Miss South Carolina or the guy from Dordogne?

Dumb people are everywhere. Like Miss South Carolina 2007, America's fourth finest teen-age girl based on her finish in the 2007 pageant. I suspect many of you have seen this clip since it's been viewed 21 million times, but I'm sure you'll enjoy watching it again.



There's nothing better than the country of "Such as". It's not as good as America but the people are so cute with their poverty. We should give them maps, for our children's sake.

Then there is this contestant on the French version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire".



So when people say that Americans are dumb and Europeans are smart it's best to believe only half the statement.

And in the French guy's defense, at least he had the sense to marry a decent-looking wife who is smarter than he is. And he at least knows where the sun IS. I bet Miss South Carolina couldn't find it in the sky. And if you think she was just put in a bad situation, watch this video. Then promise me you'll never watch the Today show again. Matt Lauer and that Asian lady make like $20m a year and Miss South Carolina is the 4th best teen girl in the United States. We're in good shape.

Sarko the American

The President of France, elected in April 2007, is Nicolas Sarkozy. For the moment at least he's wildly popular and is doing his best to reduce taxes, incredibly over-generous retirement benefits for public employees, and to divorce a hideous wife who had already left him for another man. You would think you'd need to be pretty hot to cheat on the President of France. Think again. And now he's dating an Italian model. And that's just in his first eight months in office. All good things, given that he's about the size of Napoleon with the ears of an elephant and the nose of a proboscis monkey. He's not much of a looker but he sure can make some good choices.

Sarkozy is well-known for his love of the United States and its culture, and the media here have taken to calling him "Sarko l'Americain." About two months ago, on an official visit to the US, he gave a speech to Congress. I'm not a huge fan of political speeches generally, but this one was simply spectacular. Really, you must watch it. If it doesn't grab you in the first five minutes then go ahead and shut it off, but then don't say you know what the French can be like when you don't. Listening to him talk about his generation's gratitude to the American military choked me up several times. I wish American politicians could be like this. Or at least more than none.

The speech is very well-translated into English. If you ever thought the French were snobs, at the very least their President is not. And everyone in Mougins voted for him. What does that say? Have a listen.

Sarkozy's new girlfriend, Carla Bruni. Can France's first lady be an Italian?

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.

Miss France is in Trouble

Pioneers all?









As you may recall, I wrote previously about the Miss France 2008 pageant, which was quite an affair. Turns out the affair has turned a bit sordid, as "compromising" photos of Miss France, Valérie Begue, were published last week in a French Magazine. This stuff always comes out afterwards, since no one cares to see "compromising photos" unless they're of someone famous.

Apparently under the rules of the crown, Miss France being in compromising photos is prohibited. Which is odd because I've seen the photos on the TV and it's basically her in a bikini. I don't know what the big deal is. I mean, they had a 2-piece bathing suit competition during the pageant. Been there, seen that.

But scandal is scandal and there has been much debate about Miss Begue giving up her crown. She's apparently survived, however. The Times (UK) says:

Miss France 2008 will be allowed to keep her crown, contest organisers have said, despite a row over suggestive photographs that saw MPs, a bishop and the Minister for Overseas Territories spring to her defence. However, she will not be able to compete in the Miss World or Miss Universe contests, where she will be replaced by Miss New Caledonia.

Valérie Begue, 22, from Réunion, an overseas departement of France located in the Indian Ocean, won the beauty pageant, which is taken far more seriously in France than in many other countries, in a televised ceremony on December 8. But her reign threatened to be short-lived after a magazine published a risqué set of photographs in which she was featured lying in a crucifixion-like pose while wearing a bikini, and licking condensed milk in a suggestive manner.

The rules of the contest forbid participants appearing in nude or provocative photographs, and the head of the Miss France contest, Genevieve de Fontenay, called for Ms Begue to renounce her title. She refused, saying the three-year-old photographs were published without her consent. In the face of massive public support, the organisers later relented.

As Americans, we've already been through this with our very own trailblazer, Vanessa Williams. And as all Mormons know, thank goodness for her, since if it wasn't for those photos the very average-looking but Victorian bonnet-wearing Sharlene Wells of Utah would never have won the very next year. I still remember my mother crying when Wells was crowned, saying "They KNOW that Mormons aren't going to be involved in any scandals. They KNOW it!" They knew about scandal thanks to Vanessa Williams. Catch her every Thursday night on NBC's "Ugly Betty." Must see TV.

