The way we are

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I'm being followed around by a photographer who's documenting my daily life for a project about ex-pat women.  Her name is Chloe and you can see how talented she is on her website here.

It's fun having Chloe around.  Not only is she a delightful person to be with, she's totally messing with Lucien's head.  She pops up in our lives somewhere, takes pictures for fifteen minutes, then disappears again and Lucien is all "WTF?"  Hilarious.

Now he's constantly on the lookout for Chloe, constantly peering around corners -- and indeed sometimes she's there, crouching down waiting for us.  She runs ahead of us, crosses streets suddenly, ducks down alleys.  Lucien is completely mystified and utterly enthralled by this funny woman and her strange games.

Chloe met up with us Saturday morning to photograph our weekend quest for fun.  As we crossed the Pont Neuf, Alex sabotaged some of her shots by bending over and smacking his ass. (Alex hasn't been in many of the photos so far -- there's a reason why.)  Thankfully, Chloe is patient.  She also said she's starting to understand Lucien better now. When Al finally simmered down, we took a few serious family photos, then continued on to a metro station where she documented me nearly breaking my neck carrying a stroller down the stairs. 

When she sent me one of the Pont Neuf pictures later that evening, my first thought was, "Someday this picture is going to make me cry."  She totally captured a moment -- Lucien turned towards me being goofy, me telling him he's a punk who's aged me twenty years, Alex dreaming up new ways to Alex-bomb Chloe's photos, Camille calm and totally above it all as usual.  When I look at this photograph, I hear us, I smell the Paris morning, I remember how still the water of the Seine was behind us, and I know it will always be one of my favorites.

The way we were (or, thankfully, at least for a little longer, the way we are)

photo by wunderkind Chloe Lodge

Anywho, our destination with Chloe on Saturday morning was the covered galleries up near les Grands Boulevards.  The covered galleries are old shopping malls circa 1800ish and are tucked away in little somewhat hidden passages off the main streets.  They're pretty well preserved -- you can smell the history (history smells musty) and easily envision the people who walked on the same tile floors 200 years ago.  The galleries are incredible but they are also a touch creaky and creepy.  I startle-jumped a few times, but that's probably because Chloe was hiding around a corner again.

 We left Chloe, which left Lucien once again scratching his head, and walked home.  Our path took us through the gardens of the Palais Royale.  Alex vaulted some Burren columns because he's very manly and Coco secured her position as proudest and cutest walker in the place. What you can't tell from the picture is she walks like a combination of E.T. and Edward Scissorhands.  Sometimes I just want to mess up her hair, give her a pair of scissors for each hand, wrap her in a blanket and stick her in a bike basket.   Whoa, what I just said was actually really horrifying.  Never mind.

Screw the walking.  Run, Coco, run.

I wrote most of this post Sunday morning, sitting at my favorite cafe all by myself.  Weekend mornings are my favorite time.  I love to watch the city come alive very, very slowly, watch cafe owners drag chairs out onto terraces and wave at each other across the street, watch the men with green brooms sweep the Saturday night garbage out of the gutters.

"My" cafe is on a narrow street usually clogged with pedestrians.  But early Sunday morning, there were only cafe employees setting up shop and a few middle-aged men saying bonjour to each other while out walking their wimpy little dogs.  There's something not quite right about a middle-aged man walking a Yorkie, but evidently the French don't know that.

I leave you with a mental image.  Virginia daughter almost ran over Gerard Depardieu with her scooter on the way to her ballet lesson last week.  He lives right there in the neighborhood so they see him regularly.   As she barreled towards him, he had to jump off to the side.  He was wearing a seersucker suit.  I think it's my most favorite mental image ever. 

Smack that ass, Al, you go on with your bad self,
MJ

Beautiful days in crazy town

Spring has sprung in Paris. We made it out the other side of winter, which is a relief because it was looking kind of iffy there for awhile.

It's gorgeous outside. The only downside to the perfect weather is everyone in the city is standing right outside our building enjoying it.  We're used to having lots of people in our neighborhood but this is getting ridiculous.  It's a river of people, a giant sea of faces coming right at me whenever I step out the front door.  I feel another crappy Paint drawing coming on. 

