Christmas wins

I love Christmas. I know there are many people who believe Thanksgiving is the superior holiday but those people are incorrect.

Christmas in Paris is enjoyable but only if you like pretty sparkly things. Take, for instance, the lights and window displays of the fanciest department store in town -- Les Galeries Lafayette. We went Sunday evening to see what all the fuss was about.

It's OK, but only if you like the above mentioned sparkly things and awesomeness.

Unfortunately, nothing was learned at the Copenhagen summit

We walked around the exterior to look at the window displays. Half the inhabitants of Paris had the exact same idea at the exact same time but there was something quite different about this crowd compared to other crowds I've encountered here. Even as we all pushed through each other and attempted to keep a hold of our children, everyone was smiling. At first it was freaky but then it was nice.



We went inside where the other half of the inhabitants of Paris were clustered around chatting in the middle of aisles. Walking to the escalators involved some jolly holiday elbow-throwing. We finally made it up to the fifth floor where we planned to eat dinner at the low maintenance "kid friendly" cafe.

I always suspected Disney characters were a bunch of bullies, especially that smug bastard Aladdin.

We were fearing an overcrowded mess at the cafe but were relieved to find only a few other people there. That should have told us something but we're dumb like that. We walked up to the counter and ordered. The guy behind the counter didn't move which made us feel nervous. Then he gave us the dreaded French shrug and told us they were out of food.

Of course they were. We stared at the counter man until he offered us a morsel of good news -- they had just enough fixin's left for a couple of turkey sandwiches. After a quick family huddle in which we concluded everywhere else in the vicinity that actually had food would be a mob scene, Al and I decided to stick it out. SOLD! We'll TAKE those turkey sandwiches. It's CHRISTMAS by golly and we'll make it work.

We added a couple beers, a juice for the Loosh, a bag of chips and a small piece of pecan pie. The guy behind the counter found some bacon and slapped it on the sandwiches. Bacon jackpot! We felt lucky indeed.

The equivalent of 42 dollars later, we bit into the driest, nastiest sandwiches we've ever had.

Yep, 42 smackeroos for this feast.

They had one of those fancy train tables in the cafe. Lucien headed over to have the time of his life but there was no choo choo on the choo choo table. We asked the man at the counter if he kept the train back there with him? He shrugged again and told us nope, someone had stolen it earlier that day. We murmured disapprovingly and agreed that was not a very Christmasy thing to do.

Lucien's spirit is tough to break, however. (Believe me. I've tried.) He found a rubber turtle in my purse and pretended it was a choo choo. It was slightly pathetic but we had to admire the kid's can-do attitude.



Al and I agreed that while it wasn't the best Parisian dinner ever, at least we hadn't waited in line forever to eat. We weren't smooshed up next to other people. We had beers in our hands. Lucien was happily playing with a rubber turtle choo choo. We could look out the window and see the Eiffel Tower. Life was good.

Then we saw the mouse run across the counter. We took off our rose-colored glasses and got the hell outta there.

Outside the store, there was a man selling balloons. Many children were begging their parents for a Santa balloon but our kid begged for that other beloved Christmas symbol -- the dolphin. Lucien clutched that thing with great focus, refusing to let go and refusing to believe the string tied to his wrist would prevent the dolphin from bolting for the sky. The walk to the metro was harrowing as the dolphin was nearly done in by the billion cigarettes held at Lucien-and-dolphin level.

(Seriously, how can an entire country smoke and still have a population?)


I was out yesterday when I spotted a pair of hot man jeans in a store window. I thought they would look mighty fine on my Al so I went in the store, grabbed a pair and looked at the tag. "Huh, that's funny," thought me. "There's no price on the tag." So I grabbed a different pair. No price on those either. There were a few random numbers, though -- 2 -- 0 -- 0. Some sort of item number maybe? A pricing code? Or could it be -- nah, no, that's impossible --

Oh holy hell, these jeans cost 200 euros.

I dropped those jeans like they were on fire and ran away. What kind of sick world have I wandered into where dudes pay 300 U.S. bucks for jeans? I mean, I agree the fraying was artfully done but...

