France for Free

The Adventure of the Return

2010-09-06T13:16:00.000-07:00

Northward Heave Ho

Before enjoying our day in Brussels, we had to get there from Paris.

Our bags filled the downstairs of our Paris apartment. The cab would be at the corner shortly. We seemed in good shape until: “Where’s the camera case?” “Where’s the camera battery?” “Where’s the train confirmation number?” Then the door opened. We were as surprised to see our home exchange partner as she was to see us.

She had just returned from our house to find us still in hers, there were tons of stories we could share, but my first thought was, “Oh no, there are tons of stories to share and the cab will be here any minute.” Then she suggested driving us to the station. Whew.

We canceled the cab and calmed down. We exchanged brief stories about how fantastic our trips had been. She checked on her hamster and got bitten like everyone else. Evidently we had turned “that animal” into a beast. We calmly looked for things. We found the camera case in the trash. We figured we could get the confirmation number at the machines we were supposed to use to print our tickets at the station. We could always get another battery if it didn’t turn up. So, we bid goodbye to our home of two plus weeks and left. A half hour later than we had planned.

As we slowly made our way through the streets of Paris, sharing stories and experiences, we started looking at the clock and one another with increasing frequency. Our six-year-old, who is acutely aware of these things, asked, “Are we going to miss our train?” Pshaw we tried to convey in a non-condescending way, hoping that we could believe it ourselves. Sure enough, we got there with 15 minutes to spare.

Gare du Nord

Lydgia and the youngest went to the electronic ticket booth to print our tickets. After casually putting my hand in my pocket, I left the other kids in charge of our piles of luggage, ran out into the street, waved down our home exchange partner just as she was pulling away and calmly handed her back her house keys.

When I got back, Lydgia was vigorously searching our bags, controlled panic behind an increasingly thin veneer in her eyes. Similar to the look I had just had when I found the keys. The machine wasn’t working as planned. She asked a rail road employee for an alternative. He pointed to a long line. When she explained that our train was leaving in less than 15 minutes, he just shrugged and moved on. Our oldest started waiting in the line just in case.

It turned out that the machine needed the same credit card she had used to book the trip online. She had used American Express. But the machine didn’t accept American Express. Joseph Heller would have been proud. We had to find the confirmation number we had initially printed.

With only minutes to spare, I sent the kids toward the train platform so they could get a head start, each towing their bag and carrying their backpack. Then Lydgia remembered that she’d given me a stack of papers and thought maybe the confirmation number was at the bottom of that stack. We were in business. We caught up to the kids and hurried toward our door. Ten cars away. The clock was ticking.

TGV

When we arrived, everyone else hurried on and I started tossing luggage into the train, while Lydgia kicked a couple of men out of our seats as they disbelievingly asked, “Well, where is your husband?” As soon as I followed the last piece of luggage on board, the train started out. Only then did Lydgia and I look at one another and realize the full impact of what almost happened. Buying train tickets day of is pretty expensive. The France for Free gang had been seconds away from making a several hundred dollar mistake.

When we got to Brussels after the camera battery turned up and a relaxing hour and a half in our air conditioned compartment, the guy in one of those information box things confirmed that the best way to get to our hotel was to take the Metro. Four stops. Then walk a couple of blocks. We had 6 bags, 5 backpacks, 1 laptop, 1 food bag, 1 car seat, 1 stroller and, of course, four children, one of whom was 16 months old. The older three could roll their bags and carry their backpacks and the oldest also had the food bag, but the youngest was of absolutely no help.

As the pack mule, I had my bag which rolls, the laptop on that, Lydgia’s bag strapped over one shoulder and the youngest’s bag strapped over the other. I waddled more than I walked and had a very wide girth. Lydgia, who had done plenty of packmuling herself, had her backpack, the stroller with our child in it and the most difficult item to carry, the car seat.

When we got down the escalator to our Metro stop, it was clear the Brussels Metro trams would be a lot smaller than the Paris Metro trains. Given what we were carrying, we stopped right when we got there, at what we assumed would be the back of the tram. A couple of minutes later, the tram pulled into view. Then there was chaos.

The too small tram...

The tram was even smaller than we thought and by the time it stopped, we were at least 20 feet from it. Our Paris instincts kicked in immediately and without thinking or talking, we all just went for it simultaneously. I raced like I was going for gold at the Sumo-Penguin Olympics.

The tram was packed to begin with and more of us were funneling in. But there was no way our six-year-old wasn’t getting on that train and she was first to arrive and plow through. Our nine-year-old was right next to me when I heard Lydgia say from behind that she was going to make a break for the next door. I knew she had the youngest and figured our oldest could fend for himself so with a giant effort I pushed forward like an entire offensive line surging into the end zone, bringing my own personal running back daughter along with me. When the doors finally closed, that tram was stuffed so tightly, the only things we were missing were funny red noses and big shoes.

After being assured that her mother and everyone else were on too, our youngest daughter realized her plight. She had pushed and been pushed into the middle of that section. She saw no way that she was going to be able to escape through the mass of sardine-humanity when we got to our stop. As that middle section opened up at the next couple of stops, I directed traffic around her so she wouldn’t get pushed even further in, and some people let her get closer to us. I grabbed her bag so she’d be less burdened to make her way out. Plus, I was trying to collect the entire set, so I needed another bag to carry out the door.

As we were approaching our stop, I let everyone in our area know that this was where we were getting off and that I couldn’t turn around so I was just going to back right out. The doors opened, people jumped out of the way like it was Pamplona, the six-year-old weaved through a sea of legs and we were out.

I believe this single tram ride has put us into the qualifiers for the 2010 most obnoxious American family in Europe award. As we were collecting ourselves, the next tram, which we could have waited for, showed up. It was half empty.

A couple of city blocks, a lot of waddling and some last minute bag switching later and we and our bags stumbled into the hotel lobby looking like we had been washed ashore from a shipwreck. The kids were rewarded with some time alternating between the hotel “swimming pool” and sauna and a day and a half of eating waffles before our flight left. For Canada. Where we once again had to split up.

We arrived!

...with all our bags.

The Wonder of Flight

“Security! I love security! It’s my favorite part.” Other than our Dawn of the Dead experience on our way to Europe, our six-year-old could not remember flying. This time she was awake and often filled with wonder.

Believe it or not, despite our trip from Paris to Brussels, we had actually debated between getting to the airport with a Metro/Train combination or a cab. We finally chose a cab, because we absolutely could not miss our flight.

But when our driver showed an instant attitude at 6 am, I began reconsidering. He muttered, because we had waited to come down until the front desk called up. He implied I was an idiot when he had almost finished packing the car before seeing our stroller. Whether he was right or not, only after I asked him if he wanted to take us or insult us did he close his mouth and start driving. But by the end of the ride he and I were fast friends and he was going to check out homeexchange.com for himself.

Playing while waiting in the Brussels airport

“Look! The wing!” All kids want to sit by the window to see the view. But, unlike most people, our kids are most fascinated by the view of the wing. Our six-year-old had heard her older siblings talk about how intriguing it is, so she was delighted that when we got on the plane, she could see the whole wing. And I had the joy of sitting next to her the whole trip, soaking in some of her amazement.

“This is the starting place!” The plane had gotten to the runway and my companion was thrilled by the prospect of takeoff.

Once in the air and having reached our cruising altitude, the pilot signaled that it was OK to move about the cabin. My companion looked out the window. We were so high up that all was calm to the point that she said, “We’re just staying in one place. That’s why the seatbelt sign is off!”

“I’ve never seen a plane land before!” She declared with excitement as we started our descent into Montreal.

“We’re going to land on the lake!” She exclaimed as we got closer and closer to the land – but the land was only water.

I tried to reassure her, but she asked what would happen if we did land on water. We talked about it and when I mentioned the rafts, she felt comforted. “Will the rafts then take us to the closest place?” she asked, as though stating the obvious.

We continued on the same exact plane to Toronto, but not before having to leave the plane, go through customs, and go back through security. Then we went to our gate only to find a different flight there.

When we asked where our flight to Toronto was the Air Canada airport employee was true to form. They seem to be trained to state the first answer that comes to their heads with authority rather than consider the context or ask for clarifying questions. But we were ready for him this time when he told us with certainty that it would be at that gate in a couple of hours. After we got out of him that our flight had inexplicably been moved to another gate not far away, Lydgia and I led a small procession of equally confused fellow travelers back to our plane.

“I’m so excited to be at the window!” A double bonus on that day for my younger daughter. But then, after all of that time investigating the wings, she recognized something odd.

“Daddy, how do the wings help the plane fly if they don’t flap?”

Once we landed in Toronto, Lydgia and our youngest were going to take the first flight to California, get picked up by a friend and then turn around and come back to get us at the airport when we arrived. Coming home, we had a strict no child left behind, to the side, or anywhere else for that matter policy so I was coming with all the rest of the gang a couple of hours later.

Because she was going to be alone with the youngest on the last leg, I had him for most of the hour from Montreal to Toronto, which we spent mainly walking up and down the aisles as he tried to charm as many people as possible. I think parents always worry how their child will do on a flight. I know the other passengers do. Well, our child had the good fortune to sit next to a screaming baby who seemed in near agony most of the way. By comparison, even with normal restlessness and occasional fussing, no one even knew our child was there.

In Toronto, we once again had to leave security and claim our bags. One set of signs pointed us to connecting flights to the U.S. while another pointed us to baggage claim. We took a stab and went with the connecting flights and got lucky, because our bags were there waiting for us to take them through U.S. customs and check them again, before we headed back through security and on to our next flights.

Since Lydgia’s flight was getting close to the wire, when an airport employee tried to put other people in front of us, we brought out our Eiffel Tower defense mechanisms and would have none of it. Eventually they let her and others like her go to the front of the customs line. A few moments later, we realized we had her bags, so Zach pushed them over there on a cart and we waved from a distance as she went through customs and onto her flight with the stroller, the car seat, her backpack, two bags and, of course, the child. I expected to find a trail of her items jettisoned for expediency as we eventually came along behind her, but she miraculously pulled it off.

Of course, when she picked us up in California, she told us that we had to get her bags too since they had been booked from the start to go on our flight rather than hers.

By the time we got home it had only been about 27 hours, two-thirds the time it took us to get to our first home in France, but for some reason everyone was still pretty tired. But we were also elated. As mentioned earlier, it had been a phenomenal, phenomenal time, an incredible experience for all of us. And, our home was immaculate when we got back. Everything had worked out perfectly. Even attempting France for Free would have worked out had we gotten our homes closer to the airport we landed in and not spent a little extra money realizing this was a once in a lifetime experience.

We sunk into a blissful ten-hour sleep only occasionally interrupted by intermittent dreams of European marvels and anxious thoughts of making sure we had all of our children. The next night we were all awake by 4 am.

School started just 10 days later...

The kids are now back in school, learning Spanish instead of speaking with bakers in French. They have me quiz them with trivia from our trip. Lydgia not only got to live there for a while, but also improved her French to the point that we had a full scale conversation just last night. The youngest is getting his daily allotment of bike rides. And today, I saw his stroller in the trunk of the car and had instant flashbacks to endlessly negotiating it through the Paris Metro.

For the most part, life is back to normal. Similar to how it was before. But it will never be the same.

Somebody Shrunk Brussels

2010-08-30T12:38:00.000-07:00

The Grand Place in Brussels

Somebody shrunk Brussels. As we walked into the Grand Place, I wondered if they’d installed a smaller version right in front of it, like an ante-plaza to prepare you for the splendor of the real thing. I had to look up to see the rooftop statues accusing one another of being the father of a baby statue held by his mother, before I convinced myself that this was indeed the right Place. Of course, the unmistakable gold all over the buildings should have tipped me off as well.

I had realized on this trip just how expansive the parks and plazas of Paris are. It could be just that I’m getting older or that being the pack mule or having multiple kids in tow takes its toll, but everything there seemed longer and broader than before. Seeing Brussels right after Paris evidently put the Belgian capital in new perspective. The uneven cobble-stone streets that made our son’s stroller ride more like an ATV experience, the Grand Place, the Metro trams, even the entire downtown area was just all more quaint.

Crowded streets

That’s not to say it wasn’t crowded. The same tourists that were all over Paris were packed into smaller quarters in Brussels. As we ate a round of delicious and inexpensive waffles right next to the Manneken Pis, our dear friend from Luxembourg noted the masses and said, “I just don’t understand why everyone is so excited about it.” The Manneken Pis is the symbol of Belgium. It’s also a small fountain statue of a child prince peeing water. They dress it up on holidays. Small wonder the Belgians are often the butt of French jokes.

Our youngest in front of the Manneken Pis

Crowds, crowds, and more crowds...

But they still have delicious waffles. And fries. And chocolate. In fact, Brussels is the only place, U.S. included, where we haven’t been concerned that our youngest was debating a starvation diet, perhaps in protest for not getting more than three bike rides a day. He’s the only kid his age who actually has a neck. But in Brussels, he ate well for once, from waffles to our Greek dinner to whatever we offered him.

I’ll elaborate on a few key reasons why. Waffles. Fries. Chocolate. Unlike Belgian waffles in the States, Belgian waffles in Belgium have sugar right inside them that glazes in spots at the surface. I think they’re delicious to the point that I crave them from five thousand miles away, but Lydgia wasn’t won over until she had one with whipped cream on top.

The kids thought that Belgian fries taste like In-n-Out fries, which is probably the best compliment to In-n-Out I’ve ever heard. Belgian fries are thick, fresh, sold in paper cones from stands on the street and best eaten with lots of mayonnaise and a fork. (Not that I could convince any of my family members about the mayonnaise part.) The locals recommended a stand in front of the Cathedral of Ste. Catherine, right behind our hotel. We were not disappointed.

A very happy child about to eat very good chocolate

Our friend from Luxembourg, the 26-year friend I mentioned in an earlier blog who is about my parents’ age, had brought us Swiss and Belgian chocolate from Luxembourg. Her son who came and picked her up later that night got a big kick out of her bringing chocolate from Luxembourg to Belgium where there seem to be more chocolate shops per capita than anywhere on the planet. But we were certainly appreciative. We ate it there with her. We kept our toddler happy with it on the flights home. And we worked on it for days later once we were back. That tells you how much she brought us.

She had told me that she would arrive at the Gare de Midi on a train from Luxembourg at 11 am. Shortly after getting there at 11, I realized that there wasn’t a train then and the next train from Luxembourg was at 11:27. So, I waited for it. She wasn’t on that train. I went back to the hotel to check in with the family, before heading back to the station for the 12:27 train. She wasn’t on that train either.

As I prepared myself to spend the day walking back and forth every hour looking for her, I decided that maybe I needed to be in the train station at that moment for some other reason and I started looking at people more closely. Still, I was about to head out of the station before I suddenly realized that I was looking right at her, sitting at a café. I stopped in front of her and gave her a big smile. After a few beats, she realized who the old guy in front of her was. She had come in on the 10:27 train. Just as I was preparing to come back to the station every hour, she was ready to sit there all day, watching for me to come. She was not bothered in the slightest that she’d been there for two hours. A cherished friendship. And, with her, we got to spend a cherished day.

One Thing

2010-08-24T10:28:00.000-07:00

At one point as we were relaxing on our spectacular couch, dusk settling on red tile roofs and gleaming office buildings alike, I looked at my family and had an epiphany. We had been through everything together. Not just on this trip, but for years. And the thought suddenly leapt to the forefront. There they were. My one thing. The secret of life that Jack Palance had told Billy Crystal about.

We had come to France for many reasons. Once there we found many more. But this single crystallizing moment brought my world into compelling focus. The whole trip had been a once in a lifetime experience. Writing the blog has been an exercise in capturing some of our memories. My work moving forward will be to ensure this memory captures me. That this experience lasts a lifetime and beyond.

Our last few days in Paris, we started wrapping things up. We saw some of the magnificent sites we’ve already posted about, but we also made sure we got a taste of the city’s delicacies as well. We went to the local patisserie and we each had our pick of whatever we wanted. After the Catacombs, we made our way back to Amorino on Rue de la Huchette for whatever ice cream we wanted. And after the Louvre, we shopped along the Rue de Rivoli and stopped in for some hot chocolate at Angelina’s, across from the Tuileries. We’ve written about Amorino and everyone knows about French pastries, but oh, Angelina’s.

Choices...

choices....

Chocolate eclair

Raspberry mille feuille

Apple tartlet

Triple chocolate mousse with
chocolate macaroon on top

Strawberry tart

Almond chocolate croissant

Reveling in Angelina's African hot chocolate

I really like chocolate, but not hot chocolate. It always burns my tongue and never tastes as good as the real thing. But with delights like Angelina’s, it’s easy to see how we can all get so distracted from our one thing. It’s like they melt the best chocolate you’ve ever tasted and serve it at the perfect temperature. And then you just pour it in your mouth.

Our five cups was possibly the most expensive meal we had on our whole trip, but I would do it again in a heartbeat. It was so rich, that even though the kids loved theirs and typically drink hot chocolate like it’s water, they couldn’t finish it. Being the cleanup eater has its privileges though and even if I was going to feel sick all day, I wasn’t letting that liquid gold go to waste. We sat in our corner, apart from the non-kid portion of the clientele, and just reveled.

We also came to know our neighborhood a little better, finding that we could walk to and from the La Defense station quicker than taking the train. Our kids grew to like the Grande Arche, even if they still felt it looked ugly from a distance. They ran up its stairs and climbed the base of the giant thumb nearby.