In winter, the sea of faces was mean and scowly:

I never realized how much French people look like lollipops.

But now that the air smells like Spring, the sun shines on our faces and we're no longer trapped in our tiny apartments, the sea of faces looks like this:

The French are not an overly demonstrative people.  

While we're here, let's play a game.  It's called "Find the American Tourists."  Good luck. 

Virginia Mom and I took the children to a park Wednesday.  The kids wanted to ride their scooters on the way there, which sounds delightful in theory but in reality -- holy hell panic attack.  Parisian kids zip everywhere on their scooters with nary a hysterical parent in sight.  But for me, there's nothing ho-hum about my boy careening down the sidewalk next to a busy Parisian street filled with Parisian drivers. 

The ten-minute walk to the park felt like an hour as we watched our kids zoom ahead of us, yelling at them to slow down, praying they wouldn't get distracted and forget to stop at the corners.  Lucien wiped out a couple times, and both Virginia Mom and I shrieked with alarm several times, but somehow we made it to the park and back fully intact. 

By the time I stumbled in our front door, I felt like I'd been hit by a bus.  It's hard to explain to people sometimes, but living here, while certainly fun and exciting, is exhausting.  Even a damn walk to the park holds the possibility of nervous breakdown.   

I prefer the Loosh on foot for our outings.  Less heart attack-ey.

I saw a woman walking her cat on a leash this afternoon.  The cat was not thrilled about it and kept leaping straight up in the air to snarl and attack its stupid faux diamond-studded leash.  Sorry 'bout your crazy owner there, cat, and sorry for laughing out loud at your misfortune.

Everyone's finally out of hibernation, mes choux, even the cats apparently,
MJ

This doesn't look good

I disappeared for a week because I've been too ashamed to show my face and didn't feel much like talking about it.  After you read this most recent mothering nugget, it won't be surprising Coco's new favorite toy is a strainer, which she wears on her head at all times.  The girl is looking for a helmet. 

I picked Lucien up from school Thursday and he was a mess -- forehead, nose, and hands scraped badly.  It wasn't surprising;  he comes home looking like that often.  He and his friends play a terrifying game of tag at recess in which they hide, lie in wait, then launch themselves at each others heads like pumas taking down deer.

Back home, as Lucien cheerfully recounted his tales of school mayhem, I looked over and saw Coco stuffing her mouth with styrofoam.  She'd chipped off many pieces of packing material from a package we'd received and they were going into her mouth with impressive speed.  I ran over, and without taking a valuable half-second to think, grabbed her arm, pulled her straight up, and began frantic styrofoam extraction.

At first I thought she was screaming at the top of her lungs because I want to eat that styrofoam, dammit woman, but it soon became apparent, by the one arm dangling limply at her side as the other punched me repeatedly in the nose, that I'd hurt her.  She couldn't move her arm.  Every time I touched it, she screamed louder and cried harder and then my heart broke into little pieces.

I called S.O.S. Medecins and a doctor was here within twenty minutes.  I told him what happened and his beady little eyes appraised me coldly.  I knew he wasn't thinking complimentary things about me, especially when he looked over at my son who -- holy sh*t, I'd forgotten -- looked like he just stepped out of the ring after eight or nine rounds with Rocky Balboa.

The good news is Coco is fine, nothing a few days of rest won't fix.  But the bad news is she still has me in her life, so her troubles aren't over.  The very next day, Coco the newbie walker slipped on a scarf I left on the floor and went down hard.  I thought she was crying because her arm hurt in the fall, but when I picked her up and saw the blood, I knew that I, mother of the year, had struck again. 

She'd bitten her lip pretty badly.  The next fifteen minutes were spent forcibly applying cold compresses to her lip as she tried to punch me in the nose (again).  I hoped very hard there wouldn't be a need for a doctor -- in fact, I pretty much told Coco that unless her lip fell off onto the floor, we weren't going to the emergency room.  I'm not going to lose my kids over a mouthful of styrofoam, a vicious game of tag, and a scarf.

