The Smoke Begins to Clear

Tomorrow, on January 2nd, a law takes affect banning smoking in bars and restaurants throughout France. We've been here less than six months and I can already say it's been a long time in coming. The below, written by a French journalist, was published on Sunday in the New York Times.

Paris Isn’t Burning
By CORINNE MAIER
Published: December 30, 2007

Paris

“GOD smokes Cuban cigars,” Catherine Deneuve sang more than 25 years ago in a song that’s still famous here.

The cigarette is part of our international image, alongside the baguette and the slenderness of French women. The reality is different, though. True, the French smoke a bit more than Americans, but we smoke somewhat less than some of our European neighbors, like the Austrians, the Greeks and the Dutch.

What is more notable is that the French have lagged in the West’s antismoking fight. America is at war against cigarettes. Ireland and Norway banished them in public spaces in 2004. They were soon followed by Italy, Spain, Sweden and Britain.

But things are changing here. Last year, the government decided to act. Prohibiting smoking in public places shows resolve to the voters, after all, a majority of whom favor banning cigarettes altogether.

Banishing tobacco is easier than solving the problems of the slums or reducing unemployment among young people. In October 2006, six months before this year’s presidential elections, Prime Minister Dominque de Villepin issued a decree that barred smoking in public places (government offices, schools, hospitals and the like), starting in February 2007. Cafes, restaurants and nightclubs received a reprieve until Jan. 2, 2008. So, beginning on Wednesday, smoking will now be allowed only in sealed rooms that meet strict standards.

Sixteen years ago, France was the pioneer of the West’s antitobacco fight with its Evin law, which required no-smoking areas in restaurants and cafes. But this law has been routinely ignored, in the way the French usually do with laws that displease them. Thus, France is, for a few more days, one of the last countries in Europe where you can smoke in public while you eat and drink.

Will the new prohibition be respected? Is this the end of the traditional morning cigarette savored with coffee at the bistro? “We’ll see,” some say, ready to bet this ban will have no more effect than the first.
The state, after all, profits from a laissez-faire attitude toward smoking. France has imposed high taxes on tobacco: 80 percent of the sale price of a cigarette pack (the average is five euros, or about $7.35) goes into the state treasury.

These taxes bring in more than 10 billion euros a year. Isn’t it shocking to earn money by taxing what is properly called a drug? The government responds by saying that the money subsidizes the social cost of tobacco, a plague that causes about 65,000 deaths a year in France. Lobbying by the multinational companies that dominate the French market (the biggest is Altadis, a French-Spanish company, followed by Philip Morris and British American Tobacco) also has something to do with the French tolerance of tobacco.

But others fear that smoking in public will become increasingly difficult. Although a prohibition on smoking in bars and restaurants will be harder to enforce, the ban in hospitals, schools and other places that began in February has been widely obeyed. Our Italian neighbors are also very punctilious about respecting their antismoking legislation, which went into effect in January 2005.

When he goes to Italy, the French writer Michel Houellebecq, an inveterate smoker, is obliged to meet with journalists in his hotel room. Cigarette in hand, he is now persona non grata in the lobby, at the bar, in the restaurant.

For simple economic reasons, the French smoker could rapidly become an endangered species. French cigarettes are among the most expensive in Europe, their price rising ceaselessly since 1991.
But some will always resist the antismoking campaign and manage to buy cheaper cigarettes. The black market is flourishing, and cartons of cigarettes bought on the cheap across the border circulate widely. On my trips to other countries, I have begun the custom of bringing back a carton for one or another of my smoking friends.

“Another blow to the enemy!” is the ritual phrase that greets this gift. In France, smokers tend to consider themselves as members of the resistance.

Resisting the dictatorship of health and the dictates of hygienic standards: vive la liberté of smoking! And everyone knows that in France, nobody has made jokes about liberty since the Revolution. Shall we start depicting Marianne, the emblem of the Republic, with a cigarette in her mouth?

Corinne Maier is the author of “Bonjour Laziness: Why Hard Work Doesn’t Pay.” This article was translated by The Times from the French.