Frolicking in the modern art-infested fountain

The vineyard in La Defense amid skyscrapers

And, at the other end of the Esplanade, surrounded by 20^th century skyscrapers, they played in a modern-art infested fountain, in between a fantastic African singing group performing on one side and an actual vineyard on the other. We crossed the Seine to play at the Neuilly sports park, where all the kids – even the one only a decade younger than I – climbed giant blue snails and herds of red rabbits.

Our youngest continued to like looking out from the windows and balconies of our home and calling out for Lilas the hamster, known as “that animal” to the several members of the family she had bitten. Our oldest decided that he wanted to live in our Paris home forever.

But despite how much we loved Paris, we decided that we loved our time in Erbray even more. Part of that might have been the easier, more relaxed pace, but part of it was definitely the friendships we had made there. In Paris, we had met friends and made some connections at church and on our last day I thought the baker might finally recognize us again if we were to stay and we had talked with a variety of different people in the street and on the Metro and in shops, and even seen ex-colleagues from work. But there are just too many people and too many tourists in Paris for one simple family to feel truly connected in only two weeks time. Especially when everyone who lives there is on vacation anyway.

Interestingly, our experience seemed to mimic our exchange families’ experiences as well. The family from Erbray made lasting friendships with our friends and neighbors back home. Everyone raves about them. Although we got to meet the Paris family and found them to be wonderful, our friends didn’t get to know them as well. Perhaps that family just had different expectations about the connections they would be able to make – or just didn’t think about it as much. The first family described their trip as the best vacation of their lives, and the people they had met were a large part of that.

Our trip went well beyond the best vacation of our lives, but one way or another, our time in France was coming to a close. We had realized that we could live anywhere, but the girls were starting to look forward to buying their school supplies and the rest of us were starting to prepare for the inevitable.

Our youngest had gone from being a baby to being a boy. Our six-year-old had learned she could push her way through a crowd in Paris as easily as taking over anywhere else and that if we lived for five weeks with only a small suitcase worth of possessions, she could clear out a lot of what she had at home. You could now see the future young woman in our nine-year-old’s eyes and she had seemed to soak it all in, remembering as many details as anyone and incorporating her experiences in a way that she always does, even down to speaking the few French words she learned with a nice accent. Our oldest was becoming a young man, willing to see the world differently, articulating his opinions while recognizing that others would have theirs. We had pulled together and functioned as a team in so many different situations. And each child had also taken on more responsibilities and become closer to their siblings (for the most part) and to us, their parents (for the most part).

Lydgia had also been amply rewarded for the immense persistence she exhibited in getting us there. A phenomenal experience, wonderful memories, clear blessings, improved French, a family whose hearts had been knit closer together and a husband with whom she was even more one as we jointly go forward in our efforts to stick to our one thing.

But we weren’t done. We still had to make it home. With more bags and some souvenirs. And a stop in Brussels.

The Hundred Years’ War and Twenty-six Year Friendships

2010-08-21T23:08:00.000-07:00

(Editor’s Note: We are home now, but have a couple of posts left to wrap things up.)

Jeanne d'Arc statue in Rouen

First off, let me say that we should not call Joan of Arc “Joan of Arc.” It’s ridiculous. She’s not from Arc. As far as I know, she never went to Arc. Her last name just happened to be d’Arc, possibly because someone in her ancestry hailed at one point from Arc. But since doing a Google Maps search on “Arc, France” only pulls up some place called Arc-sous-Cicon near the Swiss border, maybe that isn’t even true. And, after all, we don’t call the Leonardos “Leonard of Caprio” or “Leonard by Vinci”. Plus, her real name, Jeanne d’Arc, pronounced something like “Zhawn Dark”, just sounds way cooler anyway, like the name of a superhero.

Turns out that Jeanne d’Arc is every bit as cool as her real name. She is THE military hero of France, beating out Napoleon, and not just because he had the minor flaw of being a dictator. In short, if it were not for Jeanne d’Arc, at the end of the Hundred Years’ War, France would have been England. And since, as my son pointed out, we would not have won the Revolutionary War without France, she not only changed everything for them, but possibly for us and the world as well.

Jeanne d'Arc statue in Paris

Jeanne d'Arc statute on top of Sacre Coeur at Montmartre

Anyway, I had just decided to finally study up on her a little when, the very next day, we were invited to Rouen. Rouen is where Jeanne d’Arc was burned by the English, but not before saving France, turning the tide of the war and giving the French the strategy that would eventually lead them to victory.

Twenty-six years ago, as a young missionary, I made lifelong friendships with a wonderful woman about my parents’ age in Luxembourg and a wonderful family with two kids about my age in Boulogne-sur-Mer. We would later get together in Brussels with our friend from Luxembourg, but the son of this family from Boulogne and I had been discussing getting our families together and they picked Rouen as an interesting spot about equidistant from Paris.

Twenty-six year friends

I was mostly interested in going to see him and his family and maybe pick up on a little Jeanne d’Arc vibe. I was not disappointed. He has a wonderful family and we spent the whole afternoon and into the evening with them picnicking, checking out the old town, eating ice cream (again) and talking about all sorts of things. Our common bonds and senses of what’s important in life still resonate with one another. Both families, kids included seemed to have a very good time and were just great to be with and we had plenty of good laughs as well. Regarding Jeanne d’Arc, I got to tell her story to my kids on the way, providing another positive female role model for them at the same time, and there are statues of her around town and memorials and a new-fangled church named after her where she died.

Steeples and alsacianesque buildings

Speaking of churches, our friends told us that Rouen is known as the City of 100 Steeples and there are multiple spires plainly visible from throughout the city. Rouen was a surprising delight, with a very cool old town and charming architecture. There are plenty of walking streets lined with shops and half-timbered buildings that made me think I was in the Alsace, some of which are four hundred years old and look like they’re about to fall over. The courthouse appears to be made of stone lace. There’s an archway with a great big clock overlooking the strolling street that passes underneath. And we saw a dog the size of Yao Ming. Our pictures don’t do it justice, but the thing’s head alone was the size of my torso.

Rouen courthouse - stone lacework

The dog the size of Yao Ming (when our baby saw it he said, "Neigh, neigh!")

Old buildings ala leaning tower

The golden clocktower

All in all it was an excellent day with great friends and the bonus of discovering a captivating city. Then we piled into the too small car, with a child lying in the hatchback trunk, drove the two hours home, arrived pleasantly tired, ready to go straight to bed and … we couldn’t get in the garage anymore. They had changed the door opening system on us while we were out.

Eventually, of course, we made it in, but not before causing a mini traffic jam and being serenaded by a few car horns.

Montmartre - Kid Style

2010-08-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

Montmartre was on our list even before my lunch friends recommended it, but I wasn’t sure why. Sure the Sacre Coeur is a unique building, but Lydgia and I had seen it and the kids had already seen lots of churches. The views are expansive, but nothing in the view really stands out. The artists at Place du Tertre are interesting, but expensive and the Place itself is crowded. I seem to recall eating at a nice restaurant there with my parents so many years ago, but when Lydgia and I ate there in the 90s, the wait was long, the air smoky, the crepes stale and the prices steep. I thought getting up the hill would prove difficult for us. And, it’s surrounded by a lesser neighborhood.

Sure, the hill had been the site of the greatest parallel parking job ever accomplished (on the left side of a one way very steep street with a stick shift and only two inches of room on either side), but that was many years ago and there was no way that was happening again.

The funicular

But, despite my bad attitude, we went. We emerged from the Metro station below the hill to find substantial crowds, questionable shops and people selling roasted corn. But that was as bad as it got. The kids might have had more fun at Montmartre than anywhere else. It was an eye-opener, a tremendous excursion. This is how it happened.

The Funicular

The Funicular is like an outdoor elevator that goes sideways up the hill. It is just naturally fun for kids. And, since it doesn’t cost anything to people who already have Metro passes and wasn’t overstuffed with people, it was fine for us too. A diagonal elevator ride got everything off to a good start.

The Sacre Coeur

I’d never been inside before. It’s beautiful inside. They asked that we didn’t take pictures, so we behaved, but the mosaic of "Christ in Majesty" high above the altar is stunning. There was a service going on with singing and quotes so we behaved for that as well, our youngest recognizing what was happening and saying, “Amen.” The crypt was closed and the family decided not to pay for the walk up the stairs, since we’d had similar experiences, but I’m sure that would have been great as well.

The Mime

Normally, you don’t see a mime in a list of items that made a place wonderful, but this mime was no ordinary mime. He was right outside the fence surrounding the Sacre Coeur and, unlike other mimes, he was not silent. A few days later, in a wonderfully French moment, the woman sitting on a train with us to Brussels asked her ten-year-old daughter if she understood the principles of surrealism. Not a question I’ve heard too many American moms pose to their tweens. But, thanks to the Mime of Montmartre, our kids know what surreal is even if they don’t know the word.

The mime was in a heated discussion with a guitarist, arguing about respect. A talking mime complaining about getting no respect. They were both speaking in English with thick European (non-British) accents. We assumed they were arguing over who had the right to that spot. Not surprisingly, when we walked past later, the guitarist had won and the mime was nowhere to be seen (or heard).

Mime and Guitarist "discussing" territory

The Artists

About 100 years ago, the Place du Tertre was, according to Wikipedia, where a penniless Picasso lived, a mecca for modern art. In the many times I’ve been there over the course of thirty years, there are always dozens of artists, willing to draw pictures or caricatures of tourists. The interesting thing this time is that our kids actually considered purchasing one of these. I don’t recall the thought ever crossing my mind before. So this time we had fun inspecting their work and inquiring about prices. Our oldest son, a shrewd businessman, determined for all of the kids that the prices were too high, but the experience was interesting nonetheless.

The Crepes

As mentioned before, Lydgia and I had had a bad crepe experience up there years ago and since bad crepe experiences are really few and far between, they are memorable. But our kids noticed the crepes and it had been a while since we had a crepe fix so we succumbed – though we tried a different place this time. Although the waiter insisted that they had no Nutella despite the huge, evidently ornamental Nutella jars in the window, the crepes were large, tasty and reasonably priced.

The Balloons

This guy was selling these really long balloons – taller than I am and wider than our infant – that you could fill up easily and bounce off the ground high into the sky. And they were cheap too. So the kids each got one and were delighted by the prospect of bouncing them all around at home.

The Hill

Kids love hills. It’s a scientific fact. We went down by foot and our kids ran all around that hill – up and down steps and grass alike. They were all over the place, only showing restraint when they were about to roll down the hill and noticed there was a dead bird smack in the middle of their proposed path. I have to say that I love seeing my kids run and have fun. The hill of Montmartre provided joy for everyone.

The Carrousel

“A carrousel! A carrousel! Can we go on the carrousel Mom? Can we? I want to go on the carrousel! Pleeeeease!” That was the typical response whenever our six-year-old saw one. The infant didn’t want any part of it, but the other three went on. This carrousel was special in two ways: it was two stories like the one they rode on in Nantes; and it had a spinning hot air balloon like the teacups at Disneyland. The kids spun that thing like complete and total crazy people. It made me sick just to look at it. Well, evidently our oldest is becoming an old man as well. When they got off, he was on his knees. We were almost home before he had fully recovered. The girls loved it though. And, it didn’t seem to impact his overall enjoyment of Montmartre.

So, there you have it. Montmartre, a great place for the whole family. Who knew?

The Quest

2010-08-14T15:10:00.000-07:00

The Fantasy Version

Our band of wayward ruffians united over a single quest: to rescue the fair lady from her palace captivity. Though they knew their mission would be fraught with danger, they cautiously made their approach.

Then it called to them. The beckoning, siren promise of an easier path to pleasure. The young man in the group quickly turned aside, soon followed by the others. Mesmerized. Trapped. Before their quest had really even begun. Time, purpose and all else lost meaning. Only the charms that dazzled their senses remained. Had the youngest among them not broken free, completely ignoring the enticements that bound the others so firmly, there they might still remain.

Turning their backs on the siren song, they soon found themselves before multiple doors in the shadow of a pyramid. As they pondered their course, a sphinx appeared as if by magic. Her beguiling questions and enigmatic advice initially floundered the heroes, but recognizing the grave possibility of never moving forward or back, they boldly chose the door on the right, distracted the guard and entered the labyrinth.

Legend had it that the palace labyrinth was impenetrable. Miles of pathways that switched back on themselves and eerily dark and narrow corridors haunted by relics of the past interspersed with spacious hallways so large that one could almost get lost in the vastness while choosing which of the many labyrinth branches to explore next.

The would-be heroes studied the markings on the walls, interpreting the signs that they hoped would point them to their destiny and not their doom. As they began to morbidly speculate what lay beyond each twist or turn and whether they would spend the rest of their lives and eternities haunting the halls as lost souls, they suddenly came to a larger antechamber.

They peered to the other side to find an opening that differed from any they had seen to this point. They stepped forward warily to inspect it. Then, as the sight came into focus they instinctively stepped back in awe, chills running down their spines. The Gates of Hell loomed before them, wearing an inscription as a crown: “This is the Empire of Death.”

The members of the ragged group steeled themselves, took a deep breath and stepped inside. The horrors were almost immediate. Human bones, stacked from floor to ceiling with skulls watching the intruders through empty sockets. Frozen, twisted figures, some decapitated or missing limbs. Religious icons warning of dangerous paths. All told the tale of those who had gone before. Though they had been full of life and purpose as well, the Empire of Death testified that they had met their end.

The band hurried through, knowing that the slightest delay or misstep may lead to their own chilly fate. Creeping forward, stealing their way past the dead and undead alike, they eventually emerged to another section of the labyrinth, filled with dread, but largely unscathed.

Faintly at first, they began to hear the muffled sounds of thousands of shuffling feet. The sounds grew stronger as their own feet inched them slowly on. They had heard stories about what lay ahead. They knew it meant they were very close. But also that they were about to face the biggest challenge of them all.

They turned the final corner and there they were. Hordes of fierce defenders of the palace’s greatest prize, the fair lady who watched bemusedly as the scene of mayhem unfolded. The small band of heroes fought valiantly. As some countered immediate threats others scanned the foes’ defenses and found a weakness. The group attacked. Quick as lightning and with all the strength they could muster they plowed their way through.

Fighting wildly they plunged through the gap in the enemies’ forces. Staving off counterattacks they mustered all their effort for one final thrust. And they were through. They looked up triumphantly at the lady, eyes filled with wonder. They had done it. All she could do was smile.

Now they had to make their way out.

The Realistic Version

OK, so maybe that’s not exactly how it went down, but that’s my version. For those who like reality more than fiction, I’ll break it down another way.

In our second week in Paris, we decided to do one major thing per day and to relax a little more. On three of the days, we went to the Musee d’Orsay, the Louvre, and the Catacombs.

The Musee d'Orsay

The Musee d’Orsay is Lydgia’s favorite museum in Paris. I had remembered it mainly for its architecture. It’s a converted train station, which means its main space is a huge open hall large enough to house trains. The building itself is a striking work of art.

Lydgia had remembered the many impressionist paintings that were there. But she also knew that dozens of them are currently on display in San Francisco. Bitterness at the irony lurked in reserve depending on how well the Museum performed without them.

Aside from picture taking being forbidden, Musee d’Orsay was more impressive than I had remembered. Lydgia and I separately really liked a less famous painting of a milkmaid so that when we were both in that room together and I started talking about it, she finished my sentence. Many other paintings were thought provoking and the collection of impressionist paintings was not wanting for having loaned so many out. There were many famous Monets and Renoirs, two of my favorite artists, including some whose reprints used to hang in my uncle’s home (see prints below), and some Degas ballerinas that the girls enjoyed.

And, although in continued irony, the collection of Rodin sculptures doesn’t compare to what you can see for free strolling around Stanford’s campus, we did get to see the Gates of Hell, Balzac and other sculptures, including a bust that was also sculpted more realistically by someone else and displayed at the Musee as well.

Speaking of strolling for free, we had chosen the Musee d’Orsay on its free day, the first Sunday of the month (when the Louvre is free too, but there was no way we were doing both in one day). When we showed up, the line to enter was predictably long.

However, taking an infant on a massive trip and two of us carrying him up and down Metro stairs in his stroller as if he were a King over and over again evidently does have some privileges. A museum employee directed us to a very short line around the right side of the building before we could even find the end of the normal line. As I mentioned in an earlier post, the security guard waived us in despite my repeatedly setting off the dreaded security beep. With the quality of the museum pieces and the smaller size of the building, the Musee d’Orsay was perfect for us.

The Louvre

“We’re leaving! We’re leaving! Not just this room, but the WHOLE MUSEUM!”

So rang out our six-year-old when the final decision had been made. That said (or, more realistically, that screamed), the Louvre was tremendous for us as well and was one of our oldest’s favorite parts of the trip. And, not just because we got sucked in by the alluring siren call of the Apple Store that is part of the stylish mall in front of the Louvre’s subterranean entrance.

Playing with iPads

After that, every Metro ride when our nine-year-old would suggest to the oldest, “Let’s sit down over there and talk,” the topic of conversation was sure to be the iPad and how they could save up enough in two years through babysitting and lawn mowing to buy one each. To continue the aside, in addition to her ongoing conversations with him she would consistently joke with me, walking near me sometimes to be “the only fan in your fan club” and sometimes for protection from the numerous dogs, stray or otherwise.

And, despite the occasional sessions of testing one another’s lung and decibel capacities, she and her younger sister played an ongoing game of make-believe throughout the entire trip. Often they asked for time alone so they could get in a good dose of pretend in a single session. Although being the middle child has its issues, one of the benefits seems to be a closer relationship with everyone, including the youngest, with whom she is equally willing and able to spend quality time.