Her arm is much better now.  Her lip is fine.  Lucien still looks like he's been in a bar fight, but that's somewhat normal.  Things seemed to be calming down until yesterday.  It was a beautiful day so I took Lucien to the Luxembourg for an afternoon of "fun" with Mommy -- and wound up walking him straight into a mailbox.  I wasn't paying attention, had him by the hand, and pulled him directly into a mailbox hanging on the side of a building.  He hit the ground screaming.  People came over to see if he was OK.  He was indeed OK, but now we're sending him back to school with a large bump on his forehead.  

It feels like every move I've made in the past week has been the wrong one.  Alex has declared me "a menace" and has suggested I sit on my hands and not touch the children for awhile.  I think it's a good idea.  I feel horrible.

smart girl

We had our annual parent/teacher conference Thursday morning.  The teacher welcomed us warmly into the classroom but quickly put on her serious face.  I put on my serious face, too, which was difficult because we were sitting in teeny tiny chairs.  

There we sat with knees up to our chins as she told us, for the most part, Lucien's doing well in school.  He does his work well.  He's a sweet kid.  He's mastered many skills.  He's befriended the weird kid when no one else would ("Oh thank God, so he's not the weird kid?" we breathed with relief...)  On the downside, he's still prone to being excruciatingly loud.  He's stubborn as hell and enjoys mutiny.  She said sometimes he "forgets he's the student" and tells her he's thought up some new class rules, which he then strictly enforces with the other kids.

We didn't learn anything we didn't already know.  Our Lucien, with his boisterousness, excitability, and plot to take over the school, is not a model student.  But let me tell you something, people -- he is a model big brother.  He's the best big brother Coco could ever hope to have.  Sure, sometimes he plays games that are way too rough for someone her size and age ("dragon sword fight" wasn't a winner -- Coco was cast as the dragon, Lucien as the knight with all the swords) but he loves her immensely.  He's protective and helpful and makes her laugh from almost the minute she wakes up.  She worships him like he's the sun.  

 I hope they can protect each other from me.  I'm going to go hide now.

It's wasn't our best week, mes choux, and I'm sorry,
MJ a.k.a. "Dammit, Mom!"

Pagoda Stampede

I'm tired again because my daughter has a cold, and when Coco has a cold, she likes to wake up all night long just to remind everyone she's mad as hell about it.  We're totally getting her message, and we're looking forward to good health returning soon.  *clunk, head hits keyboard* oiefwhiadsflhkljasdjvnmva;ljngagv;jkl. 

I went to a movie with Virginia Mom on Saturday night at La Pagode theatre, which, the name doesn't lie, is a pagoda sitting in the middle of the 7th arrondissement.  We went to see The King's Speech.  There were lots of people there before us, and most of them were already holding tickets.  I'm going to draw some pictures now because I'm too tired to locate "the words" to describe what happened.  Here's the scene:

The lobby.  Two lines form at the front doors -- squares are suckers waiting in line for tickets.  Circles are smart people who already have tickets.  The circles have formed a scary French wedge and are chomping at the bit to be released from velvet rope prison so they can go watch Colin Firth stutter.

Do you see it?  Do you see what's about to happen here? --

I don't get it.  I just don't get it.  Why can't they just put the ticket purchasing line on the left and the ticket holders line....oh, forget it, just forget it.  They're doing these things to tick me off.  I know, I know, "stop reacting and they'll leave you alone" and all that. 

Movie was pretty good, though.
MJ

How to have zero fun in a Parisian park

This is a tutorial.  I'm going to tell you step-by-step how NOT to have fun in a Parisian park.  Everyone ready?  OK, here goes.

1.  Show up at a Parisian park.
2.  Try to have fun.

That's it! That's all you have to do!  The powers that be (a.k.a. the men and women with whistles who patrol the parks) will take care of the rest; they will step in to ensure you have a totally crappy time.

We met up with a handful of other moms and kids Wednesday afternoon at one of our favorite parks, the Jardin Catherine-Labouré.  We love this park because it has grass you can touch instead of just admire from a respectable distance.  Around here, grass is usually for lookin', not touchin', so keep your grubby little hands and feet off the ground.

This is only Coco's third time in her life sitting on grass.  It's a privilege, not a right, Coco.  

The Loosh looks like he's having fun. The whistle people don't like to see that.  He really should have toned it down.

