Advanced Tourism – You got game?

Let’s say you’ve been living in, oh I don’t know… pick a country: ok, France… And let’s further say that you’re feeling a bit proud of yourself for cutting it – for learning not to step in dog poop, figuring out how to order one of something and get only one, and for knowing the French word for ‘very-aggressive-bug-like-a-hornet-but-much-bigger.’

Fine. Good for you.

But do you really think you’ve got things sorted out it? Hmmmm… well, let’s find out. Here’s a quick three-question exam – think of it as a pop quiz during the last week of class.

Readers are invited to play along – all the instructions you’ll need to recreate the “real life” examination are included below.

Task #1: “But officer…”
The setup:
First, believe that when it comes to speeding in France, 170 kph is the “magic number”: if the cops clock you doing over 170 kph they take your license and car keys, on the spot, you get to call someone for a ride home. Less than 170 kph and you pay some cash and off-you-go.

Next, go for a long-ish drive… say from Issoudun to Strasbourg – about 6 hours driving time. Drive very, very fast. Whether on the highway (speed limit: 130 kph) or country roads (speed limit: 90 kph), set your cruise control to 155 kph. (Its okay – the magic number is 170.)

Finally, get stopped by a motor-cycle cop on one of the country roads five hours from home. Follow the officer’s stern gestures closely, and pull your car to the shoulder. Get out of the car.

The catch:
First, you and the cop are wearing the same coat (awwwkward!).

Second, it turns out that the magic number is really 40 – as in: don’t go more than 40 kph over the speed limit. Thus, on the highway, where the speed limit is 130 kph, 170 kph is to be avoided. However, if you're on the country roads, where the speed limit is 90 kph, well... 155 kph is going to get you into trouble.

The challenge:
Follow the officer’s instructions and hand him your license and car keys. Now get them back.

Scoring:
Points will be deducted for wetting your pants. Crying is not allowed, though certain level of whining will be excused. Extra credit will be given if you are able to work Seattle SuperSonics basketball into your conversation with the cop.

Task #2: “The Madrid shuffle”
The setup:
First, go for a long walk on a rainy afternoon in a country where you don’t speak the language. Spain will do. Walk and walk and walk some more. Do not stop walking until you’ve developed a deeply painful chaffing condition between your thighs and sweaty hangy-down bits. (Ladies, ask a male friend to demonstrate.)

If you are able to walk with your feet less than shoulder width apart, you have not achieved the appropriate level of discomfort. Readiness to proceed will be demonstrated by the subject adopting a ridiculous John-Wayne-eseque, bow-legged stride in order to spare his hangy-down bits from contact with his inner thighs.

The catch:
You’ve learned from hard experience (cf Nagoya, Japan 1994) that the only cure comes with a liberal application of petroleum jelly (such as Vaseline) to the aforementioned tender region.

Second, you’re wearing the brightest blue ski-jacket seen in Spain since the Inquisition.

The challenge:
Go into a pharmacy and ask for Vaseline using only sign language and pantomime.

Scoring:
Bonus points are awarded if you select a young, attractive lady-pharmacist. Additional points granted based on number of other patrons looking on.

Task #3: “Escape from Madrid”
The setup:
Plan a one-day weekend excursion to a foreign city in which 8am is considered an “ungodly hour” and business is generally not conducted on Sundays. Book your return flight for 5:45 on Sunday.

The catch:
On Saturday night discover that your ticket is for 5:45am, not pm. Your plane leaves in six hours. The clerk at the hotel desk is not optimistic about the prospects of catching a cab at 4am, but promises to work on it. There are no other public transportation options available.

Scoring:
Degree of difficulty points are awarded if, as you walk away, you hear the hotel clerk giggling with a young-lady who has been hanging around the lobby waiting for him to get off work and take her dancing.

++++++++++

Answer Key: While there are many solutions to these tasks, here’s how your correspondent fared.

Task #1: “But officer…”
The play:
After a severe tongue-lashing by the cop (reflective sunglasses and all), I meekly pointed out that I was a lonely guy, a million miles from home who didn’t know a soul in France, and after all, I was leaving in a week, and couldn’t he go easy on me. (At least that’s what I wanted to say. Given my French it probably came out as “Big white man go fly home very quick quick soon Seattle United States wife kids home week soon next.”)

The cop shook his head and said, in effect, tough merde. On the other hand, he clearly didn't want me hanging around his station-house for days on end. What do to? He muttered to himself, lectured me, and paced up and down.

