nest – a hollow tree not far from the yard. Not sure I’m up to the task of talking to the fire department, though. (What would I say? Do they really get involved in this kind of thing? Would I recognize it if someone called me a “wussy” in French?) I think I’ll stop by Brico Marché (aka Home Depot) and see if they have some spray cans or shoulder-launched missiles I can use.

The end ?

The Eagle has landed – house, schools and cars

This week we’ve had terrific successes:

A place to live – as I mentioned in an earlier post, we signed papers to rent a house in the country-side south of Chateauroux. As I write this, I’m seated in the living room of a five (six?) bedroom cottage in Arthon – it’s rustic and rural but well-appointed and comfortable, with a full kitchen, washer / dryer, and surrounded by acres of green space.

It’s 5am right now and I’ve opened some of the shutters and windows – an owl is calling from somewhere across the yard. We’re not in Wedgwood anymore… or Bourges for that matter.

A place for Miles to go to school – on Thursday we registered Miles at a middle-school in Chateauroux. This is not the private school I was pursuing initially, but rather, the school that my friends Jerome and Anne Marie had originally recommended for Miles. We were attracted to the emphasis this school puts on having a “European Classroom” – with kids from many countries, and a strong emphasis and support for French as a second language as well as lessons in English and German for all the students.

By the way, that animal sound outside is getting louder – maybe it’s not an owl. Do foxes make sounds?

A place for Lee to go to school – although we had hoped Miles and Lee could attend school in the same (or adjacent) buildings, we’ve wound up enrolling Lee in a public school a few blocks away. We had a coupe of different choices for Lee, but in the end, we settled on this school based on it’s proximity to Miles’ place, and the warm reception we received from the principal. While the school does not emphasize foreign languages, Lee will spend four hours a week studying French as a second language, guided by teacher who travels between different primary schools. Her full-time teacher speaks English very well, and is a neighbor of Jerome and Anne Marie’s.

I wish I could describe the sounds I’m hearing. They’re quite loud – this critter is closer than I realized. Or bigger than I thought?

Shopping for school supplies – always a challenge for us in the US: the sheet from ASB will say to purchase a certain type of notebook, but we can never find it – we can get something similar… does it matter? Will the kids be set back if they don’t have the right things. Ugh.

It’s similar here, but with many added wrinkles. To begin, we need to translate the list of supplies! And the supplies are different – for example, the writing paper in the recommended notebooks looks more like very complicated graph paper – is this the right stuff? As ever, we’ve had great help from Anne Marie, and this week, from her daughter Jade who recently returned from a three week visit to the US. Ceil, Anne Marie, Jade and the kids spent the better part of Thursday afternoon picking out binders, pens, markers, etc. We think we’re all set.

A car for Ceil to drive – because the company pays for my rental car, but not for Ceil’s, we’ve been casting about for the lowest cost way to get transportation for Ceil. We thought about leasing a car, but the paperwork is extensive, especially for a foreigner, and the usual lease runs 12 months minimum; we thought about buying a car outright and either selling it back to the dealer or shipping it home at the end of our stay, but that’d take more cash than I can readily lay my hands on. So we finally decided to rent a car.

I mentioned this plan to Fatima, a lady that I work with, and a few hours later she told me that she had made all the arrangements. This surprised and delighted me – I was planning to see what kind of rates I could get through my corporate account, but it was not easy – none of the agencies my company works with have outlets in this part of France. Fatima was able to hook us up with a very nice four-door Citroen C4 using their corporate account – which, for all I know, will turn out to be cheaper than my company's – but I’ll check nonetheless.

So, school starts Monday morning and I think we’re all set: a school (check), a way to get there (got it), stuff to bring (yes), a place to come home to afterwards (roger). What else could go wrong?

Not sure why I’m thinking about this at the moment, but it’s been a while since I saw “American Werewolf in London”. That was a good movie. Remember the scene out in the country side where the two guys are attacked by wolves? That was cool. I think I’ll go close the windows. And lock the shutters. That creature out there sounds pissed… or hungry.

We checked out of the hotel and moved into the house yesterday morning. We did a fair amount of food shopping during the afternoon, and had a terrible lunch at restaurant called Cote a Cote – looked like a Sizzler’s on the outside, but the food was not as good (yikes). Ceil has been in-country for two weeks now, and trapped by the kids quotidian gastronomic preferences, she has yet to have an even remotely French meal. She took a brave step at Cote a Cote and ordered an item off the menu which we could not decipher – it had poule in it – that’s chicken, right? Turns out she ordered “chicken fingers and French fries”. A sad moment for her.

The kids prepared dinner for us last night. So many weeks of eating in restaurants has had some effect – the table was fully set, with spoons for soup, dessert and coffe, glasses for wine and water – and a handwritten menu. Lee was the waiter and Miles was the chef. Ceil and I both had the salad to start, dressing on the side, followed by a ham sandwich and cheese plate for me, and fettuccini with tomato sauce for Ceil. The staff joined us for dinner, and much to my surprise, the service continued all the way through clearing the table. What a treat!

Thanks for your continued comments and support.

Love to all.

A weekend in Paris

Last Saturday we arose early and walked down the street to la gare to board a train to Paris. Eighty dollars for four second-class tickets (in a gesture of generosity and good spirits that would not last, Lee deigned to travel with the un-washed masses… looking back, I’m surprised she did not demand a first-class ticket).

It’s two-hour ride to la gare Austerlitz (sp?) in the southeast corner of Paris. We walked about ¾ of a mile to our hotel – I became tense about half way there, worried that I had mis-read the map, impatient with Lee’s endless questions: “Is that our hotel? Are we almost there yet? What does it look like? What’s that building? Do they have Pat a Pain in Paris? Can I have a piggy- back ride?” This proved to be a sign of things to come during the remainder of the weekend!