So here we are. Just the four of us. I didn't know how I was going to feel not seeing family at Christmas this year -- goodness knows I'm way too emotionally dependent on the lot of them. (I miss you, mommy! Call me!) But I'm happily surprised to find I'm completely at peace with the decision to stay here. For the short time we live here, I want to experience it all.

After Christmas we're renting a car and heading to the northern coast for a few days because "winter" and "freezing cold coastal getaway" go hand-in-hand according to us. I'll be back writing after that, perhaps with some "what the hell were we thinking?" stories.

So Merry Christmas, everyone! If you don't celebrate Christmas, then Merry whatever else you're into!

Thanksgiving is for suckers,
MJ

WAIT A MINUTE WAIT A MINUTE. I thought I was done with this post but I have to send a big warm fuzzy hug to France.

There's a national network of doctors here who only do house calls. They're called S.O.S. Medecins. The Loosh became quite sick a couple days ago and has remained that way. He felt so crappy he didn't move for over an hour -- and for the Loosh, that is truly cause for alarm.

I called S.O.S. Medecins and within an hour there was a doctor at our door. He opened his little doctor bag and examined the Loosh while he laid half comatose on the couch. And voila! Ear infections and some nasty sounding bronchitis!

You have to pay for the house call but it's a bargain considering I didn't have to get the poor little guy off the couch and onto the metro.

I heart you, France. Hey home, why don't we have anything like this??

Snow snow snow snow snow

We awoke to snow yesterday morning which made me stare out the window a lot, drink copious amounts of coffee and grin like a drunken schoolgirl (what the.....??)

I put Coco in the wrap -- have I mentioned she is just absolutely toasty warm in that thing? -- and hit the streets, whirling and twirling in the snow like a drunken schoolgirl (what? again?) It felt like my life was a movie and I was a STAR.

It's the kind of weather that inspires me to make pancakes and drink hot chocolate. So that's what I made for dinner. Lucien now thinks I'm the best mom ever, a belief I will quickly squash when he receives socks for Christmas.

Speaking of socks, Lucien came home in someone else's socks yesterday. When I asked where his socks were, he told me he'd put them under his bed at school. When I asked why, he answered with a sigh, "Because I was doing a betise, mama." I'm just so darn grateful he's internalized that word and I look forward to it being the theme of the rest of our lives.

I went out shopping today. I shouldn't try to look cute when there's snow on the ground. Thanks to my stupid slippery riding boots, I nearly tasted sidewalk half a dozen times. Mama slipped and slid all over Saint Germain in her attempt to buy Lucien a sweet pair of choo-choo slippers at the Gap.

I went into the store and asked if they had any more of the slippers in the Loosh's size. The woman stared at me like I had lost my darn fool mind and said, "No, madame, we don't have any more. The 25th is coming. It's Christmas."

Ohhhhh... thank you, stating-the-obvious lady! I don't know how I could have forgotten, especially standing here conversing with you with that floppy Santa hat on your head.

It's hard to find boxes around here. They don't hand them out willy-nilly with every purchase like in the U.S. of A. I've been scrounging around the apartment trying to find box-like things with the potential to house gifts. I've found several but they're mostly empty food containers from Picard or the grocery store. I can't wait to see the look on Lucien's face when he rips off the wrapping paper and discovers Santa's brought him some saumon en croute or a box of cereal.

Happy snowy Parisians on the Pont Neuf

Saint Germain is full of shoppers in a hurry. They're crossing the street in front of rapidly approaching cars more aggressively than ever. I cross along with the herd, feeling like a badass and thinking to myself, "Well, they can't kill ALL of us, can they?"

Now this is a very important lesson so listen up. It is true they can't kill all of us -- but it is also true they will TRY.

Lucien still believes this is a clothing optional home and he chooses "no." It's been no big deal up until recently. It gets dark so early these days, our lights come on before the Loosh goes to bed. And we have no curtains in the main room windows. So when the neighbors ride up on the elevator, they look right into our living room and get an eyeful of a small naked boy sitting on the couch waving at them maniacally. Eyes are quickly averted and judgments made.