I suggested he cite me for a lesser offence, like driving 130 kph in a 90 kph zone. He put his hand up indicating he was offended by my proposal. He talked at me for five more minutes, shuffled through some three-ring binders in his saddle-bags and fingered my passport as if it might be a counterfeit.

After a long pause, he had an idea: what if, he said, he cited me for a lesser offence, like driving 130 kph in a 90 kph zone. I put my hand up indicating I was offended by his proposal, but quickly completed the gesture by pulling out my wallet and inviting him to help himself to as much cash as he pleased.

With a license, keys and ticket for 130 kph in my hand, and 90 less euros in my wallet, I thanked the officer and started back to the car, anxious to get away before I wet my pants. “Seattle, eh?” the officer called out. “How are Les SuperSonics doing this year?” Had he asked me to speak on the economic ramifications of the Homestead Act I might have been better prepared. But thankfully, I knew that as hell has not frozen over, I could confidently reply that the Sonics were losing a lot of games and the owners were thinking about moving the team out of town. The cop nodded thoughtfully and then explained his deep preference for the San Antonio Spurs. “A very good team,” I agreed.

Final Score: 115 points.

Task #2: “Madrid Shuffle”
The play:
After scouring the shelves of the pharmacy, hoping against all hope that I would recognize Vaseline and not have to ask for it at the counter, I got on line at the counter. The beautiful young lady behind the counter waited on two other customers, and when it was my turn, she looked past me and invited the person behind me in line to step forward. Deeply confused, I turned around a bit, and two other people slipped in front of me in the queue.

My face feeling almost as hot and red as my groin, I hobbled out of the store, legs wide, stepping gingerly.

Final Score: -25 points.

Task #3: “Escape from Madrid”
The play:
I’m not sure yet, but if I have to walk to the airport I’ll need to a) get creative about topical ointment applications, and b) leave soon.

Final Score: stay tuned…

As it began, so it ends

An astute reader (or someone with a great deal of time on their hands) will recall that the first entry in this blog was entitled, “My God! What have I done?”

As this six-, no wait, eight-month adventure draws to a close, it’s fitting that I end on a similar note.

To wit:
Today was my last day of work in France.
Today was also my last day of work at Boeing.

These changes came about almost as quickly as our initial decision to come to France for six months.

After considering a career move for many, many years, something “clicked” during the past few months and I realized that the time had come. I spoke with Ceil and as ever, received her unwavering support.

Work with the French firm has been a bit slow of late, and I dropped a few hints about feeling homesick, etc. When the Boeing manager responsible for my project came to town a couple of weeks ago, I shared my career decision with her. The next day, she and I had a talk with the folks at the supplier and we decided that I’d leave at the end of the next week. My lips to God’s ear… and suddenly I’m packing bags.

As all this was unfolding, so too was the universe conspiring to undo my plan for taking six months off and growing a beard. I mentioned my decision to leave Boeing to a couple of friends, one of whom works for a small consulting firm which I admire very much. That conversation led to an email exchange with the firm’s managing partner. The firm's HR department was engaged and a resume was hastily updated and emailed; telephone interviews were scheduled, missed due to time-zone miscalculations by your correspondent, and then finally consummated. In the end, I was offered and accepted a position with this company.

The decision to leave Boeing has been sinking in slowly: my erstwhile boss in Seattle was unsurprised and very supportive – when my tenure in France was extended, they brought on a replacement -- that call took less than ten minutes; the Human Resources department was very helpful – “go to the website and click ‘resign’.” -- no call involved there; the on-line resignation process was surreal in it’s simplicity and lack of ceremony – “please take a few moments to complete this survey and help us better serve future employees…on a scale of one to five, how would you rate…?” Seventeen years and the exit takes about as many minutes.

The occasion of my departure from the supplier has been marked by a far more satisfying series of ceremonies and small speeches back and forth – a champagne toast with the committee of directors, drinks with the Boeing team, drinks with the supplier team, dinner and yet more drinks with one of the folks I’ve worked with most closely, and finally, today, a tearful series of handshakes and hugs as I took my leave.

I was surprised, touched and deeply satisfied by the depth of melancholy I felt, and the displays of affection I received. Given the many moments of frustration I’ve experienced during this assignment, I had not expected to need to pull to the side of the road for a good cry as I left for the last time.

And so now begins the journey home.