Back to the Louvre though, we had bought our tickets in advance (the kids were again free), which turned out to be unnecessary, I guess because there are so many entrances and the Museum is so massive that it can handle all comers. Or at least that’s how it seemed that day.

Knowing that its sheer size was overwhelming and that everyone in the family had limits, we had a simple plan: see the Mona Lisa and the Venus de Milo and consider anything else a bonus. As we stood underneath the glass pyramid, pondering museum maps to figure out how to accomplish our mission, a museum worker asked if she could point out a few highlights of the art. I said sure, thinking that we might get some ideas for the “bonus” part of our plan.

She then proceeded to point to every section of the map and tell us what was everywhere – ostensibly an audio version of what we could read. She was clearly enthusiastic about the museum, but her face sank some when my response was, “Thanks, but where’s the Mona Lisa?”

Turns out that the Louvre has done its research on masses like us and has very visible signs showing pictures of Lisa and Venus with arrows attached to column after column in the former palace. “Why’d the King move to Versailles from this? I’d rather live here,” our oldest said and we couldn’t disagree. The marble, the grandeur, the size of the place all seem both more spectacularly imperial and more livable at the same time.

But despite the clear signs, the Mona Lisa is still difficult to find, just because of the sheer expanse of the place. When we were leaving her room after having finally seen her, we overheard an American woman say to her friend, “This lady is very elusive, isn’t she?”

The Da Vinci masterpiece used to be among numerous other paintings on a large wall, which somehow always accentuated how small the painting is. Most people who saw it turned away with the same question – that’s it? Now they have built a large wall in the middle of a large room and the Mona Lisa is the only work of art on the wall. Whereas 28 years ago, you could get as close to the painting as you could any other painting, because the size of the crowds surrounding it have increased, they now have it roped off with enough distance to protect it if the crowd turns into a museum version of a Who concert.

The crowds around the Mona Lisa

The effect highlights it more for the masterpiece that it is, the worthy quest of our ragtag ruffians, but you do have to work your way through the crowd to get a good, though quick look. Luckily working her way through crowds had become somewhat of a specialty for our six-year-old from her experience with Le Tour de France, the Metro and numerous other Paris sites. We all got a good view of the lady and her famous smile, but our youngest daughter in particular was delighted by what she saw and stood enraptured for a few minutes. There were numerous times on the trip when you could sense someone’s worldview changing a little and it was clear that she was enriched. Of course, she’s only six and the next day she asked, “What was the name of that painting again?”

At the Venus de Milo, while we enjoyed the unencumbered view that comes with far fewer crowds, we found another delight for children and parents alike. In Venus’ room there are marble columns polished to the point of reflecting like a mirror. While art aficionados and bucket listers alike were admiring the sculpture a few feet away, we were taking pictures of the kids and Lydgia doing the floating in midair trick, half of their bodies visible both directly and in the reflection.

We then took turns getting refreshed by standing over the air conditioning vent coming out of the floor while we reviewed other nearby sculptures, including pieces that had lost multiple body parts; one was pretty much only a stomach, everything else being lost somewhere at some point. It would have cheered up the Gryffindor ghost to see some benefits from being nearly headless, even if it keeps him out of the Headless Hunt.

Our bonus sights were French paintings that we enjoyed, but eventually we made the decision to leave, to our six-year-old’s delight. We admired art, ruins and architecture along the way out as we had along the way in. And then we left using the world’s coolest elevator, an open air pedestal raised by a hydraulic shaft taking us to the base of the glass pyramid.

On the open air, pedestal elevator inside the Louvre

Success!

The Catacombs of Paris

I had gone to lunch with a couple of friends near Paris and asked them what we should do that a tourist typically wouldn’t do. They provided several good suggestions but the one that stood out was the Catacombs, which, they described, have stacks of human bones. I mentioned it to the family and every one of them was excited about it. The thought did cross my mind as to what kind of a family we are raising, but we went with it anyway.

The Catacombs let the last person in at 4 pm. They only allow 200 in at a time, tracking it with a digital counter over the stairwell down. It takes about 45 minutes to make it through. (If you do make it through – bwah hah hah hah!) We got there at 2:45 and there were over 180 people in line in front of us. I didn’t think the kids were going to make it and was instantly ready to call an audible, but our nine-year-old and Lydgia wanted to stay, so we stayed.

It was close, but we made it with about 15 minutes to spare. The entrance wouldn’t be too apparent from the street if it weren’t for the line of people in front of it. You enter into a small room, buy your tickets and immediately descend about 100 stairs to the tunnels below. The tunnels were formerly a stone quarry, with a well and the first half of the tour is just walking through narrow, low-ceilinged, dimly lit passages, with an occasional artifact from the quarry. And, plenty of morbid jokes by the children, often with the intent of scaring our six-year-old. Once you’re down there, you’re glad that they’re counting exactly how many people they let in, especially if there were a power outage and you ended up not being able to see a thing.

Eventually, you come to a wider, but still low-ceilinged ante-chamber with a door on the other side. It is above this door, and not Rodin’s Gates of Hell, that it actually says, “Stop. This is the Empire of Death.”

We didn’t stop. My understanding is that a couple of hundred of years ago, there were some health issues emerging from some cemeteries in the middle of town. So the government moved the bodies and, hopefully, cleaned them up and stacked them all super neatly in the stone quarry: the Catacombs of Paris.

We entered through the door and there they were. Hundreds upon hundreds of human bones, stacked so orderly it seemed Martha Stewart’s ancestor had done it. Each stack included skulls facing forward. One with the skulls in a heart shape. Signs indicated the origins of each stack and the date. Famous people like Danton and Robespierre had had their bones there.

I knew there were going to be bones. I knew there were going to be lots of them. But no matter how many I thought there were going to be, there were way more. Passageways were lined with them. Rooms were surrounded by them. A Holy Grailesque chalice was protected by them. All of them right there, easily touched to the point that they checked our bags upon departure to see if we had stolen any of the “merchandise.” The kids acted as Hamlet with a couple of loose skulls at the top. Water leaked from the cold stones above and pooled underfoot.

Eerie. Chilling. “I wonder if I’m going to have nightmares,” the children mused. Creepy. Yet fantastic at the same time. Signs encouraged us to honor those who had gone before and live while we have the chance. As Andy Dufresne said, “Get busy living or get busy dying.” Or as William Wallace put it, “All men die. Few men really live.” It seemed like we saw all the men that had died right then and there. Nothing like seeing thousands of dead people in one spot to make you appreciate your own mortality and the importance of seizing life, creating your own eternal story, while you can.

After parading past what seemed like an eternity of stack after stack, we made it to an opening where we could look up and see the lines of geological history in the stone ceiling above. Then we went up the 83 stairs to street level again, ascending a circular stairwell that was so tight that only two weeks of using the stairwell in our Paris home could have prepared us.

After proving that we hadn’t stolen anyone from his or her sardinish resting place, we emerged to – where were we? We had no idea. It was miles from where we had been. But eventually we found our way as we always seemed to. And, as we learned, we had all better find our way before our bones end up stacked right up against those of someone else, happy that the bones had grown accustomed to tight quarters while living by riding the Paris Metro.

D’Orsay, the Louvre and the Catacombs. Though the prizes buried within each were different, we had unlocked some of their mysteries and our Paris museum quests had come to a happy end.

A Sweltering, Crumbling Mess

2010-08-08T17:07:00.000-07:00

In our last post, we included the recipe for a successful trip to the Eiffel Tower. Of course the steps for successfully getting your family of six into a sweltering crumbling mess are:

1.   Have a vague plan and only sort of keep them in the loop
2.   Try to do more than you really can
3.   Get them thinking that they might get some food
4.   Then don’t give it to them but push them beyond their foodless limits
5.   End up in a place where there’s really nothing too exciting for kids to do
6.   If it’s in stifling, confined quarters all the better
7.   Epilogue: Spend too much on too little just to put an end to it

That was the recipe that led to the waitress from a previous post asking if the kids were going to be OK. It was also the Saturday of our first week in Paris and I had recognized that we would want to take it easier in the next week so I tried to check off a lot of our odds and ends type of things.

We started out great with a trip to the top of the Arc de Triomphe.

Highly recommended, no pun intended, because of the short lines, expansive views and the commemorative nature of the Arc itself. Unlike the views from the Eiffel Tower, here you are closer to everything so you get more realistic detail: gardens on the top of buildings along the Champs-Elysees, for example, and the size of the hill of Montmartre. It also makes you appreciate that they put the big buildings of La Defense off to the side of the city so that your view from the Arc is unimpeded. And, of course, the eternal flame at the tomb of the unknown soldier reminded us of what so many have gone through for the freedoms we now enjoy.

Little did they know what lay ahead.

Along the way to our demise, we had a Paris highlight: getting driven in bicycle chariots/rickshaws from the Opera to Les Halles. Les Halles was trying to drum up business and since that’s where the family almost crumbled and we spent too much on tasty quiche, pies and ice cream, I guess they succeeded. But to get us there, two guys in their twenties biked us all the way over. We had seen these guys a few days earlier and our oldest daughter and I had thought it would be fun.

Of course, our baby was in heaven. “Bike. Bike. Bike.”

And since we got to see sites like the Comedie Francaise (think Moliere), the last remaining part of the original wall surrounding what was then a smaller Paris and the statue at Place Vendome, all while rolling slowly through town, it was indeed very fun for the whole family.

But by the time we got to Les Halles, a crowded, humid mall with low ceilings where each of the kids won a deck of cards, we had also already walked the length of the Champs-Elysees and had fun exploring a few stores, like the Virgin Megastore and the Peugeot store. With its supercool show cars, our oldest decided maybe he would be interested in a “Pushover”, as he calls them, after all.

My older kids occasionally play the Volkswagen game where they hit one another and call out when they see a “grey one!” or “blue one!” My oldest daughter has taken to whapping me as we walk along the streets at times, calling out, “Pushover!” or tapping my head when she sees a “Smart Car!” When leaving the Arc, she informed me that she would stay back with me, because it was too crowded around Mommy. “You don’t have as big of a fan club, Daddy.” As the sign says on one Champs-Elysees store: “Family is Fun!”

The part of town around Les Halles is mildly interesting with St. Eustache church, some modern sculpture, parks and tons of people, but none of them tourists.

As Lydgia noted, the problem with Paris is that there are too many Americans, but there are also too many people from everywhere else too. Around Les Halles and the walk in between that and Centre Georges Pompidou there were still too many people, but at least they seemed local in flavor. At Pompidou we saw a really bad magician and a guy drawing a massive Shrek scene on the ground.

Possibly because of our “healthy” food choices for the kids, possibly because of the possibility of another trip to Amorino for ice cream, the kids seemed energized. Eventually, we decided that we needed what we call “real food” so we headed to St. Germain to get dinner, a distance that I later noted from the Eiffel Tower was farther than I expected. One of the many benefits of the home exchange obviously is that you save a ton of money by buying groceries and cooking at home. But, we had decided we’d eat out once.

By the time we made it and opted for a nice French restaurant on Rue de la Huchette, with kids’ menus that included dessert, we convinced the kids that Amorino would have to wait until another day. They reluctantly agreed and ate their ice cream that came with the meal.

Being entertained outside so Mom could eat in relative peace.

Then, when we left, there was another Amorino just two doors down. As Alanis Morrissette likes to remind us, “Isn’t It Ironic?”

Two more treats on the way home were a moving walkway that actually went up a hill somewhere in the Chatelet-Les Halles mass of an underground Metro world and seeing the Eiffel Tower lit up at night as we strolled home along the street where we "live."

We learned multiple lessons that day that would be good for the upcoming week. One was that we need to have a plan, limit ourselves to one event and get home. Another was that there’s an Amorino right next to the St. Michel Metro stop. Both lessons would serve us well later on.

Recipe for a Successful Trip to the Top of the Eiffel Tower

2010-08-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

Recipe for a Successful Trip to the Top of the Eiffel Tower:

1. Don’t go in the summer.

Crowd To Get Into the Far Elevator

But, if you’ve promised your six-year-old daughter that you were going to go to the top and it just happens to be the summer, your stay here doesn’t span seasons, and there’s generally nothing that can be done about it, here’s what you do:

1. Make reservations in advance online.

We thought we could make reservations the day before, but they were all booked up, so we eventually made them days in advance. The day of, we missed our first train by mere moments and our second train also by moments. By the time we got out of the Metro, we were already late for our reservations. We sped-walked past, through and around crowds with the experience that comes from a week in Paris, occasionally turning to see Lydgia windmilling one arm forward, calling “Go!”, while negotiating the stroller through the scrum with her other one.

We arrived at the “line” for reservations 15 minutes late. I say “line” because there was no line. In fact, it’s the only line I’ve seen in France that has an official line set up with poles and ropes to indicate how you’re supposed to wind around and even has a door at the start. But there was no line, because there was absolutely no one in it. There were hundreds of other people in other lines waiting to get onto the elevators. Just not one single person in our line.

Our "line". See those people in front of our son? They're not in our line.

I spoke to the official at the start of the line. “Is this the line for if you have reservations?” “Yes, when you have reservations, you can come in this line,” he replied, as though it would be some future event. “Well, we have them,” I replied and brought them forth to show.

Now came the part I was concerned about. We were late and a French bureaucrat has always been an interesting thing. Once they have decided something, there is no logic that will persuade them otherwise. I was once told at the airport that I was really lucky to have gotten there when I did because they were about to close the flight – even though it didn’t leave for another two hours. Once it has been said, it has been said and there’s nothing that can be done.

As he started to say, “When are these for?” and began looking at the time, I could see he was considering going down the “bad bureaucrat” direction. Just then a female colleague who had deduced that the whole Jarvis convoy had just been racing excitedly to get there stepped in quickly, scanned our reservations and waved us through. And by “through” I mean all the way through. We walked straight up to the entrance, past people who had been waiting an hour, right to the group waiting for the next elevator, packed as tightly together as cattle at the slaughterhouse.

In the sea of crowds and lines that is a Paris summer, this one trek through the empty line straight to the front was like a day at the Ritz after a lifetime at Motel 6. That only got us to the second floor, but it saved us an hour and for our family, that saved the day.

2. Press on straight to the top.

It might be tempting to stop and take a look around on the second floor. The views there are wonderful in and of themselves. But doing so will only lose momentum and lead to frustration down the road. Especially with kids in tow. Now is the moment. As soon as you get to the second floor, keep going for the top.

With that in mind, when we got to the second floor, we immediately walked up the short staircase to the second level of the second floor and got in line to go to the top. I asked if our reservations could help us here, but knew the answer before I asked the question. This line did not have formal boundaries until almost the very end, which meant that cutters were lurking around every corner. We saw plenty of them slip in where they shouldn’t have.

But not one of them cut in front of us – not with Lydgia “Hawkeye” “Bulldog” “There’s no way you are getting in front of me and my baby” Jarvis on patrol. It didn’t matter how many there were, how big they were or what language they spoke. Perhaps it helped having a tallish husband who wasn’t afraid to lay down the rules in French when the time came, but I think I flatter myself. No one was messing with the Bulldog.

Don't be lured into stopping at the second floor.

Go all the way to the top.

3. As always, have food and water at the ready.

Our kids were excited to be going to the top, especially our indomitable six-year-old who had remained delighted by the prospect for months. But even though we had shot past people to get to the second floor, it still took us another 45 minutes to get to the summit. So our ever present bags of water and food came in handy. By the time we had made it into the more formal part of the line and the Bulldog could drop her guard some, she turned her attention to keeping the little one from fully erupting at his prolonged confinement. This is a polite way to say, she turned her attention to shoving chocolate into his mouth while securing him like a football at the goal line.

A happy baby makes all the difference.

Especially when in a sea of determined tourists.

4. When you do get to the top, enjoy it thoroughly. You deserve it.

It’s tempting when you do make it all the way up to still be in hurried, fight the crowds mode. And, there are indeed still crowds to deal with. You realize that any movie or show that indicates a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower as solely a romantic experience is at best playing it a little loose with the truth. I had thought while waiting in line that I would never do it again.

But the views are spectacular. We were astonishingly high and, unlike in taller buildings like the Sears Tower, we were outside as well. And, what was below us was, after all, Paris. So even with the four kids and the hurried race followed by a slow fight to get there, we couldn’t help but feeling somewhat romantic. Both in the loving sense of the word and in the zest for life sense. “We’re on the top of the Eiffel Tower!” Yes we were. Overlooking Paris. Taking our time. Strolling and pointing out the sites that we had already been to, seeing our kids make the connections, recognizing how far we had walked and how much we had seen in just a week of being here. But loving every moment of it.

A "Lifelong" Dream Realized

5. Get out of there before it pours.

After we had enjoyed our views and I almost knocked my own glasses off, nearly contributing them to Paris the way we accidentally contributed our son’s sippy cup to the bottom of the Grand Canyon ten years ago, we got back in line to go down. Then Lydgia and the two youngest kids waited in the next elevator line to descend from the second floor while the two oldest and I took the stairs. Now I can say I took the stairs on the Eiffel Tower – in the right direction, I might add.

Stairway and Elevator Shaft

We had a picnic at the bottom, bought some more 20 cent towers of our own and made our way back to the Metro at a much more leisurely pace. At least until it started raining. We hurried into the cover of the Metro stop right as a downpour came so hard that it flowed through the base of the stop’s walls. But we were safe and dry. Happy to have been up at the top – and that we weren’t still there.

