Paris, ensemble

Everybody thinks they have the best Mom.

Well, no, of course not. A lot of people have trauma around their upbringing, or were raised by a dad or two dads or grandparents, or were never lucky (or unlucky, I suppose) enough to know their mother. But everybody who's as lucky as me, to have been raised by my parents of birth in a loving and supportive household, thinks they have the best Mom and Dad. They're wrong, though, because I do.

When I was fifteen and 50/52nds, (got that?) my parents, younger brother and I moved away from Maine, from all four of my grandparents AND my older brother, who elected to stay behind with family and finish high school there. We left the house I grew up in that my great- great-grandfather built, the schools my parents had graduated from that I was attending with mostly the same kids I'd met in kindergarten. The four of us lived in Key Largo, Florida for two and a half years after that, ending (for me) when I left for college in fall of 2000 - and that was the last time I lived within driving distance of my parents for twelve years. From 2012 until this summer, we lived 30 minutes away, and it was an odd week if I didn't see them at least once. So I knew from my teenage years how hard it would be to move my kids away from their grandparents, and I knew from experience how hard it would be on me, no longer having their daily support after five years of relying on it. To say nothing of how cruel it was to take their oldest grandchildren away from Mom and Dad after so many years of filling their house with mischief and giggles!

And yet, because I have the best parents, they were 100% supportive of this adventure for our family, running errands and watching the kids while we prepared to move, storing precious things that we didn't trust with the moving company, and in my mom's case, talking me through more than one embarrassing emotional meltdown when it all got to be too much. They are saints. So you can imagine how thrilled I was when Mom found an impossibly good deal on flights to Paris before we had even arrived ourselves, and the excitement with which we all counted down to their arrival! Sunday, October 15 we loaded up the car and drove 5 hours to Paris, more or less copying the route I'd taken to Costco the weekend before.

A car ride that long with two small kids is always a challenge, and unfortunately Josh was still suffering form the allergies that had attacked just a couple days before. Still, it was an uneventful ride and we checked in to our superhero Airbnb in the first arrondissement before dinner, after an exciting moment trying to park in the garage - turns out our little Citroen C4 can't really reverse up a ramp, in case you were wondering. Then we had Thai food out - I know, it's not exactly classic Parisian fare, but big city = better foreign food! - and went to bed early.

Also, big city means the food might actually have some heat!

Cheers from the airport in Atlanta!

It's a good thing we went to bed early, too, because I set an alarm for 4:30 the next morning, so as to make sure to arrive at Charles de Gaulle airport in plenty of time to meet their 6:30 plane. I'd never seen such deserted streets! It was eerie, and beautiful.

 I was absurdly early for the flight, so I did some exploring and got directions on where to go to collect our dog, who was flying in by cargo 48 hours later. Finally Mom and Dad emerged from a looooong wait at customs, and I have never been happier.

Well, until this happened.

 We got back to the apartment and hugged forever, and by the time we were ready to set out on the metro its was mid-morning.

Mom and Dad had never been to Paris before, and the kids had only passed through. So, as you can see above, we headed straight for the Eiffel Tower but opted to skip the hours-long lines for the top. We enjoyed the view though, tossed leaves into the Seine as we walked over a bridge, then headed to a brasserie for lunch.

 Nana fit right in with the French culture - always have a glass of wine at lunch! I was happy to join in. It's vacation, after all.

 Pappy was a rebel, though. We thought they might kick us out when he ordered coffee BEFORE the meal! The waiter raised both eyebrows and reconfirmed that he actually wanted it. Twice. But jet lag is a doozy, and I think Mr. Meixell made up for his transgression by having the escargot.

After lunch we walked to Les Invalides to see the beautiful gold dome and walk off some of our lunch. On the way we passed two WWII memorials, one with dried flowers hanging beneath.

This is my own translation - forgive me if it's clunky or inaccurate.
"December 12, 1941
The German military police, assisted by the French police, arrested 743 Jewish professionals, mostly veterans and liberal professionals, and regrouped them at the "Commandant Bossus" carousel at the military college.
The 743 were interned in the German camp at Royallieu a Compiegne, where some died of hunger and cold.
March 27 1942, most of the 743 were deported in the first convoy leaving France for Auschwitz, where they were murdered.
Do not forget these victims of racial hatred.
-The sons and daughters of Jews deported from France
Josette et Jean-Jacques FRAENKEL in memory of their Father"

This one breaks my heart - it's so personal.
"In memory of Pierre LASSALLA, Corporal of the LECLERC division
Fell August 25, 1944 for the liberation of Paris, at the age of 21."

These memorials are everywhere in France, and it really drives home the horrible personal losses WWII delivered to Europe. Our American experience of the war was of sending our sons and daughters overseas, not knowing if they were dead or alive, believing in the cause. Imagine what it was like seeing your homes and churches and schools occupied by the enemy, not knowing who around you was in the resistance or reporting back to the enemy. People being enslaved or disappeared every day, food is scarce, peril is everywhere - and still your sons and daughters are gone and fighting. The rise of white nationalism in the U.S. and worldwide right now is especially frightening to me as I'm reminded of the horrors wrought by Nazism in Europe. One thing they do very well here - they never let you forget.