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.

"Midnight" Mass

The Church Just After the "Midnight" Mass

Dave and I went to the church in Old Mougins for Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. It actually started at 10:30, but by the time we were finished with the whole experience, it was nearly Midnight.

I learned about this tradition when I was in Middle School in Ohio taking French class. I didn't really believe it happened (I don't know why I was skeptical, why would Ms. Frimmel lie to me?).

The church was already pretty crowded when we arrived around 10:15, but we managed to find a bench fairly close to the front, but off to the side. There was a lot of talking in French that I didn't understand, but there was also enough singing that I had a nice experience.

The songs were set to the tunes of "O Come All Ye Faithful," and "O Holy Night," and the words were printed on the bulletin they handed out when we entered the church. I was happy when the priest called everyone up to take communion, because that meant it was almost over! (Dave said he wanted to go up, but when I told him I had tried one of those wafers in high school and it tasted like paper, he changed his mind.)

After the mass we saw some friends from Abby's school, so we chatted and took some pictures. In the square they were serving hot wine and plates of the 13 desserts, but the line was too long and we had a rendez-vous with Pascaline and Nicholas to get to.

Just outside the church after midnight mass.

We actually just meant to stop by for a quick drink of "Champomy," but their kids were still awake (they open gifts on the 24th here) and everyone was in a good mood, so we ended up staying until the wee hours of the morning. So Dave and I were exhausted when we finally got home and started wrapping presents!

I have to say the best part of the evening was when Nicholas decided he wanted to speak to Dave's mother in the US. He was a little "gaie" as they say here (not drunk-just tipsy!) so he was trying to speak in English and was cracking us up. (He wasn't doing too badly at first, but as the night wore on, he sounded more and more like "Borat.")
Here is a picture of Nicholas explaining to me about wine glasses. Listening to him speak english was MUCH more interesting!

At La Maison de Retraite

Sophie showing off her creation


Last week Sophie's class had a field trip to a retirement home. The goal was to hand out ornaments made by the children, make a treat (dates stuffed with marzipan) and sing some Christmas songs.

After passing out their handmade ornaments, the kids and "aged people" as they say in French donned plastic gloves and began cutting open the sticky dates. The ladies (I say ladies because there was not ONE man there) did most of the cutting, thank goodness.

But there was no marzipan (pate d'amandes) because none had arrived in the truck that made the daily deliveries to the home. So there was a lot of staring off into space, playing with sticky gloves and aged people worrying about what they were supposed to do next.

Finally someone made a grocery store run and saved the day, and most of the dates were eaten, save a few (like when I offered some to a very old lady in a wheel chair and she snipped back at me, "I didn't order anything.")

After everything was finished, the kids drank grenadine mixed with water (so gross!) and the directrice gave them all chocolates and huge tubes of Smarties. I'm not sure who got the better end of the deal!


Giorgios giving a lady a Christmas ornament

Ouch

Riding horses a few weeks ago at the Ferme D'Anais: Sophie (on the white

horse) and Mailys. Pascaline is the mother of both Marine and Mailys.

Marine, The 12 year old daughter of our friends Pascaline and Nicholas, is WAY into horses. She goes to the riding center every Saturday and Sunday and stays there from noon to six p.m. She only rides for one hour, but the other 5 hours she chats with her pony-obsessed girlfriends and brushes and cleans the horses.

She REALLY wanted me to come for a lesson with her this weekend, and I also really love horses, so I was definitely interested. Of course this weekend it has been raining non-stop and it was totally ugly and drizzly.

Pascaline brought me a rain jacket to borrow and said "Now don't fall, eh?" to which Marine replied laughing, "You are going to fall!" Pascaline smacked her on the arm and said "CUT that OUT!" Or something like that in French.

When I got to the farm, I talked a little to the instructor and Marine fetched the horse, Cheyenne, for me. After trying to scrape the mud off the horse and get her all saddled up, we finally got in the ring and got down to business. Cheyenne and I were doing pretty well, we walked and trotted and even galloped. It's been three years since I went riding, so the galloping was a little scary, but exciting at the same time.

Then the instructor made us switch horses. I got Marine's horse, Enzo, who was a lot shorter than Cheyenne and kind of a spaz. The second go around the ring, I almost stopped and asked the instructor for a little advice on the gallop. But I didn't. BIG MISTAKE.

Halfway around the ring I knew I was going down and when my face and right shoulder hit the ground I thought "I'm sure glad I'm wearing a helmet" (right before it flew off my head upon impact).