It's New Year's Eve in France!

It is"trente-et-un" in France, or "le Reveillon" (did I spell that right, Sabrina?) and in about half an hour we are heading over to Sabrina's house for a big bash. The kids will be a couple of houses away in with the babysitters, and the adults will be together at another.

I didn't think to have Carter take a nap, so who knows how this will turn out. But I made sure there will be A LOT of Champomy for Dave and me, so we'll manage.

To Be Continued . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

p.s. Sam and Sophie are fist-fighting before we have even left, so that's a great sign.

Sabrina's Birthday Party

A nice lady, Sabrina & Stasha.............Sabrina's birthday card









Last Friday Stasha and I went to a birthday party for our friend Sabrina, who was turning 34. As Sabrina’s husband Olivier says, “At 50 a man is still young. At 30 a woman is finished.” Both he and Sabrina have a great sense of humor, and that’s one of the reasons why we really like them. They’re also the parents of Enzo, who is one of Sam’s favorite people.

We arrived at their house about eight and waited in the kitchen for the other invitees to arrive. First there was Marilyn and her husband whose name I’ve forgotten. It’s probably Pierre. Then Natasha arrived, then a couple we’d never met before and whose names we forgot instantly, then another lady we’d never met before whose name we forgot instantly, then another lady we’d never met before whose name we forgot instantly. But they were all nice. French names are almost impossible to remember. I think they do it on purpose so that if you actually remember someone’s name it’s a sign that a lifelong friendship is forming. Other than the name Guy, I challenge you to come up with a single French name that’s less than two syllables. Go for it. I dare you. We have Bob and Bill and Fred and Sam and George and James and Jim and Charles and Jeff and Greg and Dave and Paul and Chris and Brad. The French have no such names.

We arrived at the restaurant about 9:30. At the front door were two big-boned mean-looking goons dressed mostly in black leather. When we walked up they scowled at us while blocking the door. Natasha stepped up and said some magic words and all of a sudden the goons started smiling and stepped aside.

The restaurant offered a fixed menu for 25 euros. The choices were something with foie gras (pronounced “Fwa Graw” and literally meaning “fatty liver”) and something without foie gras. Along with truffles (which are basically dirt that costs a hundred euros per kilo), foie gras is a food that makes French people salivate so wildly that they need bibs to catch the overflow. But it’s basically just mashed up duck’s liver that’s the consistency of cold butter, and the mere thought of it makes me swoon with nausea. I tried it once and won’t make that mistake again. If a French person ever talks to you about the taste of foie gras, everything they’re saying is a lie.

So I ordered the meal sans foie gras. I was very hungry and ate everything, since we began eating about 10pm, which isn’t particularly late for dinner in France. Also, since it was Sabrina’s birthday everyone ordered champagne with dinner, and I naturally stuck to my normal regimen of fruit juice or whatever non-alcoholic substitute that’s available. The act is starting to wear thin, frankly. A man in France that drinks no wine and eats no foie gras (or truffles) is like a man in America that hates guns and enormous SUVs. I’ll probably never fit in in either country.

After dinner they brought a cake and we all sang Happy Birthday to Sabrina while Olivier took a bunch of pictures. Sabrina seemed very happy to be 34. She didn’t look finished at all.

At 10:30 the karaoke began. Back in Arizona we have a restaurant at my golf course and the retirees start coming in for dinner about 4:30 in the afternoon. By 6:30 they’re mostly in bed for the night dressed in their flannel pajamas. At 6:30 in France people are basically just finishing lunch, and dinner at such an hour is out of the question. When we arrived at 9:30 we were literally the first people there, but by 10:30 the place was full of revelers, and when the karaoke began we were all encouraged to sing a few songs.

More singing, first at our table and then on the dance floor. Sabrina is in black. Her sister is in the gray with the scarf. The woman in the funky blue blouse is from Marseilles. I can't understand anything said by people from Marseilles.

Stasha and I looked through the list and chose Endless Love. I wanted to choose Patience by Guns N’ Roses, but when I realized that no French person has ever heard this song and that I would have to sing it by myself, I changed my mind and chose a duet.