Snow in Paris makes me giddy, mes choux,
MJ

Tartiflette is my lover

Christmas is seriously hurting my blogging. I've spent the past two days at the post office either figuring out how to mail something, attempting to mail something but doing it incorrectly, knowing how to mail something but standing in lines longer than I'm comfortable with or actually successfully mailing something aw hell yeah.

Rafael's parents are not taking the news of their son's continued schooltime shenanigans with the Loosh very well. Rafael's dad ignored Lucien when Lucien said, "Bonjour!" to him. Rafael's mom shot me the stinkeye when I tried to talk to her at pick-up. Not only are we NOT going to be friends with them, I think we have to fight them now.

Stay behind me, Al. *cracks knuckles*

So there I was Friday afternoon, happily heading home from a Right Bank shopping trip and crossing Île de la Cité when I heard it -- the dreaded police whistles and incomprehensible chanting of many people protesting. Marching, marching, they're always MARCHING around here.

I moved quickly to determine their precise location and weigh my chances of getting off the island before they cut me off, leaving me to either fight through them or find an alternate route. Neither was very desirable; I had heavy shopping bags and an infant preparing for her own "Boobs for babies NOW!" protest.

I had to move fast if I was going to beat them across the bridge. So I ran. Actually, since I had the bags and Coco, it was more of an awkward speedwalk coupled with occasional bursts of weighed down low-to-the-ground running with an occasional skip thrown in. It wasn't graceful but it was fast. I busted out all these smooth moves alongside the marchers protesting somethin', somethin' human rights somethin'. (There's no time to check out the signage when you're outrunning a manifestation.)

I made it to the corner way ahead of them and crossed the street with time to spare. Once I was safely on the "home" side of the street, I turned triumphantly and snapped a picture of them eating my dust. Booyah!



Virginia mom and I hit the outdoor Christmas market at St. Sulpice where I purchased nothing but drank vin chaud and, most importantly, met tartiflette. Tartiflette is an unhealthy (Really? Are you sure?) combo of potatoes, cheese and bacon.

I would leave everything behind and run away with tartiflette if it asked me to.

Continuing with the "outdoor market and eating crap" theme, we made it to the Christmas market on the Champs Elysees this weekend. We took the metro this time to avoid the puddle pitfalls that lie within the Tuileries. I regretted the decision once the metro pulled up because it was packed full of not very merry people.

We struggled on with the two kids and a stroller and tried very, very hard not to touch the lady sitting inches away screaming, "Ne me touche pas! Ne me touche pas!" with her eyes closed. (That means "Don't touch me," if you're too holiday weary to figure it out from context.)

At one end of the Christmas market is a giant Ferris wheel we could not avoid once the Loosh laid eyes on it. Three quick spins later we were many euros poorer but at least we got some great views out of it.

Place de la Concorde below and the Whatchamacallit Tower in the distance

FYI -- Place de la Concorde is where the guillotine was all those years ago. Now there's a Ferris wheel there. So depending on your century, Place de la Concorde = FUN!

The Tuileries and The Louvre

Other activities of the day included fighting large crowds of people, getting yelled at by a lady when she stopped short and I ran into her with the stroller, trying to pry the Loosh off garishly colored rides and getting sprayed in the face with fake snow. In other words, just another day in the life.

Anyone know if fake snow is toxic?

I am about to be sucked into a Christmas-is-approaching vortex. I'll pull myself out and say "HI" when I get a chance but forgive me if I disappear for awhile. (This is just to buy myself some time as I run away with my lover, tartiflette.)

Vive le vin chaud!
MJ

La betise

I found an outfit for you. It's perfect. You could wear this to ... well ... maybe a formal dog sled race? Maybe like a hippie Eskimo wedding? Maybe a PETA -- no, no, PETA is probably out of the question.

Anyway, the entire ensemble is about 4500 euros. Let me know if you want me to grab it for you. Decide quickly because this puppy is bound to sell..... never? At least the penguins are cute.