But we were on vacation, so I tried not to dwell on it! The kids got tired of the Paris walking fairly fast, but luckily Josh and Pappy were willing pack mules. Even for the nearly-70 pound six year old!

After Les Invalides we headed back to the tiny Airbnb for a rest and some French cartoons. Josh walked to L'As du Falafel, our favorite hole in the wall restaurant in Paris for a takeout dinner, where he was mistaken for an ASM champion rugby player, haha! Dad and I ran down to the little Italian place on the corner for some supplementary charcuterie, cheese, and salad, and we all feasted with a couple more bottles of wine. It was an awesome first day in France for Mom and Dad, and such a welcome relief for the four of us. Nothing comforts like family!

It's just lunch, lady.

The week after Costco is a tough one to write about. And difficult to explain, unless I first describe the culture of school lunches in France. I wrote a little about this before, but I want to share a bit more detail.

You probably know already that school lunches in the U.S. are notoriously bad. Brown, frozen food reheated and served with ketchup, canned vegetables (if any!), and sugary milk. By comparison, the food in French schools is wonderful! There are chefs in each school district, the food is balanced and prepared fresh and served in courses. This takes place at the school, but "la cantine" is staffed by city employees whose contracts are separate from teachers or administrators. Here's a sample menu:

A little translation: Entrees are appetizers, Plats are main dishes, Garnitures are veg/garnish, Laitage is a milk product, and Dessert is self-explanatory. So here's the week of October 2-6 at Massillon:

Monday: Beets with vinaigrette, roasted chicken with zucchini, Camembert cheese and pears.

Tuesday: Tomato salad, pork stuffed with herbs, ratatouille (roasted summer veg), St. Paulin cheese, and praline dessert pudding.

Wednesday: No cantine because students have no school, or just a couple of hours in the morning.

Thursday: Boiled egg with mayonnaise, beef ravioli, semolina (not sure what kind of garnish that is!), local bleu cheese, and strawberry mousse.

Friday: Pearl salad (which I assume means salad with Israeli couscous or something), breaded fish fillets, pureed vegetables, cantal cheese and local yogurt with fruit. 

Sounds pretty appealing, right? There's always water, milk, and juice to drink, plus fresh French bread. This was one of the parts of French culture that I was most excited about; the kids having such a complete and balanced meal and encountering new foods at school. Naturally, it wasn't at all what I expected. 

For the first month of school I decided to keep both kids out of cantine altogether. Well, I had planned to introduce Lincoln to it the third week, but that was when the school asked us to move him up to second grade, so I figured skipping a year was enough excitement for one week. So finally in week five he stayed for lunch on a Tuesday. Well, that was the day I got a call at 2:00 p.m. saying that he'd been pushed down by another child on the "playground," which is a nice way of saying "the concrete courtyard lovingly nicknamed "Shawshank." Remember? 

Still, the following Thursday he decided to go again, with assurances from the school that the kid who'd pushed him had been given a talking-to. That night, he informed me that he'd forgotten to throw away a piece of cheese from his plate before carrying the plate up to the dishes counter. The lunch lady, rather than asking him to throw it away, grabbed him by the wrist, dragged him across the room to the trash cans, and made him throw it away. By Friday he seemed fine, and we chalked it up to another annoying difference between French and American cultures. 

Well, all that weekend Lincoln complained of chest pain. He couldn't sleep. He was o.k. when distracted, but as soon as the game of Uno ended, or the T.V. went off, or the karate class was over, his hand went to his chest again and he winced and gasped. 

My six year old was having anxiety attacks. 

Six. 

Because a woman employed to care for children can't keep her hands to herself, or use her words. 

That week he missed school for several days, saw his pediatrician, and went to the emergency room for an EKG to rule out a heart problem (which, thankfully was ruled out). Each of the three pediatricians we saw said the same thing: Cantine is a problem all over France, especially for foreign children. DO NOT make him go back. 

Fortunately, the reassurance that he didn't have to return to cantine and the knowledge that vacation was coming were enough to alleviate the worst of his symptoms, and he was able to finish the last day or two of the week. We are reevaluating the kids' schooling and thinking of moving them to a public school nearer to our apartment, so that they can avoid cantine and I can avoid spending four hours per day walking and busing to school. 

SO. That brings us to Saturday, October 14, when we were preparing to pack up the car and drive to Paris to meet my parents, hooray! And pick up our dog as well. During the week of Lincoln's anxiety attacks, I also learned that everything the airline had told me about a dog flying unaccompanied was wrong, and at several points it looked like he wouldn't make it at all. But thanks to the incredible generosity of my friends Kim and Angel, who'd fostered him all summer, the paperwork was signed off and he was good to go. Josh had meetings in Paris from Wednesday to Friday the 13th, so I got us mostly packed up and ready. 