At 11pm they called us up to sing. I know Endless Love well from numerous romantic slow dances at Desert Shadows Middle School in Scottsdale, AZ in 1984, and was excited to showcase my singing prowess. Unfortunately just as we – the only foreigners in the whole place – got up to sing, the machine broke. After standing there for two minutes with a hundred people staring at us, the DJ finally asked if we wanted to sing another song by Lionel Richie. I blurted out the only one I could think of: All Night Long. The problem with this song is that I don’t know the words or the tune. Oh, and that it sucks.

They started the music and we began singing. It was the worst rendition ever. Seriously. Ever. I was completely off tune the whole time. Stasha helped keep it together, however, and I even started getting into it at one point, as you can see from the photos. And Sabrina and Olivier and almost everyone in our party (except a couple of people whose names I can’t remember) came out to dance while we sang, so we wouldn't feel so exposed.

Singing and dancing to "All Night Long" with my hot wife. I've got to do something, anything, about my enormous head.

At 11:45 the karaoke ended and the dancing began. We formed a tightly-knit group on the dance floor while a growing crowd of lesbians formed around us. While dancing to mostly French hip-hop music we debated whether or not so and so was a man or a woman. It was all very confusing but fun nonetheless. At 1:30 we paid the bill and went home.

13 Provençal Desserts

As we're learning, in Provence at Christmas the big event actually comes on Christmas Eve more than on Christmas Day itself. A big part of the tradition on the 24th is to have a celebratory meal called Le Gros Souper (basically, "the big dinner"), prior to attending midnight mass at the village church.

The dinner table is set with 3 table cloths and 3 candles and a meal of various traditional vegetable and fish dishes is served followed by cheeses (everyone should really try French and Italian cheeses, which are incredible). The high point of the evening however, comes at the end of the meal when the table is re-laid and out comes dessert. There are 13 different desserts, to reflect the number seated around the table at the Last Supper.

According to tradition, the first 4 desserts represent the four orders of friars (monks): Raisins for Dominicans, dried figs for Franciscans, almonds for Carmelites and hazelnuts for Augustinians. That stuff is really, really good.

Next come the walnuts and one or more types of dried fruit, usually dates or prunes. Seasonal fruits provide another 3 of the 13 dessert items usually including apples and pears and either melon, grapes, mandarins or oranges.

Nougat will always be part of the list. the final dessert will be the Pompe de Noel a light-textured cake made from a yeast and egg dough, sweetened with sugar, flavored with grated orange and lemon zest and sprinkled with orange flower water.

One of our friends, Nathalie, brought us a small box of these 13 desserts two days ago. Dave devoured them in about an twenty minutes. He said his favorite was the figs stuffed with 'pate d'amande' (a pink paste made with ground up almonds and sugar). I'll see if I can find some better pictures of the desserts, because it really is a cool thing, the way it all gets laid out, and the significance of the tradition itself. You can read a better description of the whole thing HERE.

The thirteen provençal desserts may not beat pumpkin pie with whipped cream on top, but it sure beats the heck out of fruitcake!

Letting Go A Little More

We have been in Mougins for three full months now. When I say it aloud, three months doesn't sound very long. But when I look back at the experiences we have had thus far, I feel like we have been here for a lot longer than three months. We have a nice routine, some of the annoying things about living here (like laundry) don't seem as bad now, and I don't have the fear of speaking to people like I did at the beginning.

I have also had fewer bad days since I let the pressure off myself about speaking french ALL the time. The first couple of months Dave was really pushing me to be with people all the time. The stress of it sometimes pushed me into avoiding conversations because of the pressure to construct sentences in French was too much to bear.

But now I am at ease! I know at this point I cannot say anything I want because I don't know how to do it. But I do know that I am completely capable of holding a conversation, and communicating with people is no longer a chore.

Letting off the pressure to be immersed in French all the time has allowed me to think about other things I would like to learn or master. Like the cooking thing. I really wanted to learn to be a better cook while in France. I have made a little progress because there is nowhere to cheat for dinner, except McDonalds. And I am totally sick of that!