Lucien has fallen in with the wrong crowd at school. The very first day of school, Lucien hit it off with a cute little guy named "Rafael." Rafael is quite possibly the craziest kid to ever walk the earth. As unbelievable as it sounds, he's higher energy than the Loosh.

Rafael's parents struggle hard to keep him in the same time zone. I saw his dad lunge for him once, trying to keep the kid in the classroom. He wound up on the floor hanging onto Rafael's pant leg. He probably drinks at night to forget.

Lucien, from day one, was mesmerized by the little dynamo. And for a long time, all was well. They played hard but were doing well in school. Alex and I bonded with Rafael's parents over our common denominator -- "ahh, these boys." I envisioned becoming good friends with them and looked forward to all the dinners we would share at our apartments around the corner from each other.

But things have changed recently. For reasons unknown, Rafael has suddenly turned it up a notch and has earned a permanent place on the teacher's shitlist. He has a willing and eager accomplice and you'll never guess who it is. Here's a hint -- he's about yea high and currently standing on the dining room table with a sing-song, "Hey Mom-eeeeee -- look at me-eee." I am choosing to ignore him. Pick your battles, people.

Saint Teacher is at her wits end with the both of them. When I picked him up Monday she looked frazzled for the first time since the beginning of the school year. She kept waving her arms around, emphatically stating that Lucien and Rafael are doing "la betise, la betise!"

I wasn't familiar with the word so my self-protecting mind thought, "Hmm, la betise! Sounds delightful! Does it mean they're solving complex math equations together? Training guide dogs for the blind? Reading to each other from the works of Chaucer?"

I came home and looked it up. It means they're dickin' around and being punks.

And those French parent friends we thought we had? They won't even make eye contact with us anymore. They come and grab Rafael by the scruff of the neck and slink out of the classroom without saying a word to anyone. I suppose it's better that way. These two boys together are like the perfect storm and the rest of us are Mark Wahlberg bobbing in the waves. (Actually I'd like to be more like George Clooney and go down stoically with my beloved swordboat. What the hell am I talking about?)

Saint Teacher has since assured me Lucien is a sweet little kid when playing with children who are not Rafael. Rafael, however, is a beast all the time and with everybody. Thus, my kid is better. (Oh hush now, Mama's coping).

I am legend!

The vaccine wary French have joined the ranks of the "scared shitless" 'round the world. Swine flu has landed in France and it's not pretty. Doctors who previously said, "Don't do it" regarding the vaccine are now screaming, "Do it! Do it! For the love of God, do it now!" The deaths of previously healthy children have turned previously skeptical parents into lunatics clawing at each other to get ahead in line.

I'm only slightly exaggerating. Riot police have been called to several vaccination centers in the city over the past couple weeks. It's a swine flu zoo out there.

I took the Loosh for his second shot. Determined to beat the crowds and get in/get out, we were there when the doors opened at 8:00am. We were fifth in line. It still took two hours. Welcome to Paris.

Lucien took the shot like a brave little soldier then immediately asked the lady for cookies. No cookies this time. Our star treatment went out the window when all of France started lining up outside the door.

The French are no longer "stupid." Now they're freaked out and confused like everyone else.

La betise, mes choux,
MJ

The customer is always stupid

I'm accustomed to not having the best customer service when I shop in Paris. But recently the salespeople have started insulting me and that's just mean.

I was in the Carrousel du Louvre, the subterranean shopping mall under the Louvre museum. I had Coco in the baby wrap --

Wait wait wait. Before I go any further, I should explain the French reaction to the baby wrap. There are very few 6th arrondisement Parisian people who carry their babies on their bodies. Strollers are the norm -- the more obnoxiously expensive the better.

Those who carry their babies generally use the traditional Baby Bjorn carrier. Pretty much nobody uses my preferred Africa-ish earth mama wrap, a giant piece of fabric that ties the baby to your body. These wraps are popular in Seattle but that's because we're a bunch of granola eating, tree humping, babywearing hippies.

I did see a woman wearing a wrap in this neighborhood recently but there wasn't a baby in it; there was a dog in it. So very Paris.