I felt totally nauseous and had to lie down with my feet up for several minutes while everyone explained to me that when you fall you get a cake, and how I needed a nice massage for Christmas, and they would be happy to call a "beau pompier" (handsome fireman) for me. I could barely manage shifting the car on the way home and immediately jumped in a hot bath.

Pascaline (who is a doctor) wrote me a prescription for some special cream to rub into my aching shoulder muscle, and this afternoon I went to pick it up at the Pharmacy before everything closed until Wednesday. Pascaline's Prescription

So now it's Christmas Eve and I have gifts to wrap and goodies to prepare but my shoulder really hurts when I try to lift anything. Merry Christmas to me!

Santa's Been on a "Regime"

Looks like Santa has been into jogging lately, judging from his svelte figure and his snazzy reflective jogging shoes. I guess he was getting stuck in too many chimneys and decided to slim down for 2007's night of round the world generosity.

(Okay, so this is actually our neighbor Roger - pronounced 'Ro-jay' - trying to open the floo in our chimney. He actually came by to pick up a wheelbarrow full of firewood that Dave offered him for lending us some flour about three weeks ago. He generously offered to take a look at the fireplace and managed to get it open. Too bad we gave him all of our firewood.)

Holiday Cheer

We have been receiving a bunch of emails of our friends doing cute holiday things. So here is a message from some people we know here in France:

Click to meet our new friends, Olivier, Suzie, and Nicholas.

(sorry about the load time!)

Urgences

The emergency room in Grasse.
Last Sunday morning about 2am Sam woke up screaming at the top of his lungs. The master bedroom is downstairs and on the other end of the house so it took Dave and I a couple of minutes to realize we weren't dreaming the horrible noise.

When we both groggily reached the top of the stairs we woke up quickly. I found Sam doubled over in his bed in total agony, screaming "I feel like I'm gonna die!" He kept writhing around on his bed holding his abdomen, and no matter what we did we couldn't get him to hold still. It was obviously pretty bad.

We brought him to the bathroom and began interrogating. This is difficult when someone is already screaming. But we did our best.
"Do you need to throw up?" No. (more writhing).
"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" No. (Still writhing).
"Are you really hungry?" No. (Still writhing. And screaming).
"Does it hurt here?" (press on stomach) No.
"How about here? " (press on appendix) No.
"How about here?" (lower intestinal region) YES YES YES YES OWWWWW OWWWWW!

Naturally, in such a situation every parent is afraid their child has a serious illness like appendicitis. A stomachache becomes a brush with death and no less than the hospital will do. I called my sister, who has done medical transcription for years and knows every malady that exists, including (probably) gout and bubonic plague. Plus, it was only 6pm in Phoenix.

"It's very possible he has appendicitis," she said. I felt very scared.

"What happens with that?" I asked.

"Well," she said. "He'll be in incredible pain for awhile but then it will rupture and the pain will subside, so you might think he's doing better. But in 24 hours he'll be dead."

"In 24 hours he'll be dead?" I asked, not realizing I wasn't alone, and that everyone else in the room could only hear my side of the conversation.

"I'M GOING TO DIE????!!!!!" Sam began scream crying.

Dave rolled his eyes. He just wanted everyone to be quiet.

"You're not going to die," he said. "Just calm down and take it easy."

But Sam would not take it easy. With him still writhing on the cold tile floor in the bathroom, we decided to take him to the hospital.

When Dave came to visit Mougins back in May, Virginie made it very clear that if anyone had to go to the emergency room we must go to the hospital in Grasse, not the one in Cannes. The one in Cannes is apparently a death trap. All the French people are afraid of it.

The problem is I didn't know how to get to Grasse. So we debated about who to call, going down our list of five or six options, eventually settling on my friend Gina. Ultimately I just decided it would be better to call someone that I can speak to in English, so I wouldn't have to struggle for words while Sam was screaming in the background. Gina is American but has lived here for six years. She speaks good French, native English, and is also fluent in Italian and Spanish. Her husband is Greek but was born and raised in Sweden so speaks those two languages perfectly, not to mention English. They speak English to each other. Gina speaks Spanish to her kids and her husband speaks to them in Greek. Their kids speak French to each other. They speak Italian to their grandparents. I've seen her do it. I don't know how they can keep it all straight.