France isn't just about Nutella, IKEA, Apple and High School Musical

2010-08-07T04:06:00.000-07:00

25 years ago, France had Nutella and Orangina and we didn’t. I lived in Northern France, Belgium and Luxembourg and never saw a McDonald’s. They had Quick and Wimpy’s instead. Back then, it seemed like everything was similar, but nothing was exactly the same.

Now, I am sitting in a home where my kids spend the mornings watching High School Musical on the DVD. Amazingly, both homes we’ve been in have the exact same set of twin curvy mirrors from IKEA that we have. People wear Nikes. And authentic major league baseball caps. The most popular exhibits at the Louvre were in the Apple Store. Years ago I noticed that it was difficult to find a toy in France that’s different from those in the States.

Do You Want My Money or Not?
But there are, of course, still differences. So we thought we’d mention a few less obvious ones that have seemed interesting. Since this whole blog is about our summer vacation, let’s talk about vacations. Things here have different hours in the summer than the rest of the year to the point that stores remaining open feel compelled to put on their doors that they will be there for both all of July and August. Others have different hours and still others just shut down completely.

"The Parisien" Newspaper. The Only Parisian You Can Count On the Whole Summer.

Plus, even when they are open, no stores stay open late. The first family that came to our home was going to arrive in California at around 7 pm and they were concerned whether they’d find stores open that late to get food, because everything closes by 6 or 7 in the country and by 8 or, at the latest, 9 even in Paris. And, a lot of stores aren’t open on Monday either.

Grocery stores force their customers to go green, only offering durable bags for purchase and nothing else to tote their groceries home. Half the refrigerated section is hundreds of choices of yogurt. The other half is hundreds of choices of cheese. And don’t you dare show up at the cashier without having already weighed and tagged your produce.

As long as we’re on the topic of buying things, Lydgia loves to bake. But she has noticed that the culture here forces you to either become trained at a culinary school or to buy their existing products or mixes. A friend told us that even if she made bread, no, no, no she was not making de la boulangerie, because that is an official term that only an officially titled Boulanger can make. In fact, Word just automatically capitalized the word “Boulanger” (twice now) for me, so you see what I mean.

Still on the topic of buying things, don’t bother tipping in cabs and restaurants, it’s already included. Restaurants encourage you to take your time when eating out, of course. There's a classic line in the children's movie, "Flushed Away," where a French leader says, "We leave immediately!" But when he asked, "What about dinner?" he modifies his timetable to, "We leave in 5 hours!"

That sounds great, but in practice with small children we just want to get out of there before somebody throws a tantrum - or plates. Finding someone to ask for "l'addition" and then finding them again to actually make the transaction can be painful unless one parent heads out with the kids. It reminds me of our trip six years ago when I spent an entire meal on pins and needles, Lydgia left with the kids before they broke something and I looked at the man at the other table who was staring at me (another cultural difference) and gave a big old "Whew!"

Get Out of the Way Little Kid
With vacations come crowds. We first noticed the difference in the way people approach crowds at the Puy du Fou. Unlike at Disneyland where every line is kept under control by barriers, ropes and the like so that you always know your place, at the Puy du Fou, lines were not formal. In fact, lines were not lines at all, but more masses. People would join in from the sides and angle their bodies to establish position ahead of their neighbor, even if they had been clearly behind them a moment earlier. One 60-year-old lady was so masterful that she almost made it from last to first by the time a show opened – but only after our oldest son made a conscious decision to let her pass him.

Even after seeing that there was plenty of space in the shows, meaning there was no need to rush or force your way in front of anyone, people still did it out of shear habit. It’s tough to tell whether people’s similar approach here in Paris is because of habit or just because it’s a big city, but most people here seem to have at least one common thought, “There’s a lady with a stroller. Excellent opportunity to jump in front of her in line.”

National Pastime
Another difference is doctors’ offices. In plenty of situations, there are still many people whose store is the first floor or just the front of their home. Our doctor near Erbray, an American enthusiast who is in California on his own vacation now, had a receptionist who doubled as his wife. Here in Paris, doctors’ offices seem to be in large ex-homes or apartment buildings. They buzz their patients in at the front who make their way up a flight or two of stairs and then enter what would have been a suite of apartments. The doctors seem to hold open their typical two-hour lunch break for same-day patients if needed.

As Lydgia said, “I like their offices more than those in the States. They’re less sterile.” She meant in style, but I guess being less sterile could be a bad thing for a doctor’s office. The offices look like they were once libraries or family rooms, with carpet, high ceilings, carved marble or stone fireplaces, beautiful curtains, sturdy desks and comfortable chairs. The tables where patients can lie down and other equipment like scales and the like are just other pieces of furniture in the spacious, inviting rooms.

Of course, the French seem to enjoy getting treated, because pharmacies are as ubiquitous as coffee shops in Seattle. And, they all get to sport a cool green flashing neon cross, similar in shape to the Red Cross. Two friends here told me that we were truly participating in French culture by going to so many pharmacies. Then they chided me for not drinking alcohol, claiming that the weight of the entire French economy was on my shoulders.

Wonders of the 20th Century
Speaking of drinking, something that you never see here are drinking fountains. Personally, I love drinking fountains. I think in our 14 years of marriage, Lydgia might have seen me pass one up without partaking once ever. But here, they just don’t exist. Except for one that we saw within the Arc de Triomphe. But that didn’t work. Probably because people often don’t drink water from the faucet here anyway so why bother having drinking fountains? Fountains are for art and enjoyment instead.

The Only Drinking Fountain in France - and It Doesn't Work

Speaking of running water, another difference compared with 25 years ago is that public bathrooms are easier to find, more often free than before and generally nicer in terms of both how well they’re kept up and the amenities that exist. Fewer squatters, as we referred to holes in the ground with fake porcelain around them. Perhaps that’s why we’ve only seen two individuals stopped by the side of the road, one a lone cyclist in the middle of nowhere and the other a father of four in the middle of nowhere with surprise fireworks going off from who knows where at the same time. Not sure what to make of that, but surprise fireworks at least are almost always a good thing.

However, bathrooms are still viewed differently than in the States. Witness those at the Puy du Fou, the major theme park where you turn to where you think there will be a men’s and women’s entrance only to find a line of urinals against a wall for everyone to see, right next to a bunch of stalls. Imagine that at Disneyland. Odd then that where there are good stalls the walls are floor to ceiling. When privacy is important, it’s evidently very important.

Etc.
We’ve previously mentioned that driving here is based on continuous flow, versus order. I like the approach better, but a part of it is that in the countryside, you often are going through each town, because the autoroutes aren’t as comprehensive as our freeway system, and are far from free at that. And, the joy of continuous flow has been lessened by the continuous patrolling of automatic radar systems that catch you when you speed and send you a bill days later.

Another difference from 25 years ago is that there are a lot fewer smokers. There are more in Paris than elsewhere, but almost everyone 11 years or older used to smoke and now it is a distinct minority. That’s a very welcome change, even if because they can’t smoke within restaurants anymore a non-smoker can’t really choose a seat outside to enjoy the fresh air.

And, as the kids mentioned, there are a lot more castles here. Along those lines, almost every site of interest doesn’t charge for kids, which is a huge bonus. In the States, families get obliterated when going somewhere, but here almost everywhere you only charge for the two adults and all of our kids get in free. Sometimes that benefit even goes as high as up to the age of 25. I don’t think we will come in exactly at our France for free objective, but we really would have been over without this benefit.

Possible Side Effects Include Death
We’ve previously mentioned that they must have fewer lawsuits, because there are fewer handrails, guard rails and the like. But at the same time, when an officious group saw that our younger daughter had climbed six inches up a very sturdy pole, they were suddenly extremely concerned, making it clear even to her that she needed to stop. What was also clear even to her was the lack of consistency in the official stance concerning her well-being, at least from our point of view. She’s far more concerned that we might get separated on the Metro than that she might slip a few inches from a pole.

Those are some of the many differences that we’ve found interesting, in addition to some of the other things we’ve discussed, and by no means a comprehensive list. Just remember also, to read the signs. The sign at St. Malo telling us that the tides were strong showed a surfer landing on another guy’s head. Signs that a surface is slippery show a stick figure as though he just stepped on a cartoon banana peel and if there’s a risk of electrocution, that’s obviously very dire for the stick figure. Then, there’s the signs on the autoroutes around Paris: Drive + Sleep = Die.

It’s unclear whether they follow through on the promise if you are lucky enough to awake before getting in an accident on your own.

Versailles Tried to Kill Us Again

2010-08-03T14:46:00.000-07:00

Versailles tried to kill us again. Thirteen years ago, on a very hot summer day, Lydgia and I had trudged all the way out to Marie-Antoinette’s part of the royal hood after having already gone through the whole palace tour. To give some perspective, the Versailles brochure states that all of Paris could fit in the palace’s grounds. The last queen’s sanctuary isn’t that far away, but the Internet says that it takes at least a half hour to walk there from the palace. By the time we arrived, the 60% of our body that is water was fast fleeing when we spotted a lone enterprising child / rip-off artist selling thimblefuls of orange pulp for $5 each. And we were grateful.

This time we thought we were better prepared, but I’ll get to that in a moment. First, the kids’ reactions to Versailles as a whole: “It’s a little too big.” “It’s not very inviting.” “I wish it was more welcoming.”

I wish it was more welcoming too, but those summaries are like feeling compelled to call it ornate, ostentatious, pretentious, elaborate, etc. If you say “Versailles” then any of those descriptors seems just redundant. But, basically other than those minor issues, the kids are ready to move in.

It was the perfect day for being there, cloudy and cool, but not rainy. We started the day with a full stock of water and food on our pack mule (moi). And there is a train that will carry people to those far-reaches of the grounds. Learning from the child, there are also several more stands and restaurants throughout the grounds and, possibly therefore, more competitive pricing. We can’t say for sure though, because the pack mule was not about to both lug and spend.

But Versailles was not to be deterred. Recognizing that a direct and concentrated assault hadn’t worked last time, its new approach was both more subtle and distributed, akin to carpet sniping, a military approach that I hope never actually exists.

Our oldest daughter was delighted that we got to drive there, instead of taking a train, but by the time we arrived, the parking lot was full and the closest spot we could find had a two-hour time limit. Given that we showed up at lunch time, which because this is France somehow gave us an extra hour, and figuring that our kids would last three hours max anywhere, I felt that was plenty of time. What I did not understand was that our preparation was all targeted around the kids and keeping them happy and peaceful longer. Three hours was nothing for them. We ended up being there for six. And, none of our preparation was on getting the pack mule in Versailles-ready shape.

I’ve noticed that they have interesting security screenings at important French sites. For example, Versailles’ advanced equipment seemed to screen out strollers and food. Musee d’Orsay’s got a camera out of me, but then when I beeped again, I was just waved through and handed back my camera. The look on the man’s face indicated that he had done a quick cost-benefit analysis of the time impact on a long line versus the chance that a guy had flown from the U.S. with his wife and four kids just to damage art.

Anyway, since it was lunch time, we turned back around and ate our food on the gardens, eliminating our hour of bonus time immediately.

And, once we did go back in to view the palace, handing our food over temporarily, we were strollerless as well. Being strollerless might not sound like a big deal, especially given that the pack mule was ostensibly just swapping one bit of cargo for another, but it is the best way to contain a toddler in a museum. Especially a toddler who needs a nap.

The second best way to contain him and the least taxing way for me to carry him is on my shoulders. But we were told we couldn’t do that either. I politely asked if they were going to provide someone to carry him for me since they were taking away all of my options. I tried setting him down at various points along the way to give my 45-year-old back a respite and partially hoping, I hate to admit, that he would wreak a little havoc on that unhallowed home. I guess that guy at Orsay did have something to worry about after all, but our child wanted no part of being down by himself in the craziness that is Versailles.

He and I did a whirlwind tour while the others listened to their handheld automated tours – at least halfway through until the kids got fed up and went the speedy route as well. I tried to remind myself of things that I had heard before: “This is the desk where the Treaty of Versailles was signed, ending World War I.” “That’s a painting of Napoleon crowning himself.”

I saw the obvious signs: “King’s Bedroom.” And the obvious sites that needed no signs: Hall of Mirrors.

I had forgotten that so many historical paintings were there, their immense size and the majesty of the halls where they hang.

I noted that the King’s office was right outside of his bedroom and thought, “It’s good to be the King,” before remembering that many people’s workplaces are in such close proximity. He had the information of the world and all the governmental administration brought to him, but of course with the Internet, so do we all. In some ways, we have all become Kings and peasants at the same time. Maybe it was that line of thinking that made Versailles want to do me in even more.

By the time the toddler and I were done, we were done. We got out into the courtyard. He wanted down. I was more than happy to oblige. Then he just sat where he was, snuggling his blanket, as if it would nurse him into overcoming the ordeal he’d just survived while he stared vaguely at nothing.

I noticed yet another long line for the women’s bathroom. Perhaps my thoughts were already on revolution, because I began wondering why women had not yet begun a worldwide revolt against these lines in public places. I mean, how hard can it really be to install more toilets? I have seen multiple women here just get fed up and walk directly into the men’s room. The rest of the family arrived sooner than I thought they would, but we had not yet seen much of the grounds and our parking time was up. I told the others where the train was and I trudged to feed the meter.

When I found out it was almost $10 to ride the train, even for our oldest child who got in the palace for free, I thought of the crisp air and figured it was the perfect day for me to walk. I was walking right toward the Trianons and got within viewing distance before realizing my path was blocked by a large wall and, in one place a large enough moat. I considered scaling, but remembering that I had a backpack and stroller and that I couldn’t claim youthful exuberance I just lost the benefit of the diagonal I’d been taking and walked a few football fields in the wrong direction before finally getting past the wall and heading off on the right path.

On our way from the Grand Trianon to the Austrian Hamlet that Marie-Antoinette had constructed for herself, Lydgia had her own moat and wall-induced detour. At the same time, because Lydgia had our tickets, I had to talk my way into that part of the park with three kids but no tickets to get to our rendez-vous point. I was glad I did, because by the time we reached one another, Lydgia was looking worn out and slightly befuddled.

Ah, the Idyllic Life of Marie-Antoinette

Our oldest’s knees had gotten all scraped up being a French Evil Knievel. And, I broke my watch, which our six-year-old found fascinating.

Holding Up the Broken Watch

There’s probably a lot of symbolism to be read into the fact that I broke my watch both of the times I’ve taken my family to France. But at this point, there was one interpretation that was most urgent. Our time was up. I had to get back to the meter.

A half hour later, I had strode past the palace, through the courtyard, past the parking lots and down a few streets to our car yet again. But it had almost killed me. By the time I got back to the large statue in front of the grounds of Louis XIV proudly astride his horse, it was only my own peasant pride that kept me from crumbling. But I still sat down and ate and drank some of what I’d been lugging. Sometimes, it’s good to be the pack mule.

As they came strolling from their train ride and saw me, the kids ran toward me, led first by the one with the scraped up knees. Our plan for keeping them happy and peaceful had succeeded for the most part. And, even though Versailles exploited the major weakness in our defenses, Lydgia and I had scraped through as well. I never knew just how many places could throb on a single human foot before. But, whatever doesn’t kill you doesn’t kill you. And, once more Versailles had failed.

We're Under Where?

2010-07-31T16:55:00.000-07:00

Where Are We Again?
We couldn’t find the car. It wasn’t at the address we were given. In fact, we never found the address we were given. After walking in circles for 20 minutes, we gave up. As almost an afterthought I suggested we check our building’s basement. And, amazingly, it was right where you would expect it to be – in our very own garage.

We couldn’t find the GPS controls. So we went back upstairs and used Google Maps. It was only days later when we had a modern day John Henry battle that the GPS was eventually sorted out. The battle between male stubbornness to find directions while driving despite our path being repeatedly blocked by construction versus an engineer’s determination to successfully apply the latest technology ended more happily than the original John Henry legend. It was close, but in our version of the story, the controls were hidden behind the steering wheel and John Henry lived on to fight another day.

We couldn’t find the clicker to open the garage door. I pulled really close to the door. Nothing was triggered. I looked around the door and read a sign saying to stay and make sure the doors got completely shut, which didn’t seem to me to be the main problem at the time. Just as I was starting to debate whether I should back up down the curved exit with a cement post in the middle and inches of clearance on either side OR leave the car where it was and go get Lydgia, the backing-up expert of the family to do the same, I realized that I should look up to see if the clicker was attached to the sun shades. I looked, saw something, pushed it - and that wasn’t it either. Eventually, I dug in the console, found it and we were on the road.

We couldn’t find the closest train station. So, we walked to the Metro station. But we couldn’t find that either. We couldn’t find the right metros and trains once we eventually did make it to the stations.

Many Are Called, But We Were Chosen

Long Line at Notre Dame

We couldn’t find the end of the line to get into Notre Dame. But, we had done our homework this time, knew that it was free and figured if we ever did find the end, the line would move relatively quickly. Notre Dame is a phenomenal building in so many ways. Its construction began over 800 years ago and took almost 200 years to complete. But, although I was always about as interested in being an architect as George Costanza was, I also only have his same level of training. So I won’t elaborate on the Gothic style and flying buttresses other than to mention that “flying buttresses” is fun to say.