When I'm out and about in the wrap, people stare at me intensely, trying to figure out what I'm up to. I think at first glance I look pregnant with a huge fabric-covered bulge on my frontside. Then perhaps they catch a glimpse of a baby head poking out the top and have to stare harder because, whoa, that baby is birthing funny. Once they figure out what it is I get lots of nods and approving smiles.

So there I was shopping my little heart out at the Carrousel du Louvre. A saleswoman walked up to me and asked if she could help me. I said no thanks; I was just looking around for ideas for my son. She started to walk away but then turned back with curiosity to take a closer look at the wrap. I waited for the appreciative murmurs and head nods but instead she furrowed her brow and looked at me like I was the biggest dumbass on the planet.

"Your baby is cold," she said.

"Are you a Baby Whisperer?" I asked in a hushed, awestruck voice. Magic lady...

She started grabbing at the fabric, her voice raising a little as she said, "This is all you have her covered in? Where's her blanket! You need a blanket! It's cold outside. This isn't enough."

We attracted the attention of another saleslady. She came over and, after a brief conversation with the first saleslady started clucking at me disapprovingly, too.

I got defensive. I was, after all, under attack from a saleslady biker gang and their numbers were multiplying. I said (at least this is what I hope I said but I guess we'll never know) that if you wrap it correctly, there are three layers of fabric surrounding her body. She's also dressed warmly underneath. She's also wearing a ridiculous plastic hip brace that doesn't breathe and makes her hotter than hell. She's completely up against my body which is warm because I'm warm-blooded as opposed to you cold-blooded meanies who are making me feel like a bad mother in the "educational toys" section. I wrap my scarf around her when we're outside. She's wearing a winter hat. BITCHES MY BABY IS NOT COLD LET ME SHOP IN PEACE IT'S CHRISTMAS DAMMIT.

I tried to peel Coco away from my body so they could see the huge sweaty mess we both become after just a short period of time smooshed up against each other. But they only gave me condescending smiles. One lady told me I needed to listen to her because she had experience raising children. I told her I had experience, too; I had raised one child past the baby wrap age and he hadn't frozen to death. I thought I made a good point but the non-frozen baby defense didn't seem to change their minds.

In a last effort, I suggested that perhaps if the baby was cold she would wake up and let me know by crying in my general direction? The first saleslady looked at me like I was hopeless and then listed all the reasons babies cry. Being cold wasn't one of them. And then her hands were on her hips.

"Man, I'd like to deck HER halls," I thought to myself. (How curious -- that sounded way dirty. I did not mean it that way. I meant I wanted to hit her.) Anywho...

I was not going to win and was at a huge disadvantage language-wise. I left the store, never to return, which sucks because there were some great things in there for the Looshman. Maybe I'll sneak back in someday wearing dark shades, a fake mustache, a cape (why not?) and carrying Coco wrapped in a dozen dead animal skins. That ought to buy me some peaceful shopping time.

Not only is the customer NOT always right in Paris, sometimes the customer is in dire need of a talkin' to.

Don't listen to her. I am so frickin' cold.

Lucien is allowed to bring his favorite stuffed animal to school, his "doudou," to snuggle with at naptime. We were walking home from school Friday, the Loosh eating his snack and me carrying a stack of his artwork in one hand, the doudou in the other.

From somewhere to my right, a very playful black lab came bounding towards me and sunk his teeth into the doudou. Some very strange seconds followed in which I spun around and around and tried to dislodge the ecstatically tail-wagging doggy from Lucien's favorite stuffed animal while Lucien watched, mouth agape, chocolate cookies all but forgotten.

The owner came and pulled the dog off me, apologizing profusely when she saw I also had a baby tied to my body. (The baby, by the way, was not cold.) Kiki the stuffed animal seems no worse for wear. It was a brief incident but further proves my theory that weird things happen to me here.

SO........COLD.......

Big event in Paris over the weekend. To further illustrate just how much the French love to strike, the UNEMPLOYED went on strike on Saturday. They were protesting the unemployment rate. They carried signs that said "Unemployed and on strike." On a Saturday. And there you have it -- the most ineffective strike in the entire history of ever.