So I called Gina and Kosta answered the phone. "Meet me at our house and you can follow me to the hospital," he said. With Sam laying in the back of the car screaming, I rushed off in the night to get to the hospital. Dave stayed home because we didn't want to leave the other kids alone.

The route to the hospital was very windy and confusing. I would never have found it in the dark. We were almost there when Sam let out a huge burp. He stopped screaming.

Kosta parked his car and mine and I carried Sam into the Urgences. Luckily for us, we were the only ones there. The man at the desk took Sam's name, our address and phone number. Two seconds later we were in a room and a nurse was checking out Sam. Since he was no longer writhing or screaming it all seemed a little less urgent. But after she gave him a tylenol suppository and some kind of anti-cramping medicine, he had one more bout of writhing and groaning, so I was *kind of* glad that they could both see I wasn't crazy. The nurse handed me a prescription and that was it!

"Do I get a bill?" I asked Kosta.

"I don't think so," he replied, "I think it's free."

As we got in our cars and drove home I was so grateful that 1) Sam was okay 2) Hospitals exist and 3) There are kind people all over the world, and I know a lot of them.

I'll let you know if I get a bill.

This is Gina, who deserves her own post!

I Don't Know What I Just Said

Sam's Class: Gauthier, Sam (center), and Valerie. Click to enlarge

Seven months ago we agreed to this home exchange because we hoped doing so would enable the kids to learn how to speak another language properly. And by properly I mean not the way Dave speaks. We figured it probably wouldn't happen unless the children had no choice: Learn to speak or don't make friends. Learn to talk or you can't ask for what you want. It was a leap of faith but the logic made sense. We weren't sure it would happen, we just hoped.

But when we arrived in Mougins three months ago we heard a lot of complaining and crying. The below comments were repeated endlessly:

• What did he say Mom?
• I can't understand those people.
• He's not like me. He doesn't speak English.
• No I don't want to talk to them. I can't understand what they say anyway.
  
• Where are all the people that speak English?
• I want to go back to Arizona.

All three of the older kids would say that stuff, but Sam - our five year-old - was the worst offender. He wasn't having any of this French people stuff. It made for some tough days sometimes. But, slowly, surely, they are all coming around and it's amazing to watch. It's happening right before our eyes.

The complaints have almost completely disappeared in the last month, replaced by phrases picked up at school, like:

• Est ce que tu veux jouer avec moi? (Do you want to play with me?)
• Je veux mange ça (I want to eat that)
• J'ai fait un dessin pour toi (I drew a picture for you)

And the coup de grace for all the kids: calling each other Monsieur/Madame Fesses Face (Mr./Mrs. Buttface). They say it and immediately start howling with laughter. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my kids call each other Buttface.

It's incredible how kids adapt. Now, at least once a day, one of them will say to Dave, "Dad, that's not how you say that word. You say it like this..." They've heard it at school and can tell that he's pronouncing it differently. At least for the moment both Dave and I still know more words than the kids, so even though they often correct our pronunciation, they still have to ask how to say this or that. It makes for some funny situations.

Like this, today:
Last night Sam drew a picture for his classmate and friend, Gauthier (pronounced "GO tee a"). When I picked the kids up for lunch today I said, "Sam did you give the picture to Gauthier?"
He shook his head. "I asked Valerie to give it to him" he said (Valerie is the teacher's aid and Sam thinks she's great).
"Did you ask her in English or French," I asked?
"In French," he responded. "Valerie doesn't speak English."
"What exactly did you say to her?" I pushed him.
"Tiens pour Gauthier (give this to Gauthier)," he responded, with perfect pronunciation.
"Excellent Sam! I'm so proud of you!" I was beaming.
"Mom," he asked. "What does Tiens pour Gauthier mean?"

At this point in our adventure, progress is apparently measured by our children saying what they want to say, but without even knowing what it means. We'll take it!

I English. I Not French.

Dave writing again. I spent all of last week in the US, first to visit my brother, and (later) to get some stuff in Phoenix that Stasha had to have from the US, like syrup. I’m back now. I looked pretty cool checking in for my return flight with two 49-pound bags filled with syrup, diapers and tampons. At least tampons aren’t heavy. Wish I could say the same thing about syrup. If you want to lose weight you should eschew syrup and just eat tampons. The pounds will just melt away.