Well, something in the hotel in Paris disagreed with Josh, and my never-allergic husband broke out in hives. We spent Saturday traveling to Urgent Care, realizing that they require an appointment, traveling home and then back there again, only to receive steroids and antihistamines that were completely unequal to the task. Saturday night was the expats' Halloween party, so Josh stayed home while I took a Ghostbuster (Sylvia) and a karate master (Lincoln) to an apartment downtown for pumpkin carving and a potluck feast. 

I brought deviled eggs, but not the cute and spooky ones!

It was such a great evening. I don't know how our hosts managed to pull it off - that many pumpkins, that may families, and yet it was almost totally relaxed and fun! 

The first half of October was a whirlwind for our family - but then, every week here has been a whirlwind in some fashion. After the Halloween party we came home for quick showers before bed, ready to drive all day Sunday and finally hug our Mom and Dad/Nana and Pappy again! And that's the real reason I barely blogged in October: I was having too much fun with my parents to write about it.

Kindness, everyday

I really want to tell y'all about our little date night at a new bistro in Clermont - a bistro that took over the former home of a burger joint called Emily's Diner - but I don't want to forget what a regular day feels like here. So let me tell you a bit about today, and a little bit about the day-to-day realities of trying to learn a new language.

It's a Wednesday, but the kids have had a cold for a few days, so it was Lincoln's first day of school for the week. (Remember, there's no school on Wednesdays until second grade). Luckily his cold is all but gone, while Sylvia's is still pretty bad, so Josh worked from home while I took the big kid to class. She's feeling pretty good, considering.

Dino feet!

 Since I was on my own, I brought my little wheeled grocery cart and took the bus from the school toward the local supermarket. When your fridge is 1/3 the size of the typical U.S. one, a couple of sick days means there's no food left in the house! And for some indecipherable reason, my bus stopped two stops before the one I needed and kicked us all off. So I walked through the park. It did not disappoint.

 Irises are my favorite, and whatever this variety or cousin of irises these are, they're incredible. Taller than I am, and so striking with the purple leaves - anyone care to identify them?

I made my way to Casino Supermarché and stocked up on crackers, such as they are, zucchini, bananas, apples, duck sausage - it was on sale and I needed fresh sausage for dinner tonight - and a bunch more random things. I was delighted to come across a display for "La Nuit Halloween!" Apparently American influence is growing, especially when creepy costumes and candy are involved.

It was a momentous trip in that I finally remembered that in France, one has to weigh and price one's own produce. If you bring it to the register without a sticker from the scale, you can't have it, and I allllllllways forget. Yay me! I came home, did a ton of chores while chatting with Sylvia about the Uno games and time outs she'd had while I was gone, and then she came along with me to pick up her brother. 

Back on the B bus! She charmed someone into giving up their seat, as usual, and we enjoyed the warm weather on the walk to Massillon. Lincoln, fortunately, had had a GREAT English class and was given a stack of Pokemon cards from a kind and generous older expat kid in the courtyard. We basically danced our way back to the bus stop, pausing only for the kids to beg for candy from the corner shop. Whoever decided to put a candy/doughnut booth on the corner between the college and the primary school is an evil genius.

Lunch was quick and uneventful, and the kids spent the afternoon drawing and stickering on paper while I put dinner in the crock pot, ironed a bunch of clothes I'd been ignoring, and did a few other household chores. Josh emerged from his home office, i.e. our room, a couple of times to talk or grab a bite, and before we knew it it was time to leave for karate class. 

The 9 bus this time! It's a fast ride but only comes every fifteen minutes or so, so we had to leave early with Uno cards, snacks, and water bottles in tow. Lincoln looks so cute in his gi, and a neighbor we've never met said "Good luck, Mr. Judo-kan" in English as we walked by. Then as we got off the bus at Bughes, a young girl struck up a conversation in French with me - she loves the U.S., helped me learn to pronounce "Bughes" correctly, and let us know when our stop was coming up. On our walk from the stop to the karate class at Maison des Sports, a woman bringing her own kids to class told me that her daughter overheard us, and she (the little daughter) loves America as well. The woman is from Tanzania and lived in the U.K. for a long time, so her English and French were perfect. 

I was so engrossed in conversation that I didn't notice Lincoln watching his feet as he walked directly into a wall-mounted mailbox. WHACK. He smacked his head hard, poor kid! He was ok so I made him go to class anyway, but he was benched for most of it. When he was done, he told me "It's ok. I needed to be there to watch and learn, even if I couldn't do the class." So mature. 

Meanwhile, since parents are strictly forbidden from watching the classes, Sylvia and I had an hour to kill. We busted out our Uno cards on a little table in the lobby and soon collected three more kids who were bored and waiting for parents or siblings. 