So, Voila! I made cinnamon rolls. Like I said, I'm not very good with yeast, but somehow these turned out pretty well. Luckily I had the Pillsbury Vanilla Frosting my sister sent back with Dave in October. But now that I found the powdered sugar at Auchan, I can even make that myself!

Now, we just need to find something for Dave to do before I kill him.

Plastic Bags

One of the first things I discovered in France was that a lot of things AREN'T free. Like at the grocery store, where you have to bring your own shopping bags or you must pay 3 centimes per plastic bag that you need, or about 60 centimes for a large reusable bag with sturdy handles (see pic). At first I thought "this is going to be a real pain, how will I ever remember to bring these bags to the store?" Indeed, the first couple of times I went shopping I forgot the bags and bought new ones.

But after that, it was surprisingly easy to adapt. Not only did I remember to bring the bags to the store with me, I started to keep them in the trunk so I would always have a bag if I needed one. And I have to say, I really like this system.

I saw this story on CNN and I think San Francisco and every other city should consider adopting the French attitude on this particular issue. I admit, at first I was quite annoyed that not only did I have to bag my own groceries, but I also had to PAY for the bags or bring my own, but it has only been three months and I am totally over it.

If every American grocery store adopted this system, think of what we could do for the environment!

Tarte au Potiron

I'm not much of a cook. Just ask my Mom or my sister. I don't know how many times I have called them to ask how you get yeast to rise properly. But this Thanksgiving I was all on my own. No matter how many times I could call to ask questions, that wasn't going to help me make a pumpkin pie.

In the States you can buy a great pumpkin pie at Costco or Sams Club. Or you can buy a can of pie filling and dump it into a ready made crust or even a homemade crust if you aren't lazy like me. But in France people don't like pumpkin pie, so they don't make it at the bakery and they certainly don't sell canned pie filling.

Thank goodness for people who like to post recipes on the internet. Especially people like this lady. She saved me a big headache! Because of her I was able to find all the ingredients at Carrefour for my pie. Granted, I had no idea how it would turn out, but dang it, I was going to try! It's just not Thanksgiving without a pumpkin pie.

Here are the results:

The potiron I bought-already cleaned and cut!

After baking in the oven . . ready to be mixed into filling

et Voila! Tarte au Potiron! It was so, so yummy!

I've certainly been learning a lot in France over the last few months, but I am truly excited that I am learning how to cook-even if it just a pumpkin pie!

Thanksgiving Turkey

To prepare for Thanksgiving I had one main goal: Find a Turkey! I found one at the first store I tried, which was Carrefour. Carrefour is enormous, like a Super Wal-Mart, except bigger. I looked everywhere for the bird-in the freezer section (the typical American place to begin), the meat section, back to the freezer section for another look. I saw no big fat turkeys.

Finally I asked the lady in the meat department where I could find a BIG turkey. Like for Christmas, I added. You mean Thanksgiving, she asked? Right. I guess they have heard of Thanksgiving in France. She asked me how big a turkey I wanted (5 kilos sounded good) and proceeded to explain that I could order one and pick it up in a few days. I was super excited!

Thanksgiving day rolled around and it was time to get the turkey. It wasn't a holiday here in France, of course, so the kids went off to school that morning except for Sophie, who had a sore throat. I hate going to Carrefour because it is ALWAYS busy, but I hoped the torrential downpour of rain would keep most people at home that day.

Unfortunately, it did not. The parking lot was as full as ever, maybe even worse than usual. Maybe there was a conspiracy against me that day because I am terrible under pressure and tend to procrastinate when I feel stressed. It was already after 11 am and I was still trying to figure out how I was going to make a pumpkin pie. So, I was very pleased when a woman in a parking spot right up by the entrance was leaving. I waited patiently as she unloaded her cart into her trunk, took her cart back and got into her car. By the time she slowly backed out I had already waited at least 4 full minutes. I had my blinker on and as soon as she cleared out, I started to pull forward.