We checked into the hotel – not a bad spot, but none of the luxury to which we have become accustomed at Hotel de Bourbon in Bourges. I’ve read stories about the social and political difficulties France is experiencing as it struggles to absorb immigrants from northern-Africa and eastern Europe. We had a glimpse of this issue in that our hotel over-looked what I assume was a low income housing development. The residents, all clad in dishikis and tunics, gathered in the court yard, husking corn and preparing food over small fires… a scene from Tunisia a few blocks from the river Seine.

Our first destination was a large department store called Galleries Lafayette. We walked to the closest Metro station, purchased an all-day pass, and rode to the Madeleine stop. Lee began to struggle from the outset, tired, cranky and not at all interested in exploring a new city on foot. By the time we arrived at Opera Garnier, she was engaged in a full Category 5 melt-down. As a result, the trip through the department store was somewhat rushed.

It’s worth noting that the words “department store” do not accurately represent the Galleries Lafayette, and I’m not sure I can do it justice with more words. The place is huge – nine stories tall, spread over two city blocks; the are entire floors devoted to Men’s Casual Wear, Children's Formal Wear, and Women’s Lingerie and Seduction (I lingered there a bit). At the center of the store, a gilded balconies ring an indoor courtyard beneath a stained glass skylight.

The sales departments are sorted by brand – giving me the impression of a huge shopping mall, but with all the wears housed under one roof. Acres and acres of fashionable clothes, accessories, baggage, perfume, etc. Predictably, I found nothing I liked or wanted to buy.

After not-shopping for forty-five minutes, and bodily dragging Lee for several more blocks, we retreated to a small restaurant for lunch. By unanimous consent, we agreed to scrap our plans for the remainder of the day, and board one of the many double-decker tour busses we had seen around town. Ceil’s idea of seeing Paris from a tour bus, while initially distasteful to me, was a master-stroke, and salvaged what was becoming a truly awful weekend.

As luck would have it, the Open Tour company had their main offices and the terminal for their busses right across the street. There are several bus companies in Paris, and this one operated five or six different loops, each covering a different part of the city. The beauty of the system is that after buying your ticket, you’re free to hop on and off any of the buses, and are thus able to explore as you please, but also use the buses to get around town. A pre-recorded narration described the history of notable buildings, museums and squares in several languages. Despite the cool temperatures and occasional showers, we enjoyed the open air atop the bus.

We took two of Open Tours loops that afternoon, getting a sense of the city much more quickly than we might have on foot. One of the stops was only two blocks from our hotel, where we retired for naps late in the afternoon.

On Saturday night, we set out for the Eiffel Tower via the Metro, stopping for dinner along the way. For once, our moods were in synch, and we spent an hour and a half walking through the parks around the Tower, and admiring the view from it’s base. The queues for elevator rides to the top were quite long (we later learned that the lines are usually longer still!), so we chose to forgo the views and make calls to the US from the quintessential Parisian tourist destination.

Alas, as the hour grew late, spirits lagged, and it was a mad dash back to the hotel to get everyone tucked in for the night.

We woke on Sunday, determined to have a better day – I made a pledge to myself that I would not be overly attached to my plans and expectations and would remain ever flexible. That lasted about seven minutes. Ceil had troubles of her own, and felt quite nauseous all morning. The breakfast at the hotel was pretty lousy – what food that had not run out of was quite good, but they had long ago run out of silverware, plates, and the like.

Nonetheless, we remounted the trusty Open Tour bus and headed for Notre Dame. Obviously, it’s an amazing structure, but the throng of tourists undermined it’s effect on me – I think the Cathedral in Bourges is more striking, though far more crude.

Ceil’s woes intensified during our walk through the Cathedral, and for the remainder of our trip, whenever some vomits, we will refer to it as “sneaking out the side door of Notre Dame.” Once again, my French failed me as I was confronted by alarmed security guards demanding that Ceil come back inside – thankfully, the situation was easily communicated through some simple and universally recognized pantomimes.

We beat a hasty retreat, and when Ceil accepted my proposal that we seek out a pharmacist, I became truly alarmed – she is usually quite stoic and disdainful of medications. We found a place near-by, and the woman behind the counter was very helpful – not sure if “chaque mois, les mals de feminine” means anything in French, but it got the point across. She set us up with two meds and a glass of water. Within an hour, Ceil was entirely recovered.

After lunch we set out to find Shakespeare & Co. , a famous English-language book store along the left bank of the Seine. We spend an hour or more (and 300$ or more) on books – Miles preferring Tin Tin and Asterisk & Obelisk comics, while I sought to remedy my ignorance of French history, picking out several weighty tomes.

The rest of the day was filled with more time on the tour bus; soon it was my turn to be a petulant and whiny cry-baby, and I openly confess to sulking for the better part of four hours after a disagreement about our agenda for the final hours of the trip. Sigh. (Who was it that said, “Where ever you go, there you are.” Too true.)

Finally, we’re back at the train station, heading south, Lee in roaring good spirits, full of energy, me still quite sullen and grouchy, and Miles and Ceil, even-keeled as ever, wishing that Lee and I would just pull ourselves together.

This week Ceil mentioned that although life in France is not particularly difficult, it’s wearying as you feel like you’re doing everything for the first time – a trip to the laundry mat is not just a trip to do the laundry – it’s doing the laundry for the first time. These small challenges add up and by the end of the day, you’re quite exhausted.

With this in mind, we’re glad to be done with so many “first times” associated with visiting Paris: taking the train, finding a hotel, riding the metro, exploring the city, buying books, riding a tour bus, going to a pharmacy, and “sneaking out the side door of Notre Dame”. We plan to return at least once a month before we leave – and the visits will surely get better and better.

More news to follow shortly…