However I do know a lot about Notre Dame, its history, its religious importance, its sacred place in Roman Catholicism, the immense importance of Rome in Western Europe to this day, the tie-in with St. Louis in Missouri, that Medvedev and Obama both came to worship the crown of thorns there, that there aren’t enough priests anymore because the current generation isn’t educated well enough and that you just have to push your way through crowds here – even in the cathedral – because no one has any manners anymore. Or at least I heard these things (don’t quiz me on the details), because out of the thousands of people in the cathedral when we were there, we were selected by a delightful, English speaking and slightly quirky nun for a personal tour. Evidently, we looked like we were in the greatest need.

She took the six of us and led us behind ropes and through a gate right in front of the Pieta, sat us down and taught us all of the above and more, including that because people didn’t have access to the Bible when it was constructed, the building’s symbolism and the stories from the scriptures displayed in bas-relief were very important. To her point about priests, we walked past largish panels declaring the type of men priests are and asking youth if they couldn’t picture themselves as one. Out in Erbray, we were told that, because of their scarcity, priests only come by once every five weeks, that lay people ran the masses the other weeks and that the upkeep of the large church in each town was paid by the townspeople, not the church.

She made our visit unique and interesting.

The Food of Heros
When it came time to go up the stairs though, something that Lydgia and I have done before and that affords spectacular views, we took a look at the line, the cost and the state of our youngest children and chose ice cream instead. Right near Notre Dame on the Ile de St. Louis, there is the most famous ice cream shop in Paris, Berthillon. Perhaps because of this, there are several other ice cream shops there as well. Several years ago, some Oracle colleagues and I did a comparison test and the vote was in favor of a gelato shop a few blocks from Berthillon.

Despite typically being unable to find things immediately, this time we found just the right place: Amorino, with limitless flavors packed next to one another in a single scoop of died-and-gone to heaven ice cream. Even our six-year-old, who has found that Vanilla in France does not taste like French Vanilla in the States, was delighted. It’s amazing what great ice cream will do for a family of six. Maybe that's why the vendors at Puy du Fou were calling their own product, "The ice cream of heros!"

The Old and the New
Since we were in the neighborhood, we went to one of my other favorite places in Paris, Shakespeare and Company. Across from Notre Dame, the bookstore looks like it’s straight out of Harry Potter with floor to ceiling books, book-filled walk-in closets, narrow aisles, steep stairs, an old typewriter, a black cat, nooks and niches with comfortable pillows, a children’s section, etc. You half expect Ollivander to step forth and eerily present you the book that is your perfect match. Writers like Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Joyce spent a great deal of time there back in the day. The kids loved it and our nine-year-old voracious reader picked up two potentially perfect books for her.

On the way there we checked out the wares from those box vendor guys along the Seine (bouquinistes evidently). It looks as though most of them and their products have been there at least 50 years and, in fact, their predecessors first began selling along the river almost 500 years ago. Something new for me was a bridge behind Notre Dame with padlocks closed around the railing, the initials of couples inscribed on them and the keys presumably thrown in the river.

We explored the wonderfully winding, narrow, shop and restaurant-filled streets and alleys of St. Germain, but only a little, because we had an appointment at City Hall. Something called Paris-Plages originated in Paris in 2002. During the summer, they haul in a bunch of sand, beach chairs and umbrellas and set them up down along the Seine. People can just use them as though they’re at the beach.

They also have fun activities for free. For example, in front of the Hotel de Ville (City Hall), they had giant, clear plastic balls that kids could get into and roll around the plaza as if they were hamsters. We had set up an appointment hours earlier and we absolutely were not going to miss it. The kids had a blast, smashing into one another, seeing how fast they could go and generally bouncing all around, our six-year-old doing all sorts of accidental flips inside the ball’s protected confines.

Another thing the kids really wanted to do was see where everyone had had their heads chopped off. Place de la Concorde isn’t much to see itself, but the views from there of the Eiffel Tower, the Tuileries with the Louvre behind it or up the Champs-Elysees to the Arc with the Grande Arche (or, as my kids call it, “that arch is so ugly, it’s not even an arch”) in the distance are spectacular. But they were rewarded more than visually when our stroll to where I remembered a Ferris wheel having been revealed an entire carnival, similar in size and style to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk, almost hidden in the Tuileries, because the garden is so large.

Foolishness Is the Impetus for Our Valor
We checked out the old Opera House, which doubles as the national academy for ballet. Among its majestic stairways, Chagal ceiling and famous chandelier we learned that as a polar opposite to the Wicked Witch our oldest child melts if he doesn’t have water.

We have been pleasantly surprised by the traveling abilities of our children. Our son is still able to have fun but is also willing to take on responsibilities. Our older daughter has been a truly delightful traveling companion in almost every situation. Our younger daughter is as determined to be a Paris Metro expert as she is to be the expert of everything else. And, of course, the baby is always ready to go along for the ride. That said, we all have our moments and just today a waitress asked me if the kids were going to be OK and mentioned that my wife looked like she had had enough. Later she raced after us to give me back my credit card that I had left there, chuckling at our whole experience.

The adjective used most often by people when they find out that we are traveling with four young children or when they find out that we are doing home exchanges is "brave." You can see in their eyes though that what they really mean is "crazy." What seems to be most important for our kids' well-being is always having food and water on hand. Then if we just modify our expectations and slow the pace down, it seems to work out OK.

Riding on the Metro-o-o

Regarding the Metro, the coordination that it takes to hand three kids their passes, get six people and a stroller through the turnstiles and then recollect the passes and collectively move in the right direction is almost staggering. But, we’re getting pretty good at it. We’re never going to be those people that you see moving through almost without breaking stride, of course. When we first started using the Metro, the girls, especially, seemed very concerned about it. They noted how fast the doors open and shut and pictured themselves lost and alone on a train for the rest of their lives. Just tonight as we were racing for a train and a moment of indecision gripped the family regarding getting on or staying off, our youngest daughter experienced distinct panic. On the next train, the same daughter was the offensive tackle to a Texan grandma's defensive end move to get past our daughter as the grandma panicked thinking that she wasn't going to make it off.

The kids are constantly trying to remember where to get off – not unlike most tourists frankly. But Lydgia told them that by the time we were ready to leave they’d be pros and we’re all getting there. Our youngest daughter now tells us where to go and what to expect in some of the transfers. One thing the three older kids were all pros at quickly was “metro surfing,” which they do by leaning forward without holding onto anything, letting the acceleration of the train be the only thing to keep them from falling.

Metro Surfing is Very Serious Business

They also like the street vendors and musicians. Our favorite was a tuba and accordion duet playing Abba in one of the stops and a guy who played the trumpet right on the Metro, spurring impromptu dancing by some of the passengers while we careened through the tunnels. OK, it was just us, but maybe some of the other riders are blogging about crazy people on the Metro right now because of it. We decided that a not so interesting tour of France would be to ride the Metros all day and have someone explain what famous sites are above.

Our nine-year-old would still much rather drive everywhere, even after I got to drive in my favorite spot - around the Arc de Triomphe for the second time in my life - and fought to hold my own against buses and trucks as we passed construction in non-existent lanes on the Boulevard de la Grande Armee. Very trusting, kids are. Lydgia took more of a "trust, but cling to the sides of the chair just in case" approach.

Home Free
We’ve also gotten acclimated to our home. At first when we walked in, the contrast with our house/resort out in the countryside was stark. Just entering was almost as difficult as going through the Metro turnstiles. Eating around the small kitchen table was a sure-fire way to induce “she’s touching me” type comments. The spiral staircase is so narrow and steep that even I have almost fallen multiple times. And for several days we seemed to have a pet pigeon who couldn't escape the balcony no matter how many times he crashed into our window.

But it didn’t take me long to love it. We eat out on one of the patios overlooking the neighborhood or looking up to the skyscrapers of La Defense. The family room is wide open with windows all around and a phenomenal couch that I’m trying to figure out how I can stuff in my luggage. The office is perfect for typing blogs. Our youngest sits with a view of the neighborhood like Jimmy Stewart in "Rear Window", monitoring activity with insightful repartee like, "Bike. Car. Choo choo." (Which eventually led to our finding the closest train station.)

Our View at Dinner

The neighborhood has everything you could want; small shops and large grocery stores; parks for the kids where they’ve managed to play Marco Polo on land, spin on a small chair akin to a Disney teacup and play ping pong near teenagers who were completely wasted; the Seine only jogging distance away; a hair salon that manages their clients like house contractors manage theirs, turning a 10 minute process into an hour and a half; and a two-story McDonald’s with a Walk-Thru Window, where locals line up for the opportunity to be traitors to their culture.

Although we couldn’t find anything at first, we now find ourselves enjoying being here thoroughly, at ease and excited at the same time, with more discoveries ahead.

That Is a Very Wide Bottom

2010-07-29T01:01:00.000-07:00

“That is a very wide bottom.”

“Where is it? I don’t see it.” “Look up.”

“Are we going to go up the stairs or the elevator?”

“The elevator must be in one of the legs.”

“Do you think the elevator goes up like this or like this?”

“Take a picture of me lifting it.”

“It’s like it’s sitting on us.”

“Does it cost less to take the stairs or the elevator?”

“Can we take a picture with those guys with machine guns?”

“Can we get ice cream?”

“What is that netting for?”

“I don’t like the netting, it makes it look ugly.”

“Can we go in there?”

“Can we get ice cream?”

“Why are we walking so far away?”

“Can we get five of those for 1 Euro?”

“That is sooo tall.”

“I see people walking up.”

“I see the elevator.”

“Ohh, I am going to be so scared.”

“Can we get something to eat?”

“Can we play in there?”

“I’m so tired.”

You’re telling me. I’m tired just thinking through it again. And we didn’t even go up. We got to the frighteningly tall Eiffel Tower, which does indeed have a very wide bottom, saw the massive lines and noticed that there was a much smaller one for those with reservations. Being here for two weeks has its advantages, I guess.

We found another great playground and more ice cream, which seems to be our major expense in Paris. Each of the kids bought 5 tiny Eiffel Towers for 1 Euro from vendors who had all of their wares on sheets so they could hightail it out of there at a moment’s notice if the cops came. Then we hightailed it out of there ourselves and now we get: “Our we going to the Eiffel Tower again today? Tomorrow?” Rest assured all, it’ll be Monday. We know that, because we made reservations last night. I’m sure it will be really easy now.

Getting the first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower from the double decker train.

Are the elevators going to go like this or like this?

Le Tour

2010-07-27T15:47:00.000-07:00

“I thought they were supposed to be riding the bikes.”

We went to a bike race and three parades broke out. On the afternoon of the Tour de France final, we emerged from the Metro right where the Champs-Elysees meets l’Etoile (the massive roundabout around the Arc de Triomphe that our nine-year-old had previously recognized with “Wasn’t Eloise here?”). Several rows of people were blocking the street in position to see Le Tour de France. One guy, in a stroke of genius, had brought his own ladder to see over the throng.

As soon as we got there, there was excitement, noise, and people craning their necks for a better view. So I put my six-year-old on my shoulders, got on my tip toes and immediately saw a bunch of matching cars blaring their horns and swerving around with passengers hanging out making overly dramatized gestures of enthusiasm and generally trying to attract as much attention as possible to whatever they happened to be advertising. No cyclists though.

Who knows how long the parade of advertisers and police cars with sirens at top blast had been going on before we arrived, but it lasted at least a half hour after we were there. Groups of cars, motorbikes and semi-trucks with horns blaring touted anything from autos to water. The Vittel passengers hung upside down out of their cars while spraying the crowd with their product.

To get a different view of things, we decided to stroll down the Avenue and see if there was a spot that was a little less crowded. As you probably know, since my son contends it is the most famous street on the planet, the Champs-Elysees on even its slowest day is filled with people. People window shopping at high end stores. People eating at sidewalk cafes. People out for a promenade. People watching people people watching.

Even Vacant Lots Have Gilded Gates Along the Champs-Elysees - A Rare Break in the People Watching Action

While some lined the streets, jockeying for position for a glimpse of the tour, the usual Champs-Elysees activities continued on to the extreme. The parade of humanity was an event in and of itself. While normally with such a massive crowd, people’s gait would be hurried, their appearance stressed, instead this was a typically relaxed Champs-Elysees crowd, just many times larger – and with lots of Tour de France vendors and everyone glancing toward the street from time to time, in case something was happening.

I kept wondering when everyone would find their spots for the race. I half expected there to be a mad rush for position when the time came, even giving brief instructions to the older kids as to how not to get pushed to the ground. The mad rush never happened, while the strolling never stopped.

The crowd was festive, but in a cool sort of way. There were occasional shouts of excitement for the advertisers, but nothing sustained. There were people standing on phone booths and on benches. There were some people on top of buildings or looking out from windows over the street, including from a futuristic set of glass pyramids jutting out from one penthouse, but no one in these prime locations was behaving like fans on the buildings overlooking Wrigley and certainly nowhere near like people on balconies during Mardi Gras. A small band of pink-shirted Dutch stopped at various points along the Avenue to play a few tunes, but the one guy who really started dancing to the music with them (not me this time), was asked to move out of the way by people taking photographs.

And, there seemed to be more Americans than French. It got to the point where we spoke to people first in English. For example, when we thought we found the perfect spot for our kids on a perch of a store window high enough for them to see, we were told by another American that we weren’t allowed to be there and “they were starting to get angry.” Assuming that “they” referred to people with machine guns and having as a general policy never to make people with machine guns angry (plus seeing that no one else had taken those obvious spots), we moved on.

When a young lady asked me in French to take a photograph of her and her friends – evidently using the same principle that I use when handing over my camera: give it to an old guy whom I think I can outrun – I responded in French by asking her if she spoke English. Later she asked if her French was that bad and I told her that I just recognized my own accent in hers. They were from Toronto. But, obviously not everyone was from North America. When we finally did take up a position, we spoke with Dutch, Germans, French and Americans. We waited for over an hour. The only bikes we saw were ridden by locals on the sidewalk.

Tom Petty was right. The waiting is the hardest part. SpongeBob’s French narrator kept playing in our heads, “Three Days Later…” There was the jockeying for position, with one taller guy weaseling his way in front of both Lydgia and even his own shorter wife. (Lydgia wouldn’t let me take him on because she had a plan for when the time came.) There was the incessant standing. There was the inescapable cigarette smoke from those waiting inches in front of us. And there was the anticipation, wondering both when the cyclists would finally arrive and whether we would even be able to see them.

The Weasel In Black

My View for an Hour

Our six-year-old spent most of the time sitting on the ground or trying to look past the international assortment of rear ends in front of her to see the street. Once our youngest woke up and started fussing, Lydgia got our oldest two to slide back in front of the tall weasel where it looked like they would be lost in the crowd, but might have a better view of the race. I held position behind the space in between the heads of the two people in front of me, ready to put our young girl on my shoulders at a moment’s notice.

Eventually the cyclists did show up, and, amazingly, our six-year-old was invited to go right up to the front, sparing my neck and shoulders in the process. I had expected the roar of the crowd to indicate the race’s arrival, but again the crowd was excited, but cool. First came some cars and motorcycles. Anticipation filled the air and then, all of a sudden, there were the bikes. A couple of people in the lead, a few not far behind and then a massive horde moving as one colorful blur, more like a giant synchronized organism than contenders in a sporting event. If one of them had gotten out of line, they all would have gone down.

As quickly as it had arrived, the blur had past and anticipation grew for the next go around.

Fifteen times the cyclists went around the Champs-Elysees, starting, we believe, from near the Louvre and going to almost the Arc. That means they passed in front of us 30 times, going right to left slightly uphill half the time and left to right slightly downhill the other half. Each time there was the promise of their arrival, a subtle thrill as they flew past, and somewhat reserved cheering. The race itself is not unlike a parade as well.

Lydgia came back after a few go rounds and said, “I thought they were supposed to be riding the bikes. All l see is a bunch of empty bikes on top of cars.” From her vantage point behind the wall of crowd, it was as if a phantom race was going on. She saw nothing of the procession until the cars that came after the racers, each car carrying multiple spare bikes on its roof. We switched spots, me taking the baby and she getting a view of the race. People let her go forward, because she was shorter than they were also. Then she saw. And, she was surprised to see just how exciting it was, including the group moving in unison with individual cyclists virtually indistinguishable. Eventually our youngest got to see as well, with the predicted response. “Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike.”

But 15 laps is a lot. So, eventually we ended up becoming like the many other promenaders enjoying the Champs-Elysees and race atmosphere instead of the race itself. We slowly ambled back toward the Metro stop. We danced our way through the Pink Dutch Band when they and their temporary fans blocked our path. In another tight spot, our younger daughter got briefly dragged by the hair, snagged by a woman's jacket button. We said hello to the couple that had, hours earlier, helped us find the Metro in the first place. We met a guy from Strasbourg who had a Stanford hat and an El Salvadorian wife with an aunt who lives in our hometown. And, eventually Lydgia said, “I think the race must be over. They haven’t come by in a while.” As is often the case, she was right.

In fact, Le Tour de France is the only major sporting event I’ve ever been to where I didn’t have to pay to get in (and there isn’t even an “in” at all), I didn’t know who won (until checking it online later), I didn’t even know when it ended, and I never recognized any of the participants as they went flying by. I knew Contador and Schleck were in there somewhere. I just had no idea where.

And yet, although I thought going into it that the biggest benefit of going would be more of a check box “I went to the Tour de France” sort of thing, the biggest benefit was the event itself, or the multiple events within the event. It was indeed major. And it was oddly thrilling – in a cool sort of way.