I’m flying to Madrid tomorrow morning for a previously planned one-day visit. My flight leaves at 8am, and though I thought to drive up from Issoudun early in the morning, the emotion of the day left me exhausted and longing for a night in a different place – so I’ve taken a room in a mid-range Paris hotel. I’ll spend Saturday in Madrid, returning to Paris on Sunday evening before catching an 11:45am flight to the US. Estimated time of arrival in Seattle is 6:45pm Monday April 2.

Sitting here in this tiny room, I feel peaceful and calm – the afterglow of today’s tears, the dawning realization that I’ve let go of a big piece of my self-identity, and the anticipation of holding my wife and kids in my arms… all these things are swirling around me. And yet, I feel still and at ease. And the little voice, “My God, what have I done?” seems far, far away.

Peace be with you.

Phil and Andy in Portugal

I'm not a hunter, but I bet there's an expression to describe a situation in which one sits in a duck-blind waiting for a shot, and when five or six excellent targets suddenly present themselves you're so stunned that you never pull the trigger.

Whatever that is, I've got it vis-a-vis writing about the five days Phil Crean and I spent in Portugal. We had an absolute blast; lots of funny, stupid adventures, and I'll be darned if I can put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and write about them.

So here... Here's an account of our week, with lots of pictures to fill up the space. Maybe my mojo will come as I go!

Day 0: Lisbon. Since all the cheap flights from Paris to Lisbon arrive late at night, I flew in a day ahead of Phil. I stayed in a very inexpensive hotel featuring rubberized sheets and a bathroom separated from the bedroom by a sliding patio door. Ate dinner at a friendly restaurant, with friendly waiters, friendly wine, and friendly grilled sardines. Yum...

Day 1: Still Lisbon. Phil's flight landed at 2pm, so I spent the morning wandering around town. Not speaking a lick of Portuguese, I was reduced to ordering what I could point to.

After an eclectic breakfast, I boarded the OpenTour double-decker bus, sending a silent prayer for Ceil's forgiveness. I dismissed these bus-tours as hopelessly toursity and un-cool many months ago. Now, they're my first stop in a new town. And maybe they are uncool, because I had the whole bus to myself...

Got to the airport in plenty of time to meet Phil: a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one.

We taxied back into town, checked into a much nicer hotel and set out for a spot of lunch. Being an old-hand at Portuguese dining, I took Phil to the place where I ate breakfast, and impressed him with my knowledgeable pointing. Then we walked all over town, climbing to the top of several steep hills -- a past-time which we'd enjoy throughout the rest of our trip.

Before our trip, I had told Phil that I wanted to hear live music while in Portugal. So, when we set out for dinner we headed to a neighborhood renowned for it's fado bars. We were dismayed by the "greeters" standing on the sidewalk in front of each restaurant, brandishing menus in seven languages and urging tourists to come inside.

We selected a place that seemed a bit more authentic, not having a pusher stationed out front. Alas, no sooner had my hand touched the door, than the "greeter" appeared from around the corner, having finished his smoke-break. "Excellent choice, sirs!", he said, a hand on my back as we walked in. The greeter hailed the maitre-d (boasting of his sales prowess, no doubt) and we were shown to a table.

The place turned out to be every bit as touristy as we had hoped it wouldn't be, but we had fun.

Waiters in Portugal place delicious-looking appetizers on your table soon after handing you the menu, but before taking your order -- cheeses, grilled sardines, mussels, smoked meats. They also put out a basket of bread and small plate of various spreads. It's a lovely, un-requested tableau, but the deal is, as soon as you touch one of the plates, it goes right onto your bill!

The guide-book describes fado as 'Portuguese blues', but since it tends to be performed by sultry women in expensive evening gowns, backed by effeminate, dour young men playing undersized guitars, I hesitate to call it "blues". The woman performing at this particular restaurant may have been quite famous at one point, but she seemed to be on the back-side of her career. She sang four numbers, each quite passionate and sincere, while strolling around the six or so tables of the restaurant. The party of five (Germans? Czechs?) next to our table continued their conversation throughout her performance. Her strategy for coping with this distraction was to walk over close to the table, and sing directly to them. They were undaunted, simply raising their voices to make themselves heard.