LIFE is STRANGE, mes choux,
MJ

The Ghost of Rue Jacob

Nothing says "Christmas" like a good ghost story. I found this story posted on a fellow ex-pat's Paris blog entitled Just Another American in Paris. I am also, thanks to her, a new devotee of The Moth podcast. Don't get hooked on it unless you have nothing else to do for the rest of your life.

We live 'round the corner from the Rue Jacob. I walked over there and took some pictures of the building Joan Juliet Buck is storytelling about.

Spooooooky.....

I'll certainly let you know if anyone crawls into bed with me who isn't a French Canadian or my flesh-n-blood young 'uns.




MJ

My timeout has beer

Our neighbors' names are Jacques and Diane. Every time I see them all I can think about is John Cougar Mellencamp singing with a french accent.

We decorated our Christmas tree over the weekend. What should have been a joyful event turned into a tense exercise in patience and, for the poor tree, survival. Lucien was a little overenthusiastic so most of my energy was spent trying to keep the tree upright, the lights untangled and the feather boa in one piece (yeah, you heard me right. It's a Parisian tree, baby).

The Loosh's method of tree decorating involves hanging twenty ornaments on one branch. When most of those fall to the floor, tantrum ensues. Christmas is such a magical time!

But the fun didn't stop there. He ripped all the pages out of his book entitled Le Petit Ange Parfait (The Perfect Little Angel -- there is some irony there.) He ripped a decorative Santa's face in half. He ran around the apartment yelling. I yelled at him for breaking the "no yelling" house rule. He then yelled at me for yelling, too, and told me I had to go in timeout. I then had to yell at him for that which caused him to yell at me for yelling again. It's a vicious cycle.

It was not the best day for me and the Loosh. Alex, sensing my on-the-edgeness, ordered me down to the corner to drink beers in the afternoon. I do love that man sometimes.

There are two wonderful things about drinking a beer by yourself at a Parisian brasserie. The first is you can squeeze into the best spot outside -- under the heat lamp with a perfect view for people watching. The second is you can listen to everyone else's conversations without worrying about your own.

The couple sitting next to me was speaking English but neither one of them spoke it as a first language. The girl of the couple was very excited to practice her English by telling some jokes. Oh goodie, I love jokes! It's always handy to know a few jokes to break the ice at all the Frenchie dinner parties we're not invited to.


Cute French girl: What's an insect with antenna that hurts itself against the wall?

Adorable Italian boy: I don't know. What is it?

Cute French girl: A baby with forks in its ears.

Me: WTF?



Then:

CFG: (muffled, muffled, too many people talking couldn't hear...)

AIB: What do they do with the dog?

CFG: They shave it, make a coat with the fur and drugs with the rest.

Me: WTF??????



And finally:

CFG: What's worse than a baby in a garbage bin?

AIB: I don't know. What?

CFG: A baby in two garbage bins.

Me: Chuckle chuckle. Good one, CFG. The baby's cut in two or somethin'. Wait a second..... WTF?


I give them credit, though. If I were to tell a joke in French it would probably sound something like this:

Me: Le mumble mumble mumble. Hee hee hee! Get it? Where'd everybody go?


The couple on the other side of me were American but were trying to avoid looking like Americans by wearing intricately tied scarves. They were complaining quietly to each other, with great chagrin and embarrassment, that the loudest people in the place were a group of American women. Those ladies were hootin' and hollerin' it up at the edge of the patio while the rest of us drank with refined sophistication, pinkies raised and whatnot.

The Loosh and I started fresh the next morning. Giggles and love had returned to our home. We were excited to go to the Champs Elysees and check out the Christmas market. Everyone bundled up comfy cozy and headed outside.

We didn't make it past the Tuileries. Lucien jumped into a huge puddle, soaking his shoes and socks thoroughly. It's winter. So we turned around and went back home.


See you at the bar.


Little ditty 'bout Jacques and Diane, mes choux,
MJ