To my dismay a small Citroen had entered from the row behind mine and pulled through an emtpy spot into MY empty spot! I was enraged! She lingered in her car until she realized I would not be moving and she would indeed have to walk right by me to get into the store. I glared, shook my fist and rolled down my window to say something. But what? I don't know any mean words in French.

I instantly thought of that scene from "Fried Green Tomatoes" where Kathy Bates (the middle-aged woman struggling with her weight, her place in life and her boring marriage) encounters a similar situation in a grocery store parking lot. She proceeds to ram her car over and over into the other car, screaming "You may be younger, but I have better insurance!"

My car here is already pretty beat up thanks to the crazy roads, so I seriously considered giving her car a nice thump, until Sophie said Mom, let's just find another spot. Aaah, the wisdom of a six year old. Besides, I had a turkey to buy!

We rushed in and headed straight for the meat department. I was happy to find my turkey ready and waiting, plucked, cleaned and weighed. 4.88 kilos for €19.87. Not bad! When we got home and I pulled Tom out of the plastic bag, I had to laugh at the little tuft of feathers around the ends of the drumsticks and the little bits of feather quills left in the skin. I was totally grossed out, but managed to pick out all of the little quills. I left the feathers though, because that is just funny, and no one eats that part of the bird anyway.

The turkey looks terrible in this picture. That's me holding the turkey, looking like a Proboscis Monkey.

We didn't eat until 7:45 that evening, which is about four hours after a typical Thanksgiving. But the kids didn't get home from school until 5 pm, and our guests were busy until 7:30. But all in all, it turned out to be a great Thanksgiving. This year I was thankful for our American guests who appreciated a real home cooked Thanksgiving dinner and also for the internet, where I found the recipes for everything I made!

Turkey Day!

Happy Thanksgiving Across the World!

(more later on our turkey and pie adventures)

Pushing The Weight Limit

When Dave had to go to the US a few weeks ago I decided to make the most of it. I wouldn't see him for ten days so thought the least he could do would be to bring back some stuff that I've been dying for here, but either can't get or refuse to spend Euros to buy. He took two extremely large bags with him, filled with stuff we brought here this past summer but didn't need (like 20 large stuffed animals). My instructions to him were to empty the bags when he got to Phoenix, then fill them with items that my sisters Sulesha and Shauntel would buy for him to bring back to Mougins.

I gave my sisters a list of thing that I either can’t get in Mougins, or the items are so expensive here that it’s worth it for Dave to lug them all the way back to France. My sisters came through big time (thanks ladies!): they got every item on the list and Dave fit all but one thing into the bags (a big box of Pet Shop toys), including two gallons of pancake syrup and ten copies of "OK" and "People" magazine (thanks to Virginie for providing those). The per bag weight limit was 50 pounds, and Dave said his two bags came in at 49.5 and 49.8 pounds. He was pretty happy, but I think I was happier when I pulled out that syrup. The list is below.

Things I can’t really get in France

• Big bottle of Ibuprofen (not sold over the counter here)
• A good set of hair clippers (I already had a set in Phoenix, and since Dave refuses to pay 30 euros for a haircut (about $44), I needed them)
• 2-pack of Aunt Jemima syrup from Costco
• 2-pack of Jiffy Peanut Butter, also from Costco
• 10 envelopes of fajita mix – doesn’t really exist here
• 10 “envelopes” of enchilada sauce envelopes – definitely doesn’t exist here
• 4 Cake mixes – 2 vanilla, 2 chocolate (we can get plenty of cake here, and some of it is incredible. But I can’t find the American cakes that I want)
• Maple flavouring
• Dove deodorant

Things that are so expensive I had to get them in the US

• Pack of 25 Gillette Sensor razor heads. $30 from Costco, about $75 in France
• Pampers size four “cruisers”. Pack of 80 $18 at Costco, about $35 in Mougins
• 4 boxes tampons and 4 boxes pantyliners. Here a tampon is - literally - a brillow pad. Those wouldn't work well
• 4 tubes Colgate total toothpaste with 8 kids and 8 adults toothbrushes
• Harry Potter and the Whatever Whatever in English - $20 (I think) at Costco, 28 euros here ($42.00), if you can find it.
• Large box of "Pet Shop" toys for the kids at Christmas: $35.00 at Costco. 60 Euros here (almost $90.00)

It was like Christmas 7 weeks early!