This is what Jardin Catherine-Labouré looks like (for you sticklers out there, yes, I know it's not an exact replica, but my rudimentary Paint skills will not allow me to express the intricacies of the layout.)

Green squares are beautiful grass.  Brown square on the left is a sandbox.  Rectangle at the bottom is a playground.  Black circles are people having fun at the park on a beautiful day, or so they thought.

The kids began running around and laughing when -- WHISTLE SHRILLNESS! -- whistle man came over and told them to get off the grass.  We were stunned.  We've never been kicked off the grass at this park before -- it's the only reason we go, for the precious grass access.  After more whistle shrillness, everyone else was also kicked off the grass, so there we all stood on the dirt pathways between the luscious green lawns.

The black circles are now confused and wondering what they can play on narrow dirt walkways--

 

Virginia Mom has a can-do attitude so she busted out a soccer ball and started a very precise game of soccer on the path.  The kids were enjoying themselves again, because kicking a ball around is always fun, when -- WHISTLE SHRILLNESS! -- the whistle man appeared to tell us we weren't allowed to play with the ball because the ball was unsatisfactory.  In Whistle Man's opinion, the ball was "too hard."

Whistle Man was a real bastard.  After that we didn't know what the hell to do, restricted to the dirt path, surrounded by grass temptation, and denied our ball.  We fought for some turf in the sandbox but didn't really have our hearts in it.  As more and more people arrived to enjoy the park, all of them fell victim to the man drunk on whistle power, and the park started to look like this:

 See that one little circle on the grass?  That was a rebellious toddler, not much older than Coco, making a break for it.  He got his ass handed to him by a whistle because he was a bad, stupid little toddler breaking all the rules.

I packed up the kids and left.  And that is how you have zero fun in a Parisian park.

Maybe we shouldn't have been surprised.  This is the same park in which we were yelled at for playing guitar a year-and-a-half ago. (That was the same day Lucien stepped in the trough of piss.  HA!  That sucked.)  So, for those keeping track, it is forbidden to walk on the grass, play with a ball, or play guitar in the park, but it's still OK to let your dog crap all over the place.  Cool?)


And....to follow up, Lucien gave the homeless man some money for his teeth.  We've passed that man on the sidewalk maybe a hundred times since we've lived here, but only recently, after the teeth conversation, have he and Lucien begun greeting each other like old friends.

No grass for you!
MJ

P.S.  *Update* I'm just now hearing the news of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan.  Forgive me for posting something so dumb and inconsequential after such a horrifying event.  This is devastating news.

Justice for Henry

"The Twitter" introduced me to Henry and his mama, Katie.  Everyone knows by now I like to joke a bit on this blog, make fun of things, hopefully get a few people to crack smiles.  But after I started reading Henry's story, I wasn't able to come up with the goods to make that happen. 

Henry's on my mind.  I need to share him, get his story out there, and maybe after that I'll be able to return to my normal programming.  Sometimes you read something and it strikes fear into you so deep, it changes you a little bit.  That's where we are over here and I'm not gonna lie -- IT SUCKS.

Henry was an eighteen-year old boy who died last year in Knoxville, Tennessee.  He died of a drug overdose, but the convoluted events leading up to (and following) his death hint at less straightforward, and far more sinister, things. His mother just wants to be heard, wants authorities to conduct a more thorough investigation, and she needs media attention drawn to the case.  If anyone has contacts in that respect, you're my new best friend and will immediately be promoted to Head of the Comment Posse.  I will make you an official t-shirt, and demand Debbie step down at once in a very stern voice.  (Unless you have connections, Debbie.... then... we still cool?)

There was a project started by one of Henry's mom's writer friends in New York in which she asked people to take pictures at beautiful locations around the world with a sign that says "Henry."  It's a tribute to him, since he will never grow up, never travel the world, never see these things himself.  Oh God, I'm so depressed just writing that.  It's just terrible, the whole world is terrible...

That's me and Lucien up there in front of Notre Dame today.  Lucien colored the sign and we talked a little bit about Henry.  It was weird, but since I've recently read articles about pills showing up in elementary schools, I'm grateful for the opportunity to start the conversation young.  Because as Henry's story drove home, drug addiction can happen to anyone, even a sweet, quiet kid like him, who went to good schools and had two parents who loved him to the moon and back. 