This is the part that's all about learning a new language. The most common advice I've gotten from my few French teachers has been "listen to as much French as you can." Whether it's TV, radio, podcasts, or actual in-person conversations, the more French I'm exposed to and/or using, the easier the learning will be. So Sylvia and I spent a good 45 minutes speaking in French to kids around 5 years old, naming colors for Uno when someone played a wildcard, asking whose turn it was, and celebrating whoever had won the last round. It was a special, unique moment in what can be a boring and tedious part of the week, waiting for Lincoln's class to end. 

We missed the 5:07 bus home and had to wait for the 5:22, so at the stop I once again struck up a conversation, this time with an older woman who is originally from Portugal and sympathized with my French struggles! The reputation France has for being unfriendly to Americans is, in my experience, 100% undeserved. People regularly go out of their way to speak to me, help us find our way, aid me in improving my terrible French. 

The kids and I walked home from the bus stop and had a delicious dinner from the crock pot - which they both refused to eat. Le sigh. Josh and I loved it, even with duck sausage and zucchini instead of pork and chard.

The little, boring, everyday days of this life are the ones I don't want to forget as time goes by. Irises and Pokemon cards, sniffly noses and a hundred small kindnesses. That's what I want to remember from this time of our lives.

Debacle d'Automne

What a weekend! Last time I wrote it was almost lunchtime on Friday, and my dishes for the school's annual autumn buffet were simmering away in the crock pot. Friday Fours - five hours with three expat four year old girls, traded off among we their three stay at home parents - was a great success, with only one injury (a fat lip) and about a thousand chestnuts collected and distributed into the backpacks. Many of those were collected on our way to one of our favorite parks, Montjoly. It has two playgrounds and a little hill with exercise equipment that the kids love.

We were on the bigger of the playgrounds when an older man arrived with his grandson. Chloe, one of the girls, pointed to the boy and said that he was in her class at Massillon! That's unusual in our little community of Chamaliéres, so I said Bonjour to the grandpa and started up a little conversation. Turns out that this grandson is the fourth generation of his family to attend our little school, and the grandpa lives right around the corner from the park.

I'll pause here to note that I am, in case you didn't know this, a history enthusiast and a huge fan of the musical Hamilton. After memorizing the cast recording thanks to a good friend who lent it to me in February 2016, I started reading several books of Revolutionary War history, and my personal favorite was "Lafayette in the Somewhat United States," by Sarah Vowell. The Marquis de Lafayette was born not far from Clermont-Ferrand, and at 19 he defied his King to bring supplies and chutzpah to the colonial uprising in North America. Without his courage and diplomacy, it's likely the British would have prevailed and the United States would never have existed at all. And he's an incredibly charming and compelling figure - as is his fictionalized personage in the musical, a role originated by Daveed Diggs. 

SO. The playground. The old man told me, in very slow and patient French, that he'd been to a funeral earlier that week, and that the wife of the deceased is a direct descendant of Lafayette himself! You should've seen me, twisting my brain into a knot as I tried to explain a rap-based history musical and "Somewhat United States" in a language I barely speak. But we had a nice moment. 

After a bunch more chestnut collecting and a quick stop home for potty and snacks, the four of us rode the bus back to school at 4:30 to collect the older kids and reunite the little ones with their parents. A couple of young men stood up when we got on the bus so that the three girls could sit across two seats. The men laughed and flirted with the girls in English, and then asked me "So they are your twins?" I laughed - no, no, these are not my three triplet preschoolers. I'm pretty sure I'd have grey hair if I had three all the time! The two non-Sylvie girls were happy to see their parents and siblings, and Sylvia asked if they can all come over for lunch every day. That's a no, but I'm looking forward to the next play date!

The kids and I rushed home to clean ourselves up and collect Josh, then headed back to school for the Fall Buffet. What an event! There were dozens of primary school families, dishes of food from all over the world of which the Scotch Eggs and Chinese rice and red bean balls were my favorites. At least a hundred kids running wild all over the enormous courtyard in near-darkness, while parents sit and stand and mingle about, drinking cassis- or peach-enriched white wine and switching around among a bunch of languages. We early-eating Americans jumped into the kids' buffet early, feeding our little ones at 7:00 LIKE ANIMALS. (Somehow the French children manage to eat at 7:30 or 8:00 and still get enough sleep at night). I reconnected with some families I hadn't seen much of since the pre-rentrée open house, and had a chance to talk with some closer friends while the kids occupied themselves.

Now for the debacle: My husband does not enjoy crowds, and after Lincoln's playground accident earlier in the week, he was really nervous about all the running around on concrete. So by 8:00 he was more than ready to leave, while the kids and I were having fun. I relented by about 8:30 and we walked toward the bus stop. The electronic sign said our B bus would be there in 8 minutes, but flashed "Pert" occasionally. When a C bus came - one that stops very near our house, but not as near as the B line - we let it go by since the B would be along so soon.

Then we realized that "Pert" stands for "Perturbation," or disturbance, and the B bus wasn't coming at all.