That's Cheddar!

Until now, I don't believe I realized how important Cheddar is in my life. Think of all the tasty cuisine you can make with Cheddar:

Grilled Cheese
Quesadillas
Enchiladas
Baked Potatoes
Broccoli Cheddar Soup
Chili

You may or may not be familiar with the Costco or Sam's club block of Cheddar Cheese. I estimate roughly twelve inches long, four inches high and four inches wide. That's a whole lotta chedda. But if you've got a big chunk of cheddar in your fridge, you can almost always come up with something for dinner.

Which brings me to my point, which is that cheddar is pretty hard to find round these parts. I look every time I go to the store, and four out of five times there is no cheddar. But the other day at le Supermarché Casino I found some! Here it is:

"Cheese, Glorious Cheese!"*

Holding that little chunk in my hand was like holding a brick of gold. That small brick of cheese represented a treasure trove of options! Images of happy children eating grilled cheese and soup, a smiling husband wolfing down a plate of enchiladas, or myself savoring a slice with a Fuji apple (Fuji's are almost as rare as cheddar!). But you must choose wisely with such a rare resource! I went for the grilled cheese as a child not crying over what horrible slop I have made for dinner is worth as much as that chunk of cheese, which in euros was €4.44. That's $6.51.

Every gooey bite of toasty bread smothered in butter melted in my mouth. I don't blame Abby for asking if she could eat Carter's untouched sandwich. We were all eying it with watering mouths. I won't say who got the prize, but I will say, it was CHEDDAR!



*no offense to all the GREAT French cheeses

Trick or Treat

On Halloween we were invited to go "Trick or Treating" with Sam's friend Joachim. So after the Halloween Spectacle (pronounced "speck TACK") put on by the Ville de Mougins, we all costumed up and got ready for some serious door knocking.

I personally was looking forward to some nice treats, some mini Snickers bars, Twix or maybe some Kit Kats. I knew better than to hope for the Halloween staples (non-existent in France): Reese's Cups or Baby Ruth.

Pretty much every house I have seen in Mougins is behind a tall hedge and a gate, so lucky for us Joachim lives in an apartment complex with plenty of doors ripe for the picking. Orange buckets at the ready, we headed out the door and started the rounds. Just for good luck, Jo's Mom put a few starter candies in each bucket.

Door one-success! A handful of something called Krema. Non-colored chewy candies softer than a Starburst but just as tasty. Good start.

Door two-no one home.

Door three-Handful of green candies. Turns out they are actually menthol cough drops. Are you kidding me?

Door four-Krema

Door five-Fake brand Krema

Door six-Krema

Door seven-Krema.

WHERE IS THE CHOCOLATE, PEOPLE???? A box of Smarties at least?

Door eight-mini Kit Kat HOORAY! But I realize as soon as that red wrapper hit the pile of Kremas there was no way I was going to get my hands on it. Dang!

By the time we got to door 27 or so I was feeling a little desperate. What is Halloween without piles of miniature candy bars to separate into little piles after the looting is over? A pile of Mounds here, a pile of Mars bars there. You know how it goes . . . then you hide it all in your room and see if you can make it last until Christmas.

So when I passed this sign in the hallway, "Sorry, We Don't Have Any More Candy", I couldn't have been happier!

Uh, Happy Birthday?

Last Saturday we went to our first real French birthday party!

Lots of kids, a few balloons, a heap of gifts, and of course, birthday cake.

The highlight of the party was NOT the birthday cake. It was brought out, somewhat unannounced (the mom walked into the room and started to sing, but there was no "gather 'round" call to the table) with a candle or two stuck into the bare top.

Everyone sang and helped themselves to the array of sweet popcorn, Haribo brand chewy candies, coke and juice. As you can see, there wasn't much cake consumed.