Here's Henry's story, at his mom Katie's blog:  www.mamapundit.com.

Keep going, Katie.  Keep knocking on those doors, and good luck. 


MJ

The injustice of tooth loss

Lucien had a loose tooth over the weekend.  It was a big deal.  He talked about it non-stop for two days.  I didn't even know you could talk about a tooth for two straight days, but guess what, you can.

We celebrated when it fell out.  The Tooth Fairy came, left him some money and then it was over, another "first" checked off the list, marked on the calendar, written in the baby book (oh hush, I'll get to it as soon as I find the damn thing).

Fast forward to the walk home from school today.  We passed a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk asking for spare change.  Lucien saw the pile of change in front of the man and stopped to tell the man he had some money like that, too.  Then he said he lost a tooth, and showed him the gaping hole in his mouth.

The man said that he, too, lost some teeth and showed Lucien a few holes in his mouth.  Lucien looked really excited and said, "But then, that's how you can get some money!  You just put the teeth under your pillow and the Tooth Fairy brings you some!"

Oh Lord, a little awkward.  I reached for Lucien's hand but he pulled away from me and kept talking excitedly; he was eager to share his knowledge of missing teeth and money-making.

Lucien:  It's easy!  You have to remember to keep the teeth when they fall out; it's very important not to lose them.  Then put them in a Tic-Tac box and put it under your pillow when you go to bed.  That's all!  Then you'll have money and you won't have to ask anymore!

Me: *running far, far away*

Man:  But it doesn't work like that for me.  I don't get money for my teeth because I'm old.

Lucien:  Baah, pas juste! Pas juste! (Not fair!  Not fair!)  When more fall out, you have to try it again! Make sure not to lose them, maybe that's your problem!

The innocence was cringe-inducing.  As I led him away, Lucien proclaimed loudly the Tooth Fairy was mean to forget that man.  We agreed that next time we see him, we'll give him some money for his lost teeth.  I guess after that I better start carrying my purse around all the damn time -- who knows how many homeless people missing teeth we're going to come across on the sidewalks of Paris.

We moved Lucien and Coco into the same bedroom over the weekend.   The kids love being in the same room.  They love it so much, are so giddy with sibling love, they've made a pact to rise before everyone else in the city to really make the most of it.  The giggling begins at 5:45 a.m and doesn't stop, even when their mom stumbles into their room looking like Don King, sobbing something like, "You guys are killing me, KILLING ME...oh, where did my youth go...."

I think it's great you love each other.  Now knock it off. 

That's not the only problem with the change.  Alex and I have our bedroom back after a year and a half, which is great except we hate our bed.  We've become so accustomed to the air mattress in the living room, we are no longer able to sleep in a normal bed.  It's too high, too soft, and it's got no bounce, no OOMPH.  We also miss the squeaky rubbery sound that echoed around the room whenever one of us so much as blinked an eye. 

Alex said this morning we could probably put our air mattress on top of our normal mattress, a suggestion I'm considering even though it would make our bed ten feet tall.  We could use a ladder to get into it.  We could then pull the ladder up and be safe from the kids up there, kind of like a little parent clubhouse.  If you don't hear from me for awhile, that's probably where I am.

Not too long ago, I was contacted by a Masters photography student asking if I would be a subject for her current project, a study of the life of an ex-pat woman in Paris.  I've met with her a couple times and she's fantastic, but it's becoming clear I'm not good at acting natural when there's a camera in my face and her project will probably have to be called, "Bizarre wooden lady with fake smile doing weird things."

Anyway, New York Mom was in town over the weekend so some of the ladies went out for dinner.  My photographer friend asked if she could take a few pictures of us at the restaurant and we said sure, we'll probably be drunk and won't even notice.  We didn't realize how it would look to other diners, given the context of this being Paris fashion week and all the tents looming large just down the street from the restaurant. 

When our photographer showed up with her big camera, took some pictures, thanked us, and disappeared into the night, the other diners stared at us with a mix of curiosity and excitement. They tried hard to locate a famous face but were disappointed -- unless they pegged Virginia Mom as Jennifer Garner or New York Mom as Tea Leoni or me as Don King because hellooo, doppelgangers.