So it was 9:00, an hour past bedtime, and we were stuck at a bus stop with two exhausted kids, one crabby husband, and a certain blogger who had had about enough of the lot of them. I managed to call us a taxi and we took a ten minute ride with no car seats for the kids, punctuated by whines and gripes from the kid who didn't get a window, the one whose seatbelt hurts, etc etc etc. When we finally got home I fairly held the kids down to brush their teeth, then tossed them in bed and huffed and puffed myself into a restless sleep.

Luckily for everyone, Saturday was all about delicious food! I can't wait to tell you about it.

Tuesday/Thursday

Another busy week has come and nearly gone. It's Friday morning at 10:50 and I have ten minutes before I need to leave for the bus to pick up four kids this time - two other expat parents of four-year-olds and I have begun switching off Friday afternoon play dates, so that we each get a break, and today is my turn with the little turkeys. Sylvia is beside herself with excitement and I am delighted that a) Josh can take Lincoln back to school after lunch, therefore saving me two extra bus trips with four kids, and b) the weather is beautiful so we can spend some of our time at the park. 

This morning I've taken the kids to school, visited two grocery stores to find ingredients for the Buffet d'Automne at the school tonight - it's an annual affair wherein each family brings three national dishes to share: one for adults, one for kids, and a dessert. I'm making pulled BBQ chicken for the adults, cheese quesadillas for the kids (I've been to Mexico a couple times, and cheddar inside a flour wrap is decidedly American), and brownies. Then I came home and got the chicken cooking, prepped some simple lunch stuff for the kiddos, ran up to the Chamalieres butcher shop to pick up a pork shoulder roast I ordered yesterday, and had a fast cup of English Breakfast tea that Josh brought back from London this week. 

Whew! 10:55 now, just a few minutes left!

Here are a couple snapshots of our week so far. First up, check out the bathrooms at the "maternelle" section of the school, which houses kids age 3 (sometimes older 2s) to 6 (end of Kindergarten, known here as Grande Section). Sylvia finds it hilarious, thankfully - a shyer child might be a bit uncomfortable! There's no segregation by gender, and parents and teachers are often in there alongside the kids - helping them, not using the toilets ourselves, haha!

 You may notice that in all of the pictures at school, or on our way there, Sylvie's hair is pulled back. Lice are a big problem at Massillon every year. Known here as "Les Poux" (lay poo), they start up in September and remain until school lets out in June. So every morning we attempt pigtails or a ponytail, then spray both kids' hair with a preventative essential oil blend from the local parapharmacie. So far so good.

Not so good, however, is my attempt at French braids! To be fair, this was my first time trying and I had about two minutes before we needed to leave for the bus. They didn't last the afternoon - Sylvia has started attending school in the afternoon on Thursdays only, during which she has an hour of English class - but she was so patient and loved having them in for a bit! We have some more practicing to do. 

Unfortunately we had a bit of a bad day on Tuesday, the day I took the bathroom picture. It was Lincoln's first day staying for cantine, at my insistence. A lot of the expat kids stay Tuesday or Tues/Thursday for lunch, and he's ready for more independence at school. Plus, the menu is incredible - tuna and tomato tart to begin, then a fish fillet, fries, and green beans for lunch with yogurt and cake afterward. There's always milk, juice, water, and French bread available as well. He was nervous, but excited to eat with his friends. I got a text around lunchtime from a friend - Lincoln had fallen on the concrete courtyard before eating, but she was there collecting her younger child and patched him up with a bandaid. Sylvia and I came home and had a leisurely lunch, basking in the four hours between bus rides. 

But then I got a call from the school. Entirely in French, Lincoln's teacher told me that he'd fallen and been hurt, hit his head. My French comprehension is still fairly abysmal, so I could not tell whether she was telling me he was badly injured or just had a bonk! I was upset, naturally, and managed to ask if it was serious or not - non non, she assured me, ce n'est pas grave. Finally she gave up trying to communicate with me and promised to have another teacher call me back in English. 

Mrs. Seymour called and suggested I pick him up - he wasn't badly hurt, but a bit dazed from the concrete/face collision. And this is how he looked when I arrived. 

 My poor buddy, on his first full day! He'd been playing when another kid grabbed the back of his clothes and started swinging him around in circles, not stopping when Lincoln said "Stop!" and "Arrêt" repeatedly. When he did let go, Lincoln went down face first, bruising both knees in the process. He had a well-deserved afternoon of movies and cuddles, and Josh and I set a meeting to talk with the primary school director - they're looking into it, and promised to keep a closer eye on the physical play at - as some of the other expats call it - the Shawshank playground.

Thursday, needless to say, everyone came home for lunch! I grabbed some sandwiches and tarts from Maison Vacher (our bakery) and a little barquette of carrot salad at the butcher shop. It was a beautiful day, Sylvia's first afternoon with no tears at school, and Lincoln is already excited for cantine next Tuesday. Allons-y!