HOWEVER, there was quite a stir when the Champomy was brought out, and the children all cheered when the cork was popped out and went flying across the room. Trainin' 'em young in France.
Joyeux Anniversaire! By way of interest, here are some other photos from the party:



Of course, why wouldn't there be a baby ostrich, an ENORMOUS rooster and REAL champagne at a birthday party in France?

Dave is a Good Actor

Last weekend we were invited to go to Gourdon with a family we know from the Maternelle (the school for the younger kids).

We were very excited to go, although I was a little nervous because the mother, Marielle, speaks faster than any other person I have met in France. She makes no adjustments for me, so I understand about 75% of what she says. Dave maybe understands 20 or 30%?

Gourdon is perched on a craggy cliff and on the approach (very windy and narrow, surprise, surprise) the view is spectacular. I was feeling pretty motion sick by the time we arrived, so I couldn't wait to get on my feet.

The air was cool and crisp and the leaves on the trees were lovely shades of gold and red. Combined with a little overcast sky, the setting of an ancient town with buildings made of stone and cobbled streets, we all felt a little Harry Potter in the air!

The kids ran and played, jumping off stone ledges and in and out of the little shops. Marielle bought some yummy spice muffin things dipped on chocolate, so we all feasted on that fall treat while we stood at the wall and looked down the steep cliff at the villages off in the distance. All we needed was some hot chocolate and it would have been perfect!

I had a great time sniffing the scented soaps, like mandarine, chevrefeuille, magnolia, citron, lavande, pin, etc. I bought a couple of bars and also a very cute provencal tablecloth. The one I REALLY wanted was 170 Euros, but I settled for a different, less "authentic" one for only 30.

The best part of an outing is almost always the listening (you learn way more french if you just close your mouth and say "oui" a lot). So Dave gave it his best shot. Aurelion speaks enough English that Dave could have a decent franglais conversation with him, but as you can see from the picture, he is stupefied by Marielle.

Have Your Cake and Eat it Too

Of course I could not pass up the opportunity to share a comment about this absolutely divine dessert called a Tropezienne. It is a specialty of Provence, and more specifically, St. Tropez. Some friends visited the other day and they brought us an entire cake. Dave and I ate it over the next two days, literally fighting over the last bite.

The Tropézienne was brought over to France by a Polish baker named Alexandre Micka living in St. Tropez. In 1955 he was hired to cater for a film crew working on a movie starring a group of unknown actors. Each day the baker was requested to make even more of his very popular "tarte". One of the people working in the film, a 21-year old unknown actress, suggested to the baker that he name the tarte, “la tarte Tropézienne, and the name was born.”

That actress turned out to be Bridgitte Bardot, who any French person will tell you is next to the Virgin Mary for greatness. I don’t even know who this woman is, and I think she’s almost 80 years old, but French people talk about her like she’s the newest diva in Hollywood. I don’t get it.

But what I DO get is that this cake is worth fighting for. I got the last bite. Dave ate cheese instead.

Time to Shop!

Dave snapped a photo of the ladies before we spent the Saturday shopping in St. Tropez. We drove forever to get there because traffic was terrible, then it took us 40 minutes to find a place to park the car!

But it had stopped raining and all the shops had bargains lining the street, so we had fun sifting through the tables and boxes of summer clothes.

The best part of the day was eating crepes with bananas, chocolate and chantilly cream at a place on the water. Yum!

The conversation was all in French, but it was pretty typical for ladies in their thirties: do you drink coke light, coke zero or regular coke? Do you want a taste of my crepe? I love H&M, their clothes are really cute and not very expensive. What are you going to name your baby? Oh, that's so cute! And on and on . ..

If you are curious, from left to right: Miriam, Laetitia, Me, and Stephanie. Tres Jolie!

Macarons!

I am just crazy about this little French treat! They are so delicious I get silly thinking about them! The outer shell is a soft but slightly crunchy concoction and the center is a creamy filling of the coordinating flavor.

In this picture there is cafe, citron (lemon), pistache, chocolat and either fraise (strawberry) or (framboise) raspberry. My favorite however, is caramel beurre salé (salted butter caramel), with rose (literally, rose!) coming in second.