Magical Discoveries

2010-07-23T20:35:00.000-07:00

You know you’ve enjoyed the first portion of your trip when you’re ruing leaving – even though the next stop is Paris. Today, the kids were debating which home they’d rather live in, the one we’ve been in or the even nicer home of a family that has had us over for dinner. Our oldest decided that he’d rather live in the home that we’ve been in because he likes the other family, which includes a friend his age, and wants to be able to visit them. We’ve taken to calling the town’s chateau “our chateau,” because half of it is for sale and we’ve discussed moving in.

And therein is the biggest problem I can see so far with exchanging homes. Sure we’ve had to take out the trash and do dishes and cook dinner and kill bugs and water plants and everything, but we’d be doing those same things at home anyway. The problem is that even though we know it’s not our home and we don’t really belong here, we can see ourselves living here, because we have been living here. We have been taking out the trash and doing dishes etc. and we’ve got our favorite grocery store and gas station and doctor and pharmacist. We’ve been to families’ homes for dinner and to picnics. Kids have played with our kids either here or at their home. And, the Internet exists in France as well so I’ve been working. We even got a speeding ticket from their uncontestable and highly lucrative Big Brother system that made us feel robbed the way real French people assure us they do as well.

In short, we’ve established mini-roots and so, in some ways, it doesn’t feel like we’re just going to the next destination on a trip, it feels like we’re moving. Moving from a home and people we’ve grown to love and, of course, moving from a ton more leisure time than we’d ever get in reality, with fascinating and interesting new places to explore – and a slower pace than will exist either at home or in Paris.

So the last day or so has started to feel a bit melancholy, because we are leaving. And, we’re leaving today. With all of our bags. Who knows how we’ll do it. Our neighbor told us tonight to just leave all of our bags so they’ll be here when we come back next year.

France Through the Eyes of a Six-Year-Old
“Does France have any grapes? ‘Cause I really need grapes.” When assured that France is abounding in grapes and, in fact, is very well known for its grape products, “Then where are they? We never bought them.”

We happen to be in a part of France that abounds in other types of agriculture, as witnessed by the appreciation she has attained for local cultivation techniques. As we were driving along today, I almost stopped the car when she exclaimed “Whoa!” in shock and awe. But I was put at ease again with the next exclamation, “Look at those haystacks!”

After driving 20 minutes from a beach to a rocky shore, she asked “Is this the same ocean we were just at?”

On French cuisine, “When I grow up I want to run a creperie, because I like to make crepes, but I don’t like to eat them.” Stark contrast from the oldest two who seem to live on the four major food groups of crepes, ice cream, sugar and Nutella.

And one from our nine-year-old when discussing paying for things in Euros instead of dollars. Hearkening back to the barter system, she mused, “Why can’t businesses be like people in olden times, but with better clothes.” What do you expect from someone who told her mother she was going to help her “get her style on” before she was even out of the first grade.

Actually, That’s a Good Question: Is This the Same Ocean We Were Just At?
When I told some friends here that we were at the ocean today in Saint-Malo it sparked a debate as to whether it was the Ocean, the Sea or the English Channel. More on Saint-Malo later, but first I will point out that whether we go North or South, we are an hour and a half to two hours from some immensely large body of water.

I’d call it the Atlantic Ocean either way, perhaps in the same way that I used to lump Chicago in with “Back East” before moving there. But, since Wikipedia claims it to be, I could be convinced that to the North is the English Channel, even though I can’t see England from there like I could from Boulogne-sur-Mer near Calais. To the South is, I guess officially, the Bay of Biscay, but, again, it’s all the Atlantic Ocean from a Californian’s perspective.

This week, we went both South and North. To the South (and a little West), is La Baule, a coastal town not unlike the South of France, with miles of beaches packed with people. The beach was beautiful and the descent into the water so gradual that you could walk well out into the near waveless sea/bay/ocean, even at low tide when over half the beach was that recently wet, solidified sand that makes running, and evidently full-scale soccer games, easy.

It was from La Baule that we went the 20 minutes Northwest to Le Croisic and La Cote Sauvage, “The Wild Coast.” Sounds like you’ll need a machete and maybe an elephant gun to go there, but in reality, although it’s not steep, it’s a rocky coast, like Craters of the Moon at sea (for any of you Idahophiles out there). At low tide it creates pools in between the rocks and visions of fortresses and kingdoms in our children’s imaginations. It’s difficult to imagine a starker contrast between two coast lines that were so near one another.

Also, whereas our youngest wanted almost no part of the “other ocean” 20 minutes away, only letting me stand him up on the sand and watching with severe apprehension as an occasional stray remnant of a wave lapped up to his ankles, he loved the tide pools. Those bodies of water were evidently just his size and he squatted happily playing among the small fish and crabs and yanking mussels and sea snails from their secure grips on the rocks.

In addition to mussels, which you could just pick up by the dozens and take home and cook up, the locals also harvest salt. There are salt “farms” all around and they sell salt from little shacks by the side of the road the same way that American local farmers sell fruit.

A Stock On the Rise
I’m upgrading Saint-Malo’s status from “must see if near Brittany” to “must see if near France”. I can’t believe it took me over a dozen trips spanning almost thirty years to have even heard of the place, let alone go there.

With a day to go anywhere – Rennes, Angers, Golfe de Morbihan (which looks like a multiple week vacation all by itself), Carnac (in which only the sole Asterix and Obelix fan in the family seemed interested), etc. – our kids chose to go to Saint-Malo again. The younger two are a little under the weather (nothing serious grandma), so the older two and I decided to arise when the rooster crows (a saying that is actually easier done than said here since the rooster crows throughout the entire day).

As I said in an earlier post, I really liked Saint-Malo, but a part of me figured at best the return trip would be a two hour drive to do what we had already done and at worst it would dim my memory of the previous trip since this time we already knew what to expect. Or so I thought.

It’s difficult to imagine a starker contrast between two coast lines that are actually the same exact coast line. Having seen the smallish beach and the cool diving board out at sea when we were there previously, we came prepared this time with swimming suits and towels. So the first thing we did was to walk through a door in the wall to go to the beach. Instant double take. Could this really be the same ocean that we were just at 10 days ago?

Evidently low tide and high tide bring substantial changes in these parts and Le Mont St. Michel isn’t the only quasi-island quasi-outcropping around. In fact, Saint-Malo has several of them. The “islands” that we had seen the previous week when the sea was crashing into the city walls, were now connected by sandy beaches and centuries old stone walkways. The diving board we had seen out at sea was actually a diving board into a giant man-made “tide pool” roughly the size of a football field that captures water from the sea every time it recedes.

We looked at one another with the same delight you would expect from three kids who had just discovered an immense and real Tom Sawyer’s Island. The only question was, where would we run to first? We chose the nearest outcropping/island, evidently called the Grand Be’, walked up the stone walkway and some 80 plus old stone steps to find the ruins of an ancient fort, magnificent panoramic views, brilliant wildflowers set against green cliffs and the tomb of writer/politician Chateaubriand who was buried there because he only wanted to hear the sounds of the sea and wind.

We then turned our attention to the massive tidal swimming pool. We wanted to change in a bathroom, but although the attendant said we could use them for free, we weren’t allowed to change in them. When I asked where we could change she said, “On the beach.” Don’t tell the authorities, but figuring I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to see that happen and lacking Mr. Bean’s mad skillz, I changed in the bathroom anyway.

The water was cold, even colder than our house/resort’s pool, where our oldest daughter says, “Let me be the first to say…” then jumps in and emerges quickly with, “it’s cooooold,” when she inaugurates a new swimming session. And, of course, it was salty, which meant that I could float and breathe without moving my arms and legs. We played a little Marco Polo and we each took a turn jumping off a diving board, which were really stone platforms set roughly 10 and 20 feet above the pool. I’m just glad no one has a picture of the look on my face shortly after I took off. Greg Louganis I ain’t.

Eventually, we got around to exploring the city again and found it to be even more vibrant on a beautiful day with narrow alleys, flower-adorned plazas, multiple archways in succession, creperies, ice cream shops, a restaurant with massive cakes, outside cafes, artists, musicians and other street performers.

So, what we’re talking about here is a fortified city, with great walls, plenty of streets and walkways to explore, tons of restaurants and shops, intriguing buildings, cool history, spectacular views, a dramatically changing landscape, rewarding and manageable hikes, multiple beaches, an enormous open air and scenic public swimming pool with multiple high dives and, like Ginsu knives, I’m sure much, much more.

Sometimes it pays to listen to your kids.

Country Life
In addition to our day trips, we’ve done plenty of hanging at home where our kids’ favorite card game has moved from poker to Speed, we go on multiple bike rides a day (including one through hay fields where I was lifting the bike with the baby on board over electric wires and barbed wire fences), run-ins with dogs not on leashes and the older kids getting adventurous enough to go to stores and buy things without their parents around.

One very kind family had us over for a filling and tasty dinner of basically a ton of appetizers, I guess a French version of the Sushi or Tapas concept, that included wonderfully tasty dishes that I never would have come up with like a crab and avocado combo and a, believe it or not, scrumptious crème brulee with pate de foie gras. Then they gave our bike loving baby Tour de France gear right out of their mini-museum.

Their home is beautiful, with an enclosed swimming pool, vintage cars, friendly German shepherds and a straw roof that they swear never leaks. Their home is their castle.

Hidden Gardens
Speaking of castles, we got to the two best Loire Valley Chateaux this week as well. Chenonceau (in Chenonceaux, don’t ask me why the town is plural but the castle isn’t) and Chambord. Chambord is the most impressive Loire Valley chateau from the outside, a massive structure with a rooftop that looks like a monster game of chess is happening.

But I’ve always liked the more intriguing Chenonceau more. First off, it spans a river. Frankly, I don’t think there needs to be a second point. It is built right over a river. Did I mention that already? It’s also more intimate (for a chateau), is built over a river, has manageable gardens, and has a history that spans from Catherine de Medici (who had it built, over a river) to World War II when people fled through it from occupied France to “free” France (on the other side of the river).

And, there’s a new addition. Boat rides. So, while I strolled our youngest through the forest, the rest of the gang got to go on a rowboat ride, powered mainly by our oldest. They explored under and around the chateau from a new perspective, before we all explored inside the chateau. We also found a maze of hedges cut into the forest that I’d never seen before, so all in all Chenonceau scored well with both kids and adults.

When we arrived to see the stunning views of Chambord’s splendid roof and size an hour later, we figured we had an hour to see the chateau. We also figured that was going to be way more than enough for kids who had already exhausted themselves. Chambord is big inside and out. Big. Not Versailles big, but big nonetheless. But almost all I recall from seeing it a couple of times before was the famous staircase and getting to go on the roof – because I have pictures of Lydgia in both places from thirteen years ago.

But when we approached the chateau this time, a guy in a shirt I wore twenty years ago and glasses my dad wore forty years ago told us it was closed. Then he entered it. Someone else then told us it was closed and that the guy we’d just talked to was the prince who lived there. Despite my insistence that he was joking (about the prince, it was clear the place was closed) and my insistence that he just let the kids step in for a moment, he remained adamant that the prince would not tolerate it and since the prince was standing right there it could not be done. I had gotten to stand on the left field grass in Fenway Park with a similar approach, but it didn’t work here. Not with some unnamed prince standing there. (Actually, he had given the prince a name, I just hadn’t paid any attention, because as soon as I heard the word “prince” I started giving him grief about it.)

With no battering ram on hand, our attempts to breach the prince’s fortress were thwarted. So our younger daughter threw up on his grounds instead. But not before playing at a never-before-seen-by-me playground tucked away near the chateau and eating at an outdoor café in the chateau’s shadow.

Although that might be more than you wanted to read, it’s evidently not more than I wanted to type. And, although we would love to remain in our idyllic little town of Erbray, we will soon be discovering Paris, again, this time through the eyes of children.

Invasion of the Body Thwackers AND Cars and Vans and Things That Don't Go

2010-07-19T02:46:00.000-07:00

Invasions
Remember when EuroDisney opened and everyone claimed what a travesty it was because it wasn't a real French amusement park? None of us knew what a French amusement park was, but we were sure that EuroDisney wasn't it and no amount of Beauty and the Beast was going to make it so.

Now we know what a French amusement park is. It's le Puy du Fou, which although Google translates that as "Puy du Fou", and it sounds like "well of the crazy person", Wikipedia insists it means "hill of the beech." Wikipedia also says that it's the second most popular attraction in France behind - you guessed it - EuroDisney. It's an amusement park like none we've ever been to. First off, no rides, although I did see a little train. Instead it's all shows and faux towns.

The shows are more like spectaculars - 30 minute combinations of action, pageantry and circus in historical settings with a mixture of real, fictional and religious heros. Given the current American thinking toward France's military prowess, the common theme of the shows is interesting: France defending itself from foreign invaders: e.g. Romans, Vikings and the English. Lots of good action and even a chariot race. In the shows, it's clear just how much their religion is synonymous with France itself. Vikings are converted while in mid-pillage. A converted Roman has a Daniel in the Lion's den experience, etc.

Speaking of animals, they are numerous. The horseriding tricks in the Secret de la Lance are phenomenal. Lions, a jaguar, a hyena, ostriches and parading geese in the Roman arena. Pigs and stampeding Yaks or Oxen or something just ten feet away from us with only a small wooden (read: easily smashable) fence separating us from them. And of course, tons of birds of prey at the birds of prey show. I felt like I was caught in an Alfred Hitchcock movie except that any of the birds flying just overhead, hitting us with their wings or walking among us or sitting on the head of the guy in front of me could have killed us by themselves, without a flock for backup. Falcons, eagles, one of those snake killer things, vultures, you name it. Our youngest is still so small I held him close to me so he wouldn't be carried away by a gluttonous eagle. It was phenomenal.

And, the whole time I kept thinking, lawyers in America would never let any of this happen. Maybe that's part of what defines a French amusement park.

Body Thwacking
Speaking of lawyers and repelling foreign invaders, the stairs in the Arena were steep. And it had been raining. And there's this gravelly dirt everywhere that people would slip on while even walking on flat ground.

Now, every time Lydgia and I go down a steep staircase carrying a baby we picture in our minds what we will do if we fall. How we will save the baby even if it means sacrificing ourselves. All that mental training came in handy when Lydgia's feet suddenly slipped out from under her on the wet, gravelly, steep staircase. Instead of the baby flying through the air, she clung him tight and took the hit herself on her lower back and elbows. There was a Puy du Fou person there to help her quickly. She stayed seated and confused for a few moments and then seated and alert for several minutes more. The entire audience watched the drama unfold - and gave advice about how to administer and receive first aid. But, although she was left with immense, deep, purple bruises, she seems fine otherwise. And, the baby was completely protected. Maybe it wasn't quite Lilly defending little Harry from Voldemort, but it sprung from the same source.

Even though the Arena rose up against her, evidently recognizing her as a foreign invader, the sets were really the stars of the show. Whole castles moved. Water emerged on floors from seemingly nowhere. Buildings toppled over. Houses lit on fire - and you could feel the heat. And, not only did a ship come up out of the water and later go back into it, but multiple live people were on it both times. Awe inspiring.

The towns were interesting, but as I said to Lydgia about the medieval town, it looks just like their real towns still do.

Please Don't Go
"Stop! And call Renault." (Or, as my kids refer to it, the diamond car.)

She had always been very nice to us and yet now she was so demanding. Always with the soothing voice though. Even while being forceful. Back in the good old days she would just give us pleasant reminders. But now she was adamant.

I guess you can't blame her. If I were a car, I'd be pretty forceful if my engine were about to overheat also.

"I'm too hot! Stop and call Renault!"

We had just started our two hour day trip to Le Puy du Fou and she was already overheated and not happy in the slightest. Perhaps she didn't like our getting going so early in the morning - or in the morning at all. I suspect, though, that she caught wind of some of the cars in the Museum at Loheac where we had been the previous day, realized that people were coming to ooh and aah at vehicles that were just sitting there "en retraite" (as older French say proudly when asked what they do for a living) and decided that she'd get in on some of the lack of action. But these cars weren't minivans.

The voters who went to our decision at decisionpilot.com about where to go while we were out here in the West chose Le Mans as the top pick. Figuring that was because of the race and talking with people here who said that there's nothing going on there when the race isn't happening, we called an audible and went to the car museum instead. The place was impressive. Set in what once was a farm, the museum has hundreds of vehicles, dating from the end of the 19th century to race cars, with everything in between, including amphibian cars and a video showing people out for a Sunday spin who drive right into the lake and start cruising around on what had just become their boat.

There were Aston Martins, Lamborghinis (including speed boats with double Lamborghini engines in them), a lot of French cars, some American cars and basically, just a ton of awesome autos in great shape. I kept expecting Doc Brown to reappear in his DeLorean. Keeping with the religious theme of French sites, but with a twist, they had created a chapel of the Holy Motor.

But, returning to our car the day after the museum, as I mentioned, it was not at all in great shape. Mais voila! A gas station was right in front of us. I went looking for a paper towel or the like to wipe the dipstick when checking the oil and a man who evidently didn't want to part with his dirty rag came along as a package deal. The oil was looking good. Then we turned to the coolant.

Completely and totally empty. We added coolant and the car made a deep, rasping, sucking noise, the thirst equivalent of Han Solo gasping for air when he emerges from being frozen in carbonite. It was intense. Multiple liters later, she was full again. We looked under the car. Nothing seemed to be leaking. We bought another bottle to be safe (again trying multiple credit cards before landing on the chosen one for that particular machine) and decided to go for it.