School

I never thought I'd be sending my kids to a Catholic school! But once we learned that expatriating with Michelin was likely, we heard about Massillon, the private Catholic school in Clermont-Ferrand that most expats attend. It contains EBI, Ecole Bilinguale Internationale, which teaches English separately to native speakers and as a foreign language. The school also offers French as a foreign language for first-year arrivals. Most speak English as a first language, but there are also Italian, Spanish, Arabic, Japanese, Mandarin, and other languages represented. Lots of local kids attend the school for the Catholic education or for the English. And the catechism classes are optional - our kids will take a global religions class instead, once they're a little older.

SO. School starts later here, early September, and the structure is really different. School is in session for six weeks, then out for vacation. A typical week looks like this for the Maternelle (ages 3-5) and Primaire (ages 6-10) students:

Monday and Tuesday: Classes 8:30-11:30, two hours for lunch, classes 1:30-4:30.
Wednesday: ages 3-6 (end of first grade) are off. Ages 7-10 have class 9:00-11:00 a.m. only. Most kids do a sport.
Thursday and Friday: same as Monday and Tuesday.

French kids don't learn reading in school until first grade, age 6-7, called CP here. But Lincoln loves to read and was moving fast in his Montessori school in the U.S., so his reading was way above the first grade level in his English class here. So after two weeks of school, the directors (one French, one English) of the primary school asked us to agree to a trial advancement, placing him in Grade Two for English, and CE1 for French. We're on day 4 of that trial now, and it's going well. In fact, his FLE (French as a foreign language, or Français Langue Étrangère) teacher casually mentioned to me in a meeting this morning that "Of course he can already read in French, so that is helping quite a lot."

He can read in French?! The hell?

But he can, so after putting both kids through moving away from home and friends and grandparents, learning a new language, starting a new school with lots of kids with whom they can't communicate at all, and adapting to a COMPLETELY different educational environment - one in which the teachers are rumored to yell at the kids and call them stupid, although we haven't had any personal experience with that - we've now also asked Lincoln to start that adjustment process all over again with older kids, no Americans in his French class whatsoever, more school on Wednesdays, and being the youngest kid in the class. This was not an easy decision. But he's so big for his age, and much more studious and calm than many of the elementary school children we know, so his age doesn't stand out like it would for a smaller or more energetic six-year-old. And I really think a full year of studying spelling words he already knows and reading books he could read last year would have been devastating to his overall love of school. Still, we have over a week left in the trial/observation period, so we'll see how it goes.

Over to Sylvia! She's in the equivalent of a K4 class, called Moyenne here. It's much gentler for the "maternelle" kids - no FLE class, English only one hour per week, and for the first few months she's only attending school in the mornings. It's exhausting learning a new language under any circumstances, and since she can't read she's learning it all by listening and absorbing. I can say from personal experience that listening and speaking in a language you don't really know yet is incredibly taxing, so I'm glad she has the afternoons off. Except for Thursdays, because she needs to be there for English class. She had a really tough transition the first couple weeks and cried every morning at drop off. But this week she's come into her own, putting her "cartable" (backpack) on the shelf herself, dropping her snack bag and notebook into the right bin, and walking into class without fear. I give it two more weeks before she's speaking French with some regularity, at least to her teacher. Of course by then it'll be vacation time, after which we start all over again. For now it's really sweet hearing her occasionally drop a French word into conversation with her brother or me:

"What does "qu'est-ce que c'est" mean? My teacher says it every day!"

All of which brings me to my schedule. We live in a beautiful apartment that is within walking distance of the center of Clermont, but far enough out that it's quiet and calm, and most of the noise of the city and the university students is too far to bother us at night. The place is gorgeous and roomy and a stone's throw from a quaint and practical little town square with a small supermarket, two bakeries, a butcher, three or four cheese shops, fishmongers...it's perfect. There are two city bus stops within five minutes' walk of home. But unfortunately we're a half hour walk from the school, which is too far for the kids, so we must take the bus. It winds up being about 30 minutes anyway once we've waited for the bus, ridden four stops, and then walked a few more blocks to the school entrance. I love how much we walk here, and I can feel the benefits in my own health. But because the kids aren't ready to eat at the "cantine" at school yet, I spend FOUR HOURS per day commuting. Half an hour each way to and from the school at 8:30, 11:30, 1:30, and 4:30, four days per week. Of course some days I take the kids out to lunch, or spend one of those 'off' periods in between shopping or something near the school, but it's an inordinate amount of time nonetheless.

I'm tired. The plan was for Lincoln to start eating at the cantine one or two day a week starting about now, but he doesn't want to yet and I don't want to pile one more stressor onto him when he's just started CE1. Lunch at school for the older kids means at least an hour of running around wild with all the other primary kids, in a concrete courtyard - that's "recess" here - and then eating whatever's on the menu when your class is called. Brown bag lunches are strictly forbidden, so some days it'll be a burger and green beans and yogurt, and other days it's squid provençal with bleu cheese after! I think Lincoln would actually love the food, but the extra 'recess' time is intimidating for now. Sylvia's not allowed to eat at cantine until she can speak French. So. I'm tired, and of course Josh hasn't been able to do any of the school runs yet because of his leg. Just this morning he was able to bring them for the first time, so there's an end in sight! Oh, and yes - I could drive. But there is no designated parking for the school, the streets are half the width of those in the U.S., and traffic is heavy in the mornings. It wouldn't wind up saving much time in the long run, and the stress of dealing with parking isn't worth it.