New York Mom entertained us with tales from her Paris days.  My favorite was the one about New York Dad going to a small store near their apartment in search of a carving knife for our Thanksgiving dinner.  He was missing a few key vocabulary words but we really needed that knife, so he ran into the store (I like to picture him breathless and frantic and waving his arms around) and said, "I need a sharp knife for a really big chicken!!"


The Tooth Fairy is an elitist snot, mes choux,
MJ

Naked Frenchman in our chaotic mess

This one is short because it's a beautiful day and I'm anxious to get outside. I don't have anything exciting to do today, but even dropping off the drycleaning is fun with the sun shining on your head. 

But quickly, there are big things happening around here.  Such as, I walked into the kitchen this morning and caught Alex's personal trainer changing his clothes after their run. There was a Frenchman in his underwear in my kitchen.  Life is sometimes unexpectedly delightful. 

And there's a new French teacher in my life.  Madame Suckerpunch got the boot.  She's a lovely lady, but she's so shy, our lessons were turning into monologues by me.  I talked to myself for an hour and a half and then paid her a bunch of money.  Something felt off. 

At my first lesson with the new teacher, she commented it was "nice to see an apartment with some personality."  I agreed and said yes, we love our cozy apartment with its creaky, crooked floors and wood beamed ceilings but she interrupted and said, "No, no, no, I mean most of the apartments I see are so perfect, with perfect furniture, no toys scattered around. Your place is much more relaxed." Then I was like, "OH, so you're saying our apartment is a chaotic mess and we don't have nice things. OK, cool."

In her defense, our apartment is a chaotic mess and we don't have nice things.  For the most part, we brought old furniture we don't care about, just in case it got damaged during shipping (and in fact kind of hoped it would get damaged during shipping).  But I guess people who come visit us don't understand that, and they think we really enjoy our dining room table held together in the middle by screws since that time Alex tried to stand on it.

And....Coco's walking.  Just be cool... I'm not gonna make a big deal about it right now because she's looking at me and if she knows I'm excited about it, she will never, ever do it again.  She's kind of a punk and her current obsession is finding markers under the couch (preferably the non-washable kind) and drawing on her face. 

But the most exciting news of all -- forget that "kid walking" crap -- is I added a new button to my sidebar.  I am now doing "The Twitter."  I have tweeted seventeen times since I started my Twitter account a year ago; fifteen of those were in the last two days so I think I'm on a roll.  Is the whole point really to write down every thought that comes into your head?  How delightfully self-absorbed.  Follow me at your own peril.

Tweet tweet tweet,
MJ

Loire Valley Misinformation

Sometimes you've got to get out of Paris.  The only problem with getting out of Paris is you first actually have to get out of Paris.  We are no longer used to the ways of the automobile, being car-less now for over two years, but renting a car was our only option if we wanted to see the Loire Valley properly.  Driving a teeny-tiny European car through the careening motorcycles and traffic of Paris aged us, and made us tense, angry people.

Once out of the Paris headache, our teeny-tiny car drove directly to the Loire Valley, which, for some reason, is home to five billion chateaux all clustered on top of each other.  (It will soon become apparent this is not a "facts" blog.  I don't like the concrete-ness of facts, and will thus share very few facts of the chateaux here.  I may, however, share the stories we invented ourselves, such as who had a goat orgy in the big green bedroom and who shoved who into the giant bread oven.) 

We pulled up in front of our rental apartment in Amboise and the owner came bounding towards us full of enthusiasm and friendliness. We immediately liked her and wanted her to take care of us forever.  We liked her even more when, mid-sentence, she leaned over and grabbed a duck by the neck to keep it from fighting with another duck.  She continued talking to us with a duck flapping around in her hand.  Then she chased Lucien around with the duck while he yelled at her to stop.

It was incredible  She was so fun, so not-Parisian, and she was terrorizing our child for free.  Alex turned to me and said, all dreamy-like, that he thought he was falling in love with her.  I told him, equally as dreamy-like, I thought I was, too.

People in Amboise are waaaay more fun than Parisians. 

This is the view from amazing duck lady's rental apartment -- the town and chateau of Amboise. 