After the lady finished her set, the maitre-de performed a few of numbers, losing his voice during the second and finishing in a fit of coughing, waving his hand about, as if carrying the tune manually. While the poor man sang / choked his tunes, the 'headliner' lady worked the room, going from table to table with a sample of her CD which happened to be on sale that night for a low, low price. When she reached our table, I demurred, complimenting her singing, but declining to make a purchase. She left the disc on our table, promising to return later -- seemingly confident that the picture of her staring up at me from the jewel case would tug at my heart- / purse-strings. No sale, sweetie.

After pushing her wares, she got back up and sang a few more songs. They may have been different songs, but your correspondent isn't sure. After finishing her second set, she introduced an older woman who had been sitting at a table right in front -- the one person in the room giving the singers her undivided attention. This lady, perhaps a sister, or cousin, or friend (given her age, I didn't cast her as a protege) sang a few songs of her own. She out-did the maitre-de in so much as she kept her voice through the whole set. Alas, she forgot the words during one song and stumbled around for a while, despite the best efforts of the 'headliner' lady and the guitar player to cue her -- I was even muttering hints to her by the end.

Through all these antics, dinner was served and it was utterly terrible-- the only bad meal I ate all week. I had read that dried cod is a staple in Portugal, and that a Portuguese cook can prepare it every day for a year and not repeat the same recipe. I think, unfortunately, the day I ordered it the recipe involved wrapping the fish in a brown paper bag before frying it in recycled motor oil for forty or fifty minutes. The portions being huge, and my arms being long, I was able to poach plenty of food off Phil's plate, and thus did not go hungry (thanks be to God).

Day 2: Lisbon to Sintra and back. We got an early start on Wednesday and took a train out to a village which was once the summer-home of the Portuguese royals. The big attraction in town, a former monastery was, naturally, closed on Wednesdays, so we set off in search of the second attraction -- the ruins of a Moorish castle, constructed in "the year dot" as my friend Jeremy used to say.

The Moors, being defensively minded, situated their fort atop a steep hill (read: small mountain), so Phil and I had quite a climb. I felt pretty good despite the exertions, but when we reached the top and the guard asked us for the tickets we should have purchased about half-way up the climb, I must've gotten a look about me. Phil volunteered to go back down for the tickets, and I volunteered to hold his back-pack for him, and conduct research into which park bench offered the most shade. Phil's a good friend.

The view from the ruins was spectacular, worth the walk.

Day 3: Coimbra or bust. We rented a car on Thursday and set out North. Seven of the top ten sights of Portugal (according to our Lonely Planet guidebook) were convenient to our route, so we decided to make a leisurely trip, spending a night along the way before finishing with a couple of days in Porto.

Our first stop was in a small town, with a big church and a bigger monastery.
Our second stop was in a different small town with a slightly bigger church, but smaller monastery.
At the third town, we didn't even get out of the car, rolling past the church, snapping pictures through the window and eschewing the monastery all-together.
We arrived in Coimbra much earlier than expected.

For Phil, I think the highlight of the trip came while we were checking in to Hotel Tivoli in Coimbra: while Phil was engaged with the hotel clerk arranging for our rooms, I sidled up to a young, doe-eyed, Iberian beauty sitting under a sign saying "Concierge".

"Fala ingles?," I asked. ("Do you speak English?") Her eyes grew wide and she went pale, then beet red -- perhaps she may have been embarrassed by my feeble attempt at Portuguese, or maybe intimidated by my size and bright blue ski-coat; perhaps she was drawn to me on a very base, physical level and she felt a mixture of shame and lust; and then again, maybe she didn't speak much English... anyway, I've seen the same look from my computer before, and I usually have to re-boot it before I can get much further.

"A leetle..", she squeaked.

"Great!", I fairly shouted, confident that she was digging me. "What do you recommend my friend and I do while we're in town?"

Years from now historians will debate the line of thinking which led to this young woman's response:

"Do you like dancing?", she asked.

Hmmm... This is a very attractive 22-year old woman. I, on the other hand am forty pushing fifty and the only reason I'm not self conscious about the frayed collar of my shirt is that I know it's hidden from view by my jowls. And she's asking me if I like dancing. Hmmm... Being quick, I had a ready reply.

"Oh yes, I am an excellent dancer" I said. (At that moment, nine thousand miles away, my wife did a spit-take for reasons unbeknownst to her.)

I don't really remember much of the conversation after that. I think Phil fell to the floor giggling. The girl may have turned to her colleague for support, or perhaps he intervened, fearful of where the discussion was headed. Either way, we never ascertained the location, or even existence of, dance clubs in Coimbra.