There you have it: French school so far! The kids get a little anxious when I drop them off, but in the afternoons and evenings they're always happy to have been at school. I'm sure I've missed lots of the funny differences, so ask away if there's something you've wondered about! I'll answer questions in either language - may be Lincoln can read the French ones to me.

The best worst day

Click to expand my panoramic shot from the top of the climb!

I've decided not to share any pictures of how Josh's leg looked in the days and weeks following his boating accident. But by Thursday, four days after the injury, he was black and blue from heel to above the knee. He'd gotten a small, flexible knee brace from the pharmacy, but it didn't provide much support. And he didn't want to slow down the vacation at all. 

So naturally that Thursday, August 24th, we took a tour that required walking about eight miles and climbing the equivalent of 15 flights of stairs.

 ...starting with carrying two heavy car seats for a few blocks to the place we were to meet our guide, Vincent! Luckily his van was big enough to fit the seats, and no one else had signed up for the Pond du Gard/Châteauneuf-du-Pape tour that day - so we had it all to ourselves.

I miss the days when Lincoln would smile for a picture on command.

 I knew we were in trouble when we arrived and parked, then walked for a good 8-10 minutes before coming into view of the aqueduct. Years ago, the French government severely restricted traffic and building around this UNESCO World Heritage Site, and the European idea of "accessibility" means "accessibility for anyone who can walk long distances, climb stairs, and doesn't ever have an urgent need for a toilet," so this wasn't a huge surprise. But I was worried about Josh.

Beautiful scene, happy family!

Each of the kids got to take one picture. This is Sylvia's - "No Mommy! Just the MEN!"

 The skies were grey and cloudy, which is extremely rare for Provence in the summertime, and our guide kept apologizing that the weather was ruining our panoramic photos. But it kept the heat within reasonable levels, and arriving before 9:00 a.m. meant we had the place to ourselves. For once, we'd beaten the crowds - at one of France's most popular tourist destinations. Note for the future: hire a guide.

After stopping to take a few pictures, we began the long, steep climb to the top of the aqueduct, while Vincent explained its history. In the first century C.E., the Romans built a 31 mile aqueduct from a natural freshwater spring to their large city where Nimes is located now. Over those miles, the angle of the aqueduct was so slight and so precise that it only descended 41 feet - so this portion, the pont du gard, is 900 feet across and only descends one inch. No mortar or cement was used. The stone was cut from surrounding mountains, and the entire structure was built within a period of fifteen years. It's hard to even fathom the kinds of engineering that were possible two thousand years ago.

Here's Josh standing under an arch that was fitted without the use of mortar. Incredible.

Our first airborne view - despite the weather, it was breathtaking. Those rocks the kids are standing on are marble, so they're white and beautiful but very slick. It's sheer luck that we didn't wind up with any new injuries after the climb.

 Water flowed along the top, which was completely covered with more stone construction when it was in use, to protect the water from evaporation and contamination. After it fell into disuse, locals probably stole many of those easy-to-remove stones for building their houses and barns.

Unbelievably impressive in person! And it's a good thing too, because by the time we'd climbed this high, Josh's leg was throbbing.

 Next we descended again and walked across the stone road bridge that was built more recently. Closeups of the arch pillars show the deterioration that has had to be repaired with new stones. And the stones that stick out from the wall were positioned so that builders - mostly Roman slaves - could construct scaffolding to reach the upper levels.

Oh, and in order to do that, they also had to, you know, invent scaffolding.

 Josh skipped the walk across the road bridge and sat in the back of the van for the next part of the drive, so that he could elevate and ice his leg. Our next stop was Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a small village surrounded by acres and acres of perfect farmland for growing wine. My favorite wine on Earth, and now a place that is near and dear to our hearts.

Perfect rows of grapevines, working their magic.

The view of the city and the farms, from the Château itself.

Snacky kids blocking the view of Daddy's injury!

Et le Château - or what's left of it.

So let's talk a little bit about the history of the village and the castle, and then about the wine. Remember how the Avignon palaces were built so the Popes could escape Italy during war? Well that was in the 14th Century C.E., during the Hundred Years' War. All of the Popes who resided in Avignon were French (no surprise there!) and one of them, Pope John XXII, decided he needed a summer retreat - although retreating from Avignon to Châteauneuf is kind of like retreating from Dallas to Fort Worth. It's right next door, same climate, same food, same everything - except the wine. More on that in a minute.

According to the intrepid Vincent, who is from Avignon and has been teaching tourists about it for 35 years, Popes Clement V and his successor John XXII were fond of wine, women, and, thanks to their vows of poverty and chastity, privacy. Both spent a great deal of time in the "summer residence" for that reason, removed from the prying eyes of the more metropolitan Avignon. John XXII ordered the castle to be built to house him and subsequent Popes, but its construction ended just a year before his death and no other Popes are believed to have visited.