It was an incredible place, even if the front door was a little small --

We immediately set out to see the town.  It's exactly what you'd expect of an old French village, almost annoying in its cuteness.  We went inside a chocolate shop, which I didn't feel quite right about, since the owner was evidently proud of being a bigot since 1913.

I detest bigots.  But their rum raisin caramels are amazing. 

We went to the chateau.  We told Lucien there were people inside all the suits of armor lining the walls.  We also told him if they started to move, it was his job to fight them.  After that, Lucien entered every room and immediately assumed his karate stance.  He eyed the suits of armor suspiciously and whispered things like gros canard under his breath.  That's like a battle cry for a five-year old in these parts.

 

We then went to the nearby Clos Lucé mansion, where Leonardo da Vinci lived for awhile, then croaked in the upstairs bedroom.  Leonardo was a guest of his buddy who lived over at Amboise, King Francois I.  Alex and I started a vicious rumor in the middle of Clos Lucé that King Frank and Leonardo were more than just friends because oh come on, they totally were. 

(I love you, my friends, but if it's ever written that I "loved you fervently," well, you might want to sit me down and have a talk with me.)

While at Clos Lucé, we realized Leonardo da Vinci invented just about everything in the entire world.   We also realized it was impossible for us to say "Leonardo da Vinci."  Every time we tried, it came out "Leonardo DiCaprio."  If Lucien was listening closely to what we were saying, he came away with the historical lesson that Leonardo DiCaprio invented the life preserver and the suspension bridge, and had an affair with King Francois I who may or may not have liked to be called "Uncle Frankie" in the bedroom.  You're welcome, Lucien's future history teachers.

 This is Lucien in front of Clos Lucé, with one of Leonardo DiCaprio's finest inventions, the turny-whirly thing.

The next chateau to be conquered, and its illustrious history ripped to shreds by us, was the lovely Chenonceau, also known as "that one that goes over the water." The entire thing is undergoing serious reconstruction because as it turns out, water is not great for foundations.

Chenonceau was pretty darn incredible.  There were many large rooms which we determined could only be used for goat orgies.  We were also pretty sure "The Bedroom of Five Queens" was waaaay dirty.  Maybe next time we should opt for the audioguide?

The last chateau we visited in the Loire Valley extravaganza was Chambord.  It's also known as the "eff'g huge one."  And yes, it was big, but it was also our least favorite. The Leonardo DiCaprio-designed double helix staircase was interesting, but other than that, the building's got no heart.

 The upside was there was plenty of space for goat orgies. 

In between chateau visits, we toured the countryside trying to visit wineries.  We didn't have a map or anything practical like that, but we figured we'd stumble upon a vineyard every few feet because come on, it's the goddamn Loire Valley! 

It was harder than we thought. We were excited to finally see a sign that advertised tastings and sales, so we followed it through some grapevines waaaay back to a dingy little house with laundry hanging off the front porch.  I told Alex he could go in by himself, and if it was OK, we would follow.  Alex got out of the car and started walking towards the "wine" sign, when suddenly a large dog jumped off the porch and started barking loudly and aggressively.  Alex froze, then walked backwards, very slowly, and got back into the car. 

Once safely inside, he pronounced it, "the Deliverance of vineyards" and got out of there so fast, the tires of our teeny-tiny rental car spun in the dirt for a few seconds.  We did finally find a non-scary vineyard with sales and bought a bunch of wonderful wine to bring back to Paris.  Which reminds me, I gotta wrap this up so I can go drink a bunch of it.

That was a great weekend.  Nothing went wrong, which is kind of incredible for us. The kids were generally well behaved and we had a lot of fun crapping all over history.  Saying goodbye to amazing duck lady was hard.  She became part of the family, even stopping by the apartment one evening for a drink and a chat.  She told us she encounters many Americans coming through the region, and many are so wrapped up in the notion that French people kiss all the time, they often try to give her the bisous when first meeting her, and every time they see her thereafter.  Oh, cute Americans, don't do that.  It's completely adorable, but really... don't do that.

Leonardo DiCaprio painted the Mona Lisa!

MJ

go get him, amazing duck lady

I remain the most well-adjusted of the four