We made it to Puy du Fou and back again obviously, but Saturday "morning" I went to the car owner's tire shop where, as soon as I got there, the coolant started gushing out. Although our car had insisted that we call Renault, Renault was now closed for the weekend, so we couldn't just get a replacement part. But, since it was the boss' car, two guys worked like mad on the coolant container, dousing multiple cracks with super glue - and crossing their fingers (which is a saying here as well evidently). An hour or so after showing up, we tested it out and, "C'est extraordinaire!" they claimed. No leakage.

I happily drove away, got to the first roundabout and the polite voice told me cheerfully that the fuel injection wasn't working. Actually, I didn't know what she said but she shows it in writing too and there was no denying the word "injection" and a word that started with de' (that's supposed to be an accent, not an apostrophe), which is never good. I turned around and went back. On the way, she told me that her ESP was no longer working, which makes me wonder whether Renault might be ahead of other car manufacturers, but no matter what that means, it didn't help my confidence either.

I got back as the guys were leaving, parked five feet shy of where I wanted to because nothing happened anymore when I put my foot on the accelerator and they told me, "Ah, the boss was worried about the fuel injection before he left. This car has given him a lot of trouble."

It's been a nice, relaxing weekend at the house/resort. As our 9-year-old told us when she thought something was going wrong a week or so ago, "It doesn't matter. We're in France." We could have been two hours away with everything closed for the weekend, sleeping in a car that had no fuel injection and a river of coolant underneath it. Although, we haven't gone anywhere in so long that our youngest found his car seat, climbed into it and just sat there hoping.

Instead, we biked (Lydgia had fixed it), swam, ate and enjoyed one another's company. For local driving, we've had the tire shop's little thirty year old, 5-seater stick shift with, believe it or not, a denim interior and the burnt vinyl smell of my first car. You get it into fifth gear just to "go" 45 miles per hour.

Instead of driving an hour to church, our children taught us here in the privacy of our temporary home.

And, a rental minivan showed up this morning so we can continue our adventures.

Parting Is Such Sweet...Whap!
In parting, I leave you with this little ditty, sung over and over again by our 5-year-old neighbor while doing a ring around the rosie sort of thing with us in our pool:

"Dansons la Capucine
Y a plus de pain chez nous
Y en a chez la voisine
Mais ce n'est pas pour nous!
Ooooooouuuuuh!"

Even though I can't get it out of my head, it's probably preferable to the rhyme I was taught by an equally pixieish 5-year-old 25 years ago (with multiple variations on Google):

"Un poux, une puce, sur le tabouret
Jouaient aux cartes et ils se disputaient.
La puce en cholere, pris le poux par les cheveux
le flanca par terre, lui creuva les yeux."

In this riveting expose', a flea gets so annoyed with a louse while playing cards that he takes him by the hair, throws him to the ground and gouges out his eyes. Lydgia can relate somewhat, having killed 26 flies already this morning. Yes, it's to the point where she's counting.

And away we go off to see more castles - broken down and bruised, but unlike all the invaders at the Puy du Fou, not vanquished.

Finding Our Way

2010-07-15T16:31:00.000-07:00

No Light Through Yonder Window Breaks
First off, mornings don’t seem to exist in France. A few members of the family claim to have seen a little bit of one, but each account has been unsubstantiated by a second witness. I can’t decide whether to stop believing in mornings or start believing in the Loch Ness Monster and Big Foot.

A few times I’ve hustled a couple of blocks to the one bakery in town to get there before it closes for lunch at noon, but I won’t do that anymore. The last time I went, one middle-aged guy broke off from his gang of four and introduced himself to me. A French person never breaks off to talk to a stranger. It just doesn’t happen. Unless you are the only stranger in town and the guy introducing himself is the brother of the person with whom you’ve switched houses. He took me to his house where his wife explained to me that the bakery wouldn’t close for another hour. So, now we can sleep later.

It’s easy to do because the French have shutters that come down like garage doors from top to bottom and shut out all light completely. “I love them,” our oldest daughter says, delighted at the extra sleep. Plus noon is three in the morning in California. And it’s light out until almost 11 pm here. And, last night was the only night our kids have been in bed before midnight. The second night, Jett was up and raring to go at around 4 in the morning. Of course, that was before we’d figured out their GPS system and it had taken us two and a half hours to check on Lydgia’s missing luggage, only to find that, by the time we got there, that part of the airport was closed. The trip had taken so long that the kids were starving so we got food from the only place that was open at one in the morning – a McDonald’s drive-thru. They promptly ran around the play structure in the dark scaring one another and screaming loudly.

Land of the Lost
One difference with driving here is that signs point you to the next town in each direction so it helps to know every small berg along the way to your final destination. One set of signs offered us a choice between Naked Bodies and Brie. That might be a common choice at some parties, but not any that we’d ever been to.

Some signs say “All Directions.” All roads may lead to Rome, but conversely apparently some roads lead to all places. Although it’s fun to snap photos of interesting signs if you’re fast enough, getting out to take a picture can be troublesome, as Lydgia found out when she was chased back to our car by an extremely annoyed and loudly braying donkey.

Despite the plethora of signs, “We’re lost again,” is a common refrain from our 9-year-old, which leads to theoretical discussions about the definition of “lost”. Are you lost if you know where you are and where you’re going, but you just don’t know how to get from one to the other?

Another difference is that the system is built for continuous flow, using roundabouts constantly, instead of being built for continuous order, with stop signs and lights at every intersection. Whereas the sign difference is just interesting, the continuous flow is preferable.

However, now evidently, there are also hidden radar guns that clock you and send you a letter with a bill if you go over the speed limit. Maybe there are multiple of these bills coming in the mail already for every time we haven’t kept up with the constantly changing speed limits that bounce intermittently among 30, 50, 70, 90 and 110 kilometers per hour. I had been looking for some more issues to keep me up at night, because as a father of four in difficult economic times with kids staying awake past midnight and bakeries staying open until 1, I just didn’t have enough of those already.

Speaking of differences, I was concerned that our kids would be complaining about how it’s not like the states, but I evidently wasn’t giving them credit for their maturity. Our 11-year-old in particular seems keenly aware of the differences, but prefers many things here and recognizes that many are just differences.

Babar Knows Best
So far we’ve driven to Le Mont St. Michel, St. Malo, Chateaubriant and Nantes. At Chateaubriant and Nantes, we’ve seen formidable castles that served as both fortresses and palaces for the dukes and duchesses of Brittany. Our oldest has distinct ideas about what type of fortress he would build (pentagon in shape) and instructs us as to the many types of weapons we see, which ones are better for different purposes, and which ones he prefers. Castles always inspire the imagination as to what life might have been like and what your life might have been like if you lived in them.

At Nantes, we also played in a park where the kids were able to go on go-karts, do archery and climb walls for free on Bastille Day. And they went on a carrousel where instead of ponies, they rode on crazy machines, in their case an ostrich and giant beetle, which tilted way back.

If you haven’t heard of Le Mont St. Michel, you haven’t read enough Babar. It’s a rock that is an island at high tide. When you park, you’re given a little slip of paper that includes the statements, “This lot is submergible. Check the signs about the tides to know when to leave.” And if you can't read French, then too bad. Most parking lots tell you the maximum fee if you’re there too long. These tell you that Davey Jones will claim your car if he can.

Le Mont has a town at its base with winding narrow walkways, shops, hotels, homes and even a cemetery all crammed together.

As if that’s not enough, higher up on the rock/island are four religious structures, like abbeys and churches. Then built on the top, with those buildings as the base – built not on the rock, but on top of the other buildings – is a big cathedral. You see Le Mont first from miles away in the distance as you come across the countryside.

The anticipation was so strong that when Lydgia asked, “Do you see anything yet?” it literally almost killed us. After scanning the horizon, I eventually looked back at the road only to find us almost face to face with a suddenly very concerned driver. I didn’t even have time for my heart to leap into my throat before I had to jerk the car back to where it belonged. We were quickly rewarded though. Our next turn brought Le Mont St. Michel immediately into view. Our awe was simultaneous and unanimous. It’s one of my favorite places on earth.

Protected Treasure
If you haven’t heard of St. Malo, well, neither had we. But, since we’d already been to Le Mont St. Michel, it’s the find of the trip so far. A must see for anyone near Brittany. Its old city is right on the ocean, surrounded by giant, impenetrable ramparts that afford panoramic views of the bay, nearby towns, the several fortified rock islands that dot the surrounding water and a diving board that is a couple of hundred feet out into the sea.

Inside the walls is a thriving, clean downtown with hotels, restaurants, artisans, ice cream shops, a carrousel and all sorts of things. A candy shop seems to be growing out of the back of the cathedral.

As we strolled into a park that was level with the ramparts, our oldest girl called out to the youngest girl, “You’re going to love this…,” which was followed by a scream of delight from the six-year-old, “A stage!” They promptly performed a dance routine they’d been working on in the pool the previous couple of days and then the oldest girl sang while the youngest danced to “Viva la Vida.”

They weren’t the only street performers. Another combined a didgeridoo, crystal ball and a firestick lit on both ends into a compelling performance. When it started to rain, he said, “Only the brave will remain. So if you’re not brave, please pay me now before you go.”

The firestick reminded me of the time I lit a duraflame on both ends and then couldn’t open the fireplace floo. I grabbed it in the middle and with fire licking up my arm carried it outside and dropped it on the patio where I was going to put it out when one of my roommates yelled, “It’s a wood patio!” “I wouldn’t play with fire like that,” our evidently well trained nine-year-old said about the street performer. “He’s not playing with fire, he’s dancing with it,” was our son’s response.

What Did I Just Eat Again?
Gaufreries and creperies are everywhere in St. Malo so for dinner we had galettes (savory crepes) and crepes at the top of the rampart. I had a local specialty in my galette, andouille, which loosely translated evidently means something smelly from a pig. Speaking of local specialties, we’ve also eaten sardines on rock salt butter folded over on a slice of bread, beef stomach, hamburger kabobs, and a kind of pork paté called something like rillette. Our neighbors had us over for a delightfully filling meal of appetizers that included the riette, salmon, a liquidy tomato-cucumber-cheese mélange, and others. Despite claiming not knowing how to cook in France where all of the ingredients are different, including simple things like flour and sugar, Lydgia and our oldest daughter were able to make something akin to chocolate chip cookies that our neighbors seemed to enjoy, but that friends at a picnic we went to on Bastille Day loved. Lydgia has tried to find cream cheese to make cheesecake for one of them who had lived in Washington DC, but as yet is unsuccessful.

Fast Friends
We had met the friends at church in Nantes on Sunday. One interesting aspect of our religion is that instead of six degrees of separation, for us it’s more like two degrees. Because of the missionary program, this is true all over the world. So, when we went to church on Sunday in a town that we’d never been to (other than around midnight looking for lost bags) and were talking with people afterward, multiple people knew people that we knew. One woman knew a friend of ours from California, because they had been missionaries together speaking Spanish in Montreal. Another friend from California had been at her wedding when he was a missionary here in France and had become good friends with her parents. Her brother-in-law knows a friend of ours from Chicago, because they were on missions together on Reunion Island, near Madagascar. And, of course, several people knew people that I know from other parts of France.

The facts that the church feels the same wherever you go and that there are so many connections are two of the many reasons why being at church always feels like being with family. So, during the meeting different speakers talked about being true friends, about charity and love, and about actively helping others instead of just praying for them to be helped – and then after the meeting a family invited us over for a massive lunch with a full spread, tons of ice cream and plenty of conversation in French, Spanish and English. That’s one of the many reasons I like to go to church when I’m on vacation – you get a chance to actually talk with people and laugh with them and know them and their culture more, instead of just asking shopkeepers how much souvenirs cost.

Another benefit is that the church was in Nantes so we figured we’d check on the luggage again. The impression we’d had from multiple calls to our airline in multiple countries, their never calling us back despite telling us they would, and the lack of updates on their website, was that the bags were lost forever. And, in a matter of speaking, we were right, depending once again on how you define “lost.” The bags were right where we needed them to be – and had probably been there for two days. But no one in the Nantes airport knew to whom they belonged or where they came from. It’s as though Air Canada shipped them off to us and washed their hands of them, hoping the whole issue would just go away. Lydgia is considering Punking them by constantly calling them and asking where her bags are to see if they ever admit to having no clue instead of telling her to check her status online, which still says, “En route to destination” four days later.

Getting to actually talk to people has been one of the benefits of the home exchange as well. A home exchange comes with built-in friends also. Our neighbors are terrific. The evening that we spent with them was memorable not just for the food, but also for the good conversation and the warm welcome. They and others have given us great advice on things to do and places to go and have come to the house to help us in minor moments of need. In addition to them and the brother and his wife that I mentioned so long ago at the beginning of this post, other people have started recognizing us as well. Not surprisingly, that includes the woman at the bakery who looks for us everyday - in the afternoon.

Knowing good people comes in handy, like the waitress who ran along the ramparts at St. Malo to catch up to us and give us our younger girl’s purse. Last time we were here, we could use our credit cards no problem. No longer. French credit cards now have a little security square (they call it a flea, “une puce”) that their machines read instead of reading the magnetic stripe. We don’t have any fleas on our credit cards. This makes it a crapshoot as to whether we can actually purchase things at stores and almost impossible to purchase gas to the point that I had to take our neighbor with me to buy gas and then I paid him back in cash. Good thing the ATM machines have been working. Otherwise France for free might be France for the destitute and our girls would be singing and dancing for money instead performing for fun. At least we have a ready quip should it start to rain.

Bikega Bikega Bikega
We have spent good time here at our home/resort as well. The first few days were boiling hot so the kids were in the pool whenever possible. The girls especially are extremely excited in the pool playing Marco Polo and riding on me as a surfboard, stepping off of me directly out of the pool.

Our oldest has enjoyed the pool as well, but was especially fond of beating us all in poker a couple of times, the second time after his flush was higher than mine immediately following my talking smack about having done the same thing to him the day before. Vengeance has never been so immediate, but he seemed to enjoy it thoroughly nonetheless.

Lydgia spends some “leisure” time farming their extensive garden and encouraging everyone she knows to help her eat the vegetables so they don’t go bad. The heat has turned to wind and rain, a welcome reprieve from all sorts of watering.

Our youngest has only one thing on his mind. “Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike. Bike.” The moment he wakes up. The moment we pull into town. Lots of moments in between. Even the moment we get back from a bike ride. “Bike. Bike. Bike.” He’s even invented a song about it that he’ll sing as we’re rolling along getting lost in the French countryside. “Bikega bikega bikega bikega,” he lilts. Lydgia and I take turns and we’ve seen every corner of Erbray because of it. So, we’ve gone farther out into the countryside.

One time, he and I passed a farmhouse with three massive pigs and a big bad Rottweiler. After I pedaled like a madman to get away from the sharp teeth, we passed two women out for a stroll. I said, “That’s a big dog. We need to go back that way, will it kill us?” “No, I don’t think so,” was the response from one. “But beware anyway,” added the other. Very reassuring.

Yesterday I went out and got to the furthest point of the trip only to notice that we then had a flat tire. The boy didn’t seem to mind as I walked us the couple of kilometers home though. He was enjoying himself perched like a squirrel holding his mini handlebars the whole way home, only taking a hand off to point out a “moo” or a “woof” from time to time.

We seem to finally be settling into a little bit of a mini “life” here. Friends, things to do, and adventure awaits as we head out the door once more. Again in the afternoon, with a full tank of gas, ready to get lost, wondering whether we’ll get the bike fixed before our youngest goes bonkers, but knowing full well that whatever happens, it will be memorable.

Hansel & Gretel, Magic Bags, and Romantic Natives Part II

2010-07-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

Meanwhile, while the older kids were in the Toronto airport and I was on my way to Montreal with our youngest daughter, Lydgia was flying into Toronto with our youngest child. She had an hour and a half layover and, unbeknownst to her upon arrival, had to clear customs, get the bags through customs, and get herself, her toddler, a stroller, a car seat, her carry-on and a stuffed diaper bag over to her gate where she was praying two of her other children were waiting.

Her flight arrived 40 minutes late.

After asking multiple people whether she had to clear customs before getting a straight answer, she pushed and pulled and raced against the clock only to get to the gate and not see her children there. With adrenaline pumping compensating for her heart stopping, she approached the gate and, thankfully, saw them pop out from behind the desk. But before she could even say hello she was immediately scolded severely by an Air Canada agent - perhaps for navigating through a seemingly systematic pattern of uncertainty in an effort to get us all safely through their airports and on to Europe.

It remains unclear why she would be berated for using their established service, but she instantly relied on her experience in deploying super-calm-mode from the time when she almost got locked away in Federal Prison for unwittingly wielding a menacing teddy bear in the Newark airport. There are so many things that you want to say in such moments, so many things that I want to type right now, but she realized that she had her children and the flight was leaving so she just listened politely, moved on... and fumed later.

When they arrived in Montreal, we were never so happy to see the whole family reunited. So, in celebration, I quickly asked the buzzkill question of the trip: "Did you notice that you had to pick up your bags in Toronto, walk them through customs, and hand them right back over?"

Now, you might think this is leading up to emotions akin to those of Dan Gilbert for LeBron James right about now, but after being reassured a couple more times that they were on the plane to Brussels and finding upon arrival that they were indeed still chilling back in Toronto, we soon realized that not having those bags was an immense blessing.

Here's what we did have: 2 exhausted and jetlagged adults who might have had a total of 10 hours of sleep combined over the previous two nights; 4 exhausted and jetlagged children aged 11 and younger who ranged from "getting next to no sleep but being chipper" to "walking as though undead";

four bags, six carry-ons, a stroller and a car seat; and four train rides, two car rides and still 11 hours of travel ahead of us. When blessed with so much, it would seem greedy to really want two bags more.