Most importantly, the kids don't really like them, so my stash is safe from the marauders!

At Last They Meet

The gang is all here! The kids FINALLY got to meet Margaux, Max and Benj. We all met at their hotel (literally, they OWN the hotel), and walked to this great place called Flunch.

I mean, the name says it all, really. F-Lunch.

That's about how good the food was, and really inexpensive, too, just like everything in France. For a measly 7.90 Euros you can have a hamburger patty cooked to your liking (bien cuit? No problem!), a carbonated beverage (no refills, please!) and as many vegetables as you like. Just fill up your plate with mushy, sauce covered broccoli, dried out mashed potatoes, weird tater tot things, corn, soggy green beans cooked (with an orange vegetable of some sort that are at just the right temperature warming under those red lights) over and over again.

And the kids will flip for 2 fish-shaped fish patties, loads of those same yummy vegetables and an apple juice, all for just 5Euros. Oh, but they do get a balloon for free!

Although the food was pas gourmande, it was great for the kids to run around the play area together and warm up to each other. Dave, Virginie and I had a nice time talking and preparing each other for the swap. Virginie speaks excellent English, so it was fun to talk with her about home.

Countdown to Mougins begins! 3 days . . .

French People Hate Americans

One night near the beginning of our stay in Nantes, Dave and I decided to go to dinner without the kids. They were at home with the babysitter and so off we went. Guillaume de Bricourt (the homeowner) had given us some restuarant suggestions as he has written a guide to the restuarants in town.

We programmed the address into the GPS in the van and were doing rather well, until we landed ourselves in a private roundabout (we followed someone in without realizing we weren't supposed to be in there) that is for pedestrians and business owners.

We were trying to get ourselves out of the mess when these two guys asked if they could help. We told them our troubles and that we couldn't find the restaurant. They started to tell us what to do when one said (in English), "We're going that way, do you mind if we just get in the car and show you the way?"

Brilliant! We were saved. Guy and Christian turned out to be very nice and showed us the way to the car park, then walked us to the restaurant. It turned out that it was closed for "vacances" as many, many places are in France in the summer. So Guy and Christian found us another restaurant, made a reservation, took us there and got us settled. We had a soda with them (well, they drank wine, of course!) and Dave gave them his e-mail address.

We had a great dinner . . . Dave had the frog legs and I had something safe. We had a hilarious time making jokes with the flamboyantly gay waiter and by the end of the night we were eating molten chocolate cakes and laughing with him and the other patrons. (Well, they were probably laughing AT us, but we couldn't tell!)

A week or so later we met them at "Chez Oscar" for an excellent french meal and some interesting conversation. Guy speaks English, Portugese, German and French. Christian spoke a little English, so he and I had a good time speaking Franglais.

A few days before we left Nantes, Guy and Christian invited us to have dinner at their place on the river. We enjoyed looking at their antiques, elephant collection, and much to Dave's delight: old books!

Guy made a great dinner, which went as follows:

• Melon with ham
• Salad
• Chicken, potatoes & green beansCheese and bread
• Chocolate dessert

I am not kidding when I say every meal we have eaten with other people has gone much like this. I think my jeans are a little tighter!

We were so happy to meet such nice people who were willing to unselfishly share their country with us!

In A Pickle

Aaaah, McDonald's. You've been there for me through thick and thin. Remember the times I visited you in Hong Kong when all the other food tasted like fish? Or those days in England when only a Happy Meal could rescue us from blustery days? And now, here we are, en France, and we rendezvous yet again.

But now we have une petite problème: Abby only likes hamburgers with ketchup and pickle. And when I tell the garçon at the counter "un hamburger avec ketchup et pickle seulement" he just gives me a quizzical look. "Les petit choses vert?" He holds up a little packet of sauce. "Non, dans le hamburger" I mutter. "Ahhh! les cornichons" he says, smiling. Success!

I gather the food (that's a very small milkshake, I might add-no wonder Americans are so fat) and rush outside to the waiting family. Sophie and Sam start gobbling their McNuggets and I happily start in on some frites. Abby does the usual check of her hamburger only to find: mustard and onions.