I asked about restaurants or bars we should go to. "There will be a blues festival in town next week" she said. "Cool. Where should we eat tonight?", I asked. She turned to her colleague again, or perhaps he intervened, doubting whether she was up to the task. Again, we never actually ascertained the location of any restaurant in the metropolitan area.

In the end, Phil and I found our rooms, dropped off our bags and headed out for a walk about town, all the while repeating to each other, "Yes, I am an excellent dancer."

Day 4: The long way to Porto. Having had our fill of smallish towns with oversized churches, we turned east the next morning, and drove across the breadth of Portugal to the border with Spain. We passed through a beautiful national park, breathtaking despite having been clear-cut during the not too distant past.

We stopped in a very small town and ordered lunch at a wonderful little restaurant. We studied the menu carefully and selected two items based largely on their placement on the menu ("The third item is always safe," I intoned) and imagined similarities to words we knew in French, English and New Zealandish. The food arrived quickly and the first dish was lovely. It was goat, but it was lovely. (Seriously, we looked it up. I nibbled on the little goat-ribbies. Terrific.)

The second dish arrived and I immediately had a flash-back to my experience with andouillette -- a French sausage made from pig innards. The aroma was... distinct. But this wasn't a sausage -- it looked more like a stuffed pepper or scooped out squash, though it was too tough to be a vegetable.

I picked at the stuffing, nibbling a bit. It wasn't too bad. I thought to tell Phil the andouillette story, but he had a greenish hue about him, so I held my tongue.

"Not too bad", I said, picking a bit of meat-ish looking stuff out of the middle of the stuffed... orb. I made another attempt to dissect... I mean cut the casing. My knife slipped and a hunk of meat rolled down my shirt leaving an oily and indelible trail. A souvenir of our meal.

"Listen," Phil said, "I'm going to the bathroom. Would you please figure out a way to get rid of this by the time I come back?"

Right.

He rushed from the table, a napkin pressed to his face. I hailed the waitress and explained that we were quite full. I explained this in French and English mind you. Lord knows what she made of my words, but she took the plates away.

Phil was much refreshed when he returned. We ate a wonderful desert, sipped an espresso, and made our way out of town.

Days Four and Five. Oh, boy, Oporto. Porto is Portugal's second-city, and the world-capital or Port wine. Port wine is good. We like Port wine.

Our goals for the two-days in Porto were, 1) to drink Port wine (mission accomplished), 2) To avoid excessively long walks up steep hills (mixed success), and 3) to see a professional soccer match.

We had read that FC Porto would be playing Sporting Lisboa, "a classic match" according to our barman and port-pusher at the hotel. "Sold out, though. No chance for tickets." What if we go out to the stadium -- would there be guys scalping tickets? "Yeah, but you'll have to pay money." Okay with us, as we didn't have any goats or other currency at hand.

We took a taxi to the stadium. "Game's sold out" said the taxi driver. Can we buy tickets on the street, we asked. "Yeah, but they want money." Weird system. Too bad we ate the goat.

Sure enough, no sooner did we climb out of the taxi, than we were approached by a seedy guy with a handful of tickets. Phil is a shrewed business man, and experienced at negotiating multi-million dollar sales with seedy guys around the world. So naturally, I did all the talking.

"How much?", I asked.

"Forty euros or fifty euros" he said, pointing to a map of the stadium printed on the back of the ticket. "Forty behind the goals, fifty for mid-field."

"Mid-field for forty," I proposed.

"No way. Fifty," he replied.

"No thanks, then." I said. "C'mon, Phil."

We turned and walked away, listening for the guy to come chasing after us... any second now, he'll call out... any minute...

We walked quite a ways before I acknowledged that my tactics had not paid off. Phil suggested he take charge of future negotiations.

"How much?" Phil asked the next guy.

"Fifty," he said. "Good seats!", pointing to the upper deck on the map on the reverse of the tickets.

"Forty," Phil said.

"No. Fifty."

"Ok," said Phil, reaching for his wallet.

A master at work.

Turns out the seats were in the upper deck but in the corner of the field. Surely an honest pointing mistake on the part of our salesman. Being a pointer myself, I understand the challenge.

Flush with accomplishment ("We're going to the game!") and relatively certain the tickets weren't forgeries, we returned to town and for another long walk and a few gratuitous hill climbs.