I'm not sure when we realized just how huge of a blessing having lost luggage could be. It could have been when I was trying to make sure 20-year-old gendarmes with machine guns knew that neither the multiple bags nor the multiple children were unattended as they lay strewn limp across a section of seats that was sheltered somewhat from the teeming masses of Gare de Montparnasse, while at the same time following the toddler to let him stretch his legs without going too far as Lydgia was discussing logic with ticket agents who had moments earlier put us in first class and were now wanting 50 Euros each to downgrade to second.

Or maybe it was when we had 8 minutes to switch trains (being blessed again that we didn't have to switch platforms), piled into a sweltering car, stowing our bags almost randomly in the rush to get on and then later finding them again and moving them two-by-two while in motion after we had mercifully been told that there was an air-conditioned car right next to ours. Or perhaps, finally, it was when Armand the brother-in-law of the family where we are staying who was kind enough to come and pick us up an hour from his home used a shoe-horn to cram us into the car as it was. No matter when we figured it out though, there is no discounting the blessing.

Along the way, we had gaufres at the Gare de Midi in Brussels where I noticed what a difference 25 years makes. We met the Parisian family with whom we are exchanging homes next and who took us from one Gare to the other, first leading us through a few streets a la "Make Way for Ducklings." And we met several people who were openly kind, helping us with bags, telling us how great our kids were doing, and offering us tips for the vacation and overall encouragement.

After 42 hours of travel, we had arrived in our new home for the next couple of weeks. The immense sighs of relief were mixed with the feeling like we had gotten the better end of the exchange. The home is modern in both style and amenities. It is as chic as it is remote and its open feel, patios, balconies and swimming pool make us feel like we're at a resort. We eventually mustered the energy to put our kids in bed to sleep for as long as they could.

Then, as we were about ready to hit the hay ourselves, our feet pounding, our limbs aching and our eyes drooping, Lydgia said, "Brett I see a few bugs over there." I saw the couple she was pointing at and went over to do my duty. Then I saw more. And more. And more. And soon realized they were spreading right to our bed. Dozens of mating flying ants and hundreds of their offspring. "Get me a shoe!" I called. "And another!" I played two-handed whack-a-mole fighting off the siege while Lydgia raced to find spray. We sprayed and whapped and fought like the near-deranged people that we were. Then after we thought we were done but they just kept coming, we sprayed, whapped and fought some more.

Finally, after who really knows how long, we thought we had conquered. The room had more atoms of insecticide than oxygen. Lydgia and I knelt together and expressed our gratitude for pulling our family through the two-day ordeal safely. I bid her goodnight. And, fearing another attack or dying from the same poison with which I had just slaughtered hundreds, I left the battle scene and slept on the couch.

Hansel & Gretel, Magic Bags, and Romantic Natives Part I

2010-07-10T06:57:00.000-07:00

We all know the story, right? The father leads his children off to some far away place, leaves them there and they have to make their way home. Only this time, I was the father leaving my kids in Toronto and they had to make it to Montreal. Not all the kids, only the oldest boy and girl, and instead of breadcrumbs, they actually had boarding passes for a flight and their mother was supposed to be on it with them. No problem, eh?

Except that Lydgia's flight was landing in Toronto after my flight from Toronto to Montreal already departed. And she had a tight connection. And she had to go through customs, despite being told that she wouldn't have to. And she had to pick up her bags and bring them through customs manually and drop them right back off again, despite being told that she wouldn't have to, multiple times.

So, you can see why I was concerned. We had a loooong layover in Toronto so I asked people what I could do to make sure that they would be allowed on the flight to Montreal, even if Lydgia didn't get there on time. From the information that we found beforehand, the kids had a notarized letter saying they could make that flight by themselves and then I would meet them on the flight in Montreal.

I asked maybe 8-10 people and got multiple partial or conflicting answers, none of them reassuring. Finally I got a woman who seemed at first like she was going to pleasantly keep any of us from flying, but eventually brought in her supervisor who told us that if we paid $100 for each child they would make sure they got on the flight and made it to me safely whether Lydgia made it or not. What's the price that would be your limit for making sure your kids aren't Hansel & Gretel? A rhetorical question to which the only answer might be the last line of a Mastercard commercial.

With the two oldest securely in Air Canada's care watching Back to the Future, our six year old and I were off to Montreal feeling a little more at ease and hoping Lydgia and the toddler would make it as well.

I'd love to keep typing, but I'm on a French keyboard and it takes forever. Hereùs q sentence typed qs I zould nor,qlly type it on qn English keyboqrd; but typed on this one insteqd: Not too terrible, but just enough to be annoying.

To be continued...

Allons Enfants!

2010-07-06T14:23:00.000-07:00

"Looks like we'll have to eat nothing but bread while we're there."

"And candy!"

So interjected our 6-year-old while Lydgia was bemoaning the expense of the train tickets she reserved to get us from Brussels to Angers, Southwest of Paris. Then she got an email saying the tickets would arrive here the day after we've left. So, one more phone call eliminated that expense - for now. The bad news, of course, is that we now don't have tickets for that leg of the trip.

So, off we go into the yonder bleu et sauvage. By my tally, if everything goes great, it will take us 41 hours to get there door to door. If this trip were a reality show, I'm sure the whole world would enjoy multiple family meltdowns. Before one big trip six years ago, I gathered the whole gang together and gave a speech about staying calm and being kind to one another and not getting upset and taking deep breaths and all of that stuff. When I was done and we were heading out the door, Lydgia whispered, "That speech was really for you, wasn't it?"

Here's how we will spend our 41 hours. The three oldest kids and I head to Toronto on a red-eye. Dark and early the next morning, Lydgia and the youngest head to Toronto. The 6-year-old and I then fly to Montreal. Then everyone else flies to Montreal. Then we all fly to Brussels together. Then we head to Midi Station (Gare de Midi where they always had the best waffles ever) and we might get to take a train to Paris, Gare du Nord (Gare is Train Station). From there we have to make our way to Gare Montparnasse where we will meet the mom from our second exchange family and trade keys. Then we're off to Angers where the brother-in-law from our first exchange family will pick us up and take us to the home in Erbray where we will evidently have a meal waiting for us and where a robot mows the lawn.

That's the plan at least. The reality will be revealed in a few days. We'll see if the truth is crazier than the fiction anyone might imagine reading the preceding paragraph. Hold on tight, we're in for a bumpy ride.

On the free front, what with not doing summer camps or swimming or music lessons etc for a couple of months - as well as Lydgia getting paid by some dear friends to turn their miles into a free trip to Singapore, Bali and Hawaii (once they heard of her talents), we're right about even right now. If we manage to just live within our normal means - even if it's on bread alone (with an occasional bon bon) - we should be OK.

Allons enfants de Brett et Lydgia, le jour de gloire est arrivé!

Getting Dizzy

2010-06-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

Our 9 year old does cartwheels. Cartwheels on our walks. Cartwheels all afternoon in the backyard. And roundoffs. One time, she was holding something in one hand and couldn’t resist the cartwheel urge and now she does one-handed cartwheels. Sometimes she counts to see how many cartwheels she can do in a row before getting too dizzy and falling when she stands up.

That’s how I felt with our travel arrangements. As we were accumulating miles, available flights were disappearing. We ended up not even getting a flight to France, but to Brussels. And, the length of time we had to stay kept growing. And growing. Like Pinocchio’s nose if he were playing Hollywood Squares.

Now, in France, the word for vacation from work, “congé,” seems to also mean, “I’m out of here and never coming back.” Since it lasts so long and they all take their congé at about the same time, maybe they don’t know which definition they mean until everyone reassembles weeks later and they see who happened to show again.

Evidently, our stay there is longer. So long that we now needed to pull off not just one home exchange, but two, because not even the French get 5 weeks off in a row. There was, of course, drama with the exchanges as well, which is somewhat ongoing to this day as both French families want to be in our home on July 25^th. Could be a little crowded.

We eventually landed on a home in Erbray, a little village near Chateaubriant (the town, not Chateaubriand the steak, though maybe we’ll get lucky) and a home “overlooking” La Défense in Paris. I’m not sure what “overlooking” means in this context since there are no hills there, but perhaps we’ll be on top of La Grande Arche.

So, the stage is relatively set for people who are not major vacation activity schedulers. On our only other big international family trip, someone lent us a guide book at the last minute and we spent flight time going “Oh, cool, had no idea.”

Since that was one of our favorite trips ever, we seem to be going with a similar approach. However, because spending no money takes more planning, Lydgia does have a list of free days at museums in Paris. In keeping with the saving money theme, my gift to Lydgia for her birthday was to record a French song I wrote eons ago called Je La Cherche. So, I guess we’ve provided a little mood music. (If you listen to it, hang around long enough for the guitar and backup vocals to kick in. They’re contributed by our friend Steve Henderson instead of me, so you’re more likely to enjoy them.)

And, I’ve set up 3 decisions on my new decision tool where anyone who wants can help us prioritize our site seeing. If anyone contributes, we’ll make sure we get to the top overall choices and write about them in the blog. You can give us your priorities for Brittany and the Pays-de-la-Loire, the Loire Castles (Chateaux), and Paris.

But, other than the above, which is basically just playing around on the Internet, we have done nothing. And we leave in less than a week. Looks like more “in the moment planning” awaits. Cartwheels anyone?

Brace Yourselves

2010-06-26T23:34:00.000-07:00

Have you ever watched the Amazing Race when people you’ve never met are trying to get a ticket to their next destination and the tension is building, because suddenly it seems like the whole world is hanging in the balance? And then they cut to commercials and you let out some sort of primal groan because you don’t want to wait the half a minute or less that it will take to fast-forward through them?

That’s what it was like at our house for over a month. Every spare minute she could find, Lydgia was on the Internet and the phone. Evidently using miles for international flights has become as difficult as the Labors of Hercules. But in addition, she was using miles from different programs and booking international flights for young children.

In other words, she had to work through the schedules of multiple airlines, find the few remaining slots available for miles users, snag them at just the right time before they disappeared, and somehow make sure that each of our children always had at least one of their parents with them on each flight. Oh, and did I mention we still didn’t have enough miles? And, of course, it wouldn’t make sense to go on a spending spree to get them.

It was a month of heightened determination, punctuated intermittently by near euphoria and near devastation, including the time when an agent inexplicably deleted booked flights Lydgia was counting on. Someone in non-Herculean mode would have been in agony. But the woman just would not break no matter what they threw at her.

I interrupt the narrative to bring you this handy tip that I picked up from listening to Lydgia in action. If you call a company and you get a person who clearly is not going to be helpful, don’t waste time debating or arguing with that person. Just politely hang up and call the same 800 number again. You will get a different person. That person will be better. It worked every time. When I figured out what she was doing, I felt a step closer to achieving enlightenment – becoming one with 21^st Century customer service.

On the accumulating miles front, we caught a break in the form of our son’s teeth. For some time now, we’ve known he would eventually need braces. Turns out, now is the time. And, it required a down payment. I don’t think a mother has ever been happier to pay for her child’s orthodontia.

The intercontinental smile.

After a final high-flying act where she had to align the booking of over half a dozen flights with expediting the recognition of our last set of miles – woohoo! She’d done it. Hercules schmercules. Let’s see him conquer that beast. Didn’t think so.

Of course, now that I type this, I’m reminded of the time that Lydgia booked flights for her and the kids to go to Arizona to see cousins. They showed up at the airport only to find she’d forgotten to hit the submit button.

Now wouldn’t that be a humorous – and abrupt – ending to the blog?

Accumulations and Accommodations

2010-06-21T23:26:00.000-07:00

You know those offers that come in the mail that you throw away without looking at them? The ones giving you 30,000 miles just to start using a credit card? I hate credit cards. And, I’m not too fond of the word “hate” either. But it applied here. And this time, so did we. A 30,000 mile offer at the time was just too much to resist. (Besides, we felt extra special that we were pre-approved.)

In addition to the 30,000 extra miles and miles for every purchase from the new card, Lydgia found a special offer from our American Express – double miles when we used it for gas and groceries.

At the same time, Lydgia started looking into flights in anticipation of having enough miles. But, even if we got there, we still had nowhere to stay. Twenty-two years ago, when I went to France as a single guy, that wasn’t really a problem. I crashed at friends’ houses, slept in a buddy’s car and spent the night in a train station. None of those are real options when you’ve got your family of six in tow and you don’t want to hear the words “court order” in your future.

If you’re thinking, “Hotel” right now, you’ve forgotten the premise of the trip. We didn’t want to spend the money for one night in a hotel, let alone a couple of weeks or so.

And, have you ever stayed in a hotel in Europe? If you’re playing 20 questions and what you’ve got in your head is “European hotel room” and someone asks, “Is it bigger than a breadbox?” you have to at least think for a moment before replying. Spending nights in a breadbox with four children, no matter how delightful they can be at times?

Not going to happen.

Luckily for us, we’d seen the movie The Holiday. Though not nearly as good as Roman Holiday (and I might consider going back to college if I were only offered the opportunity to write a paper comparing Roman Holiday with Notting Hill – or even just the press scenes), it at least got the world thinking about home exchanges.

There you go. Easy, right? Home exchange and flight miles.

Not so fast. As Lydgia started checking flights, she noticed two things: 1) the airlines make it very difficult to actually use your miles anymore; and 2) flights were getting booked up quickly. Continuing with the movie theme, we suddenly felt like Indiana Jones trying to get through the closing stone door with his whip before it sealed off his only means of escape.

The stage was set for a nail biting, climactic chase scene – would we get enough miles before the few opportunities remaining ceased to exist – and would we be able to pull off a home exchange at the same time?

Flying Cars

2010-06-15T10:00:00.000-07:00

“When are they going to be done with the flying cars?”

“Huh?”

“Flying cars? How come we don’t have one yet?”

“Uh…what are you talking about, honey?”

I was obviously confused when two years ago our then four year old asked her questions with near exasperation as to what could possibly be taking them so long to deliver on the Jetsonian promise of flying cars. (Turns out she was remembering a conversation from months earlier about Moller and just didn’t understand why we hadn’t cleaned out the garage to make space for one yet.)

A few weeks ago, I asked the kids what they were looking forward to most about France. I’m sure one of them said, “Ice cream,” hearkening back to their highlight from six years ago when they fell in love with Fenocchio and its 70 flavors, even though they only ate chocolate and vanilla. Our family loves ice cream so they were probably only half joking with that response, despite eating some almost every day at home.

But, the flying car girl, now six, responded, “The Eiffel Tower!” (Almost everything she says or does seems to be followed by an exclamation point.) Perhaps that was her answer because that’s all she knows about France, but she thought for a moment and then declared, “I haven’t even been to the Eiffel Tower my whole life!”

The question of course was, with neither a “fly six people to another hemisphere” travel budget nor a flying car tucked neatly under the boxes in our garage, how were we going to get there?

You know how younger women are always concerned that they will turn into their mother? Well, let me just say that in Lydgia’s case, I’m glad that has partly come true. When Lydgia and I used to fly to see her parents, the first few hours of conversation upon arrival were always about the deals she got for our flights and, invariably it seemed, how she could have gotten something better by exploring some corner of the Internet that only her mother seemed to know about or by asking the right questions on the phone.

Sometime in 2009, while I alternated between scrambling courageously and staring blankly into the distance in response to the economic whammy, Lydgia recognized the France opportunity that lay ahead. She remembered that we had accumulated significant miles while I had a job with what I always described as the perfect travel schedule: once every six months to Europe. She checked our status. With two different airlines we had enough miles for one flight to Europe each. One of our children is under two and can sit on a lap on a flight. That left half of the family that we would either need to leave behind or figure out how to get there. Since we didn’t get any volunteers to stay in California, it was time for Lydgia to tap into her genetic inheritance.

France for Free - One Family's Adventure

2010-06-11T23:13:00.000-07:00

It was the best of ideas, it was the worst of ideas. In a little over two months, we’ll know for sure.

Can a family of six travel from California to France, live there for five weeks and spend no more than they would typically spend by living at home? And, since we’re the family in question, can we even come close and still enjoy the experience?

One Dream

For some time now, my wife and I have dreamed of living in France. Not forever, we love it where we are. (Years ago, a colleague looked at the T-shirt and basketball shoes that I was wearing to go explore the streets of Paris and asked deridingly, “Can you look any more American?” I looked puzzled and replied, “I am American.”) No, not forever, but for several months to a couple of years. This summer we saw our chance to go there for at least a few weeks. No major reunions. No major competitions. No busy work schedule. No reason not to go for it.

One Reality

But, for some time now, the economy has been beating everyone up. It won't forever, we hope, but it already has for a couple of years. This summer comes with its trials for everyone, just like last summer. No busy work schedules. No deep pockets to take advantage of the summer dream. No humorous line to include in this paragraph.

One Determined Woman

Turns out, my wife, Lydgia, doesn’t give up on dreams very easily. I once saw her reaction when someone told her not to worry about the end of a lake, because she would never water ski that many miles. I knew it wouldn’t matter if her legs would remain locked in water skiing position for the rest of her life – she was making it. I often credit our getting married to the comments made by a woman in whom Lydgia confided when she first started admitting to herself that she was digging me. The woman said, “Oh, that’s never going to happen.” 14 years later, I’m still grateful to Lisa, wherever she is. Best is, I didn’t even have to pay her.

One Hope

Given our reality, our one hope to make our dream become reality as well was that we had some assets. A lot of miles and, hopefully, just enough house.