SO. The wine.

France is, again unsurprisingly, very protective of its cuisine and wine. There are hundreds of distinct regions or "pays" (pay-ee) in the country, each with its own wine, cooking style, meats, cheeses, pates...someone telling you they're from France does not actually give you very much information about them, because their regional background can vary so widely. In the early 20th century, the government formalized the system of Appellation d'Origine Contrôlée, or AOC,  by which it controls and labels certain products as having originated in the proper region and met strict quality controls. Châteauneuf-du-Pape was the first wine (of more than 300, now) to have an AOP, and Vincent told us a bit about its regulations.

First, the "rolling stones" of the area allow the soil to absorb up to a full year's supply of water - so no irrigation is permitted for any wine that will be labeled Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Only 13 grapes can be used in the production of the wines, but they can be combined in any way the winemakers decide. Five of those varieties are white and eight are red, but some reds incorporate the white grapes as well.  Grenache is the "king" of the varieties, because it thrives in full sun with little water.

Another rule is that the 300 vineyards in the AOP, only one of which is a corporation (the rest are family farms), must harvest all the grapes by hand. No machine picking means lots of labor is necessary during harvest time, which is a challenge in France. Just like in the U.S.A., much of the poorly-paid physical labor is performed by immigrants, but outside of harvest time there is no work for them in this part of France. And, according to Vincent, young French people "don't want to work hard," so they won't do it either. About 13 million bottles are produced every year, 95% of which is red wine. Whites are readily available in the region but hard to find outside it.

So let's start tasting! We began our adventure in a wine cave (pronounced cahv) that is thousands of years old and dates back to the Roman Empire. Clearly the adults were happier about this portion of the trip than the kids.

 We got to see an ancient pressing room - the grapes would be put into the upper tubs, pressed by foot, and the juice would run into the lower basins to be barreled.

 Look at those beautiful, dusty bottles. The proprietor told us (in English) that he had a couple of bottles in his collection from the 1940s and 1950s. Every 20 years or so he has to change the corks and replace what's evaporated - which means opening at least one bottle in order to top off the others. And, of course, the open one has to be finished off by the lucky man and his friends.

 We enjoyed every sip and bought our first six bottles for our own little cave back in Chamalières. Our new friend, the proprietor, talked to us about aging red wine - there are good years every decade or so, and it's best to buy the wine young. But whites need a year or two to age, no more than five. Reds need at least fifteen years to reach their full potential. So for impatient Americans like us - he said "I go to New York and I cannot find a single bottle that's been aged properly. As though a 2009 will be ready in 2015!" - he advises buying lots of 2015 reds while we're in France, and even younger ones if 2017 and 2018 are good years. Then, when we return to the U.S.A., "You buy a house, you build a wine cave in the basement. You put a padlock on the door. Then ship me the key and I will return it to you in 15 years!" We laughed, shook hands, promised to resist drinking it all right away, and then headed to another tasting!

This one was in a modern (ish) building with a tiny table and tasting glasses that cost more than the wine itself. We tried a red that was made in tribute to the wine makers' great-great-grandfather, and bore his name. It was only made with grapes grown on vines that were at least 85 years old - can you imagine? And it tasted incredible, despite its youth. We tried a white that was so complex and delicious that the tasting expert AND Vincent told us it was their favorite of all the Châteauneuf-du-Pape whites. Ever. By this time we were a little tipsy, and absolutely on cloud nine. I never thought we'd spend that much on wine, but we're beginning to see it as a real collection. I just hope we can get it all home intact.

 After all that, Vincent drove us home and waited with our wine while I carted it down into the parking garage and locked it safely out of sight in the trunk. We got some lunch and headed back to our apartment for "swimming" in what we lovingly referred to as the cold tub on the balcony, and some general foolishness. All the walking and stair-climbing took a toll on Josh's pain level, so Friday we wound up in the Avignon emergency room, where he finally got a prescription for stronger pain meds. It was a frustrating, miserable day marked by wrong turns in the car - including into the ambulance-only entrance to the hospital - and frustration about the language. The next day we managed to make even worse, trying out a bus tour and a supposedly five minute walk that wound up being 20 minutes, to a Chartreuse abbey that was disappointing, to put it mildly. Every time we thought we were doing something easy, it wound up being difficult, embarrassing, or just wrong. We were scheduled to spend three non-refundable days in Lyon to finish out our vacation, but after some tough talk from friends back home (as I was defeatedly describing trying to find dinner before 8:00 p.m. every night, which is near-impossible), we decided to pack it in and drive back to Clermont.

So our best day of vacation came AFTER (and exacerbated) the catastrophic injury which, incidentally, still has Josh laid up and recovering. Wine tasting and education was a great bonding experience for us both, and I fear our standards will have risen beyond what's really polite by the time we get back to the States! Luckily, we should be able to make up for it with cases and cases to share - after fifteen years or so.