This being Saturday and the final day of the Six Nations rugby tournament, we set out towards Ryan's Bar, listed as the only Irish pub in town. It was closed. Egad, what kind of Irish pub closes on rugby Saturday, we wondered. Then Phil realized it was St. Patrick's day to boot. We considered calling the police... surely the proprietors were being held hostage somewhere... why wasn't the place open.

We resigned ourselves to watching the game in the hotel bar, and proudly waving our tickets at the barman. ("You paid money?" he asked, incredulously.) The matches were good, but so too was it very sunny and before too long we decided our time would be better spent out-of-doors. We went for another walk, this time touring the port wineries along the south shore of the river.


We retired to our rooms for a pre-match nap, awoke refreshed, and boarded the metro for a twenty minute ride to the stadium.

The match was terrific. We arrived alongside with the fans of the visiting club who were ushered into the stadium under the watchful eye of about two-hundred fully armored riot police. Our seats, in the corner of the upper deck, afforded a great view of the field, and better still, the visiting fans section.

The match was a nerve-wracking, low-scoring affair. The guy sitting next to me nearly put my eye out, as he waved his arms in disgust at some miscue by an FC Porto mid-fielder. Maybe I was cramping his style, because during the second half, me moved and sat in the aisle.

In the end, the home-team lost 1-0. The home-fans, fed up with the un-ending taunting they had endured from the three hundred or so visiting fans, leaned over the railing separating the two groups, gesturing, shouting and presumably casting aspersions on their parentage. A good time was had by all.

Phil and I ate dinner after the match, finally mastering the Portueguese habit of dining after 10pm. We ate omlettes in a smokey cafe and listen to a younger, more energetic woman sing what I assume was fado, albeit a more upbeat and perky version... pop-fado perhaps.

Day Six: Home again, home again, jiggidy-jig: We rose early and Sunday and set a land-speed record, mini-van classification- for the Porto to Lisbon run. I had just enough time to turn in the rental car, my cel phone still therein, and dash off to my plane. It was tough saying good-bye to Phil. His visit was a much needed respite and reminder of home.

Phil caught a later flight to Paris, and by all accounts had an uneventful trip home.

My journey was also uneventful, but the kicker came on Monday morning when, after six days in the sunny climes of Portugal, I awoke to snow and freezing rain in central France.

I miss Porto.

And Phil.

And home.

Hope you're all well.

Papa needs a new... Winter coat

For many weeks now, I’ve been self-conscious about the winter-coat I wear. By American standards, it’s a typical ski-jacket. It’s blue with grey highlights, a removable hood, lots of pockets, etc. Ceil bought it for me last year, and it’s been a fine jacket – keeps me warm, dry, etc.

But on the streets of Paris, it seems to elicit stares from passersby.

Not out-and-out finger-pointing-“Look at that guy, Jean-Claude!”, mind you – but rather, stolen glances. I see someone looking at me, I meet their gaze and they quickly look away.

Ok, I’ve thought, so maybe people are looking at me because I’m taller than most Parisians. I am, after all, the largest mammal a pedestrian is likely to encounter on the streets of Paris. Or perhaps people over hear my outrageous attempts at French, and cannot help but stare at the learning-disabled, speech-impeded, growth-hormone-malfunctioning foreigner.

Whatever. I get that in the States, sometimes.

But no. It's the coat they're looking at. I'm sure of it:

Firstly, when I go out without the coat (which I’ve been trying to do more and more, mind you) I don’t get the same looks. Occasionally, people even approach me to ask me God knows what (Directions? Cigarettes? Advice on retirement planning?) – they assume I am French... until I open my mouth and reveal myself as a learning-disabled, speech-impeded, growth-hormone-malfunctioning foreigner.

Secondly, everyone else wears leather or wool overcoats – blacks, dark greys, and browns. No one is wearing a synthetic, royal blue parka, looking for all the world like he just stepped off the ski slopes.

No one, I realized yesterday, except Les Gendarmes! The cops! They wear coats which are exactly the same blue, with identical highlights!

That’s it! People on the street see me in my Gendarme-blue and initially think I’m a cop – a cop, mind you, with an American wife and kids in tow; or a cop slouching on the subway listening to his iPod. No wonder they stare!

I’m in Paris again this weekend, and the weather has been fair: clear skies, cool, but not cold. Not shirt-sleeve weather, mind you, but I’m toughing it out, leaving my coat in the hotel. What’s the worst that’ll happen? I’ll get to write a post about French cures for pneumonia…