But this isn’t why I’m writing. I was in Phoenix for three days and I stayed at my house. I observed three primary things:

1. French people don’t use air conditioning. At least not at my house, where the average daytime temperature in the house was between 86 and 88 degrees. Hotter on the 2^nd floor, since heat rises.
2. The house is so clean it’s like no one lives there. Perhaps stuff gets left out but it just disintegrates in the heat. Because there was nothing out of place.
3. The Ginefri kids can speak English.

I want to focus on this last point. 2+ months ago when we spent an evening with the Ginefris in Dijon it was impossible to communicate with the children. I spoke a little French (and by "little" I mean "basically none") but I couldn’t understand them when they spoke, and they didn’t speak any English. That was on August 20^th. Literally not one word. OK perhaps they could count to 20 but it was a joke. They spoke English like macaws.

Fast forward to November 2nd. I arrived last Thursday night and all the children were asleep. On Friday morning I went downstairs to where they were eating their breakfast, which consisted of Dig ‘em Smacks and toast dipped in milk for so long that it disintegrated when pulled from the bowl. Mmmmmm.

I looked at Max (4 ½ years old), ready to test him. “How are you Max?” I said in English. He didn’t really look up from slurping his cereal. “Good”, he said. “How are you?”

“What are you doing?” I asked. The response was slightly delayed and without total confidence, but he said it: “I’m eat breakfast”. And a minute later, with milk pouring out of his mouth: “I like cereal.” The pronunciation was perfect. He looked like an American. And a minute later: “You eat breakfast?”

Virginie was standing next to me. “It’s incredible”, I said to her in French. “A French child learning English in two months. How is this even possible?”

Max looked at me. “I English”, he said in English. “I not French. You’re French!” Then he laughed.

It was like that all weekend. He understood everything I said and – most of the time – could respond. The sentence structure was a bit lacking but I’m not sure what one can expect after 75 days. Certainly not what I witnessed. Clearly it really will all come in time.

Max’s 6-year old sister Margaux spoke a lot less, but she still understood me. I heard her translate my sentences to her father a few times. It was so incredible that I would never have believed it if I hadn’t personally witnessed it. I hope my kids can do the same. We are getting there.

Comments About Comments

By the way, how come no one is leaving comments? I read every comment that gets posted, and particularly love the ones from people I either don't know, or don't know are reading the blog. In the last couple of days people have visited from Australia, South Korea, North Africa, Haiti, and even Iran. Not one of these people has left a comment. How sad for everyone. But mostly for me.

If you want to see where people are located when they visit, scroll down the page and on the left side you'll see a small map. Click on it to view the dots. Then leave a comment on one of the other posts, since this is the worst one ever. I'll definitely read it. I might even reply. I'm just a normal person, you know. I have dreams like everyone else.

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!

No Iron Maiden Posters in Japan

Dave here. I'm back in France.

I want to talk about some things that happened as I was coming back from the US yesterday, but let me start by saying that it’s impossible to comprehend how big, and full of people, this world is.

When I was 15 years old I took my first trip outside the US, for three weeks to Japan as a foreign exchange student. The family I was staying with, the Inoues, from Himeji (near Osaka if that means anything), lived in a nice house in the suburbs. I don’t know where they actually lived because they drive on the wrong side of the road in Japan and it was so confusing that I never knew where I was. I also don’t know what the father did for work but it probably involved speaking Japanese, which seemed like a really hard thing to do when I was there. So he probably got paid a lot of money, for doing something so difficult. And their house was nice. He was a really nice guy, and very generous. He didn’t speak English and he smoked in the house and slurped his food at every meal and had jagged teeth, but he was a nice dude. The food slurping bothered me a little, but I later learned that that’s not considered impolite in Japan. Plus it was the 80’s.

From the outside their house was normal. Japanese, but pretty normal. But when they gave me a tour of the inside I noticed three things:

1. the house had no beds, because everyone slept on the floor
2. all the doors were sliding doors, on tracks in the floor that separated one room from another
3. the walls were made of paper

I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to live in a house with paper walls. If someone was in another room with the light on it would shine right in your eyes. Plus my Iron Maiden poster would never have worked on that wall. The tacks would have gone straight through it. No Iron Maiden posters in Japan. Perhaps that's why they invented Pokemon.

One Saturday Mr. Inoue and his son Takeshi took me to the city center in Himeji so I could see it for myself. As we stood together at a busy intersection waiting to cross the street, I looked around and for a moment tried to take in what I was seeing. There were literally thousands of people everywhere, milling about in a very small area. To my 15 year-old brain they were like ants, moving in all different directions, heads down on their way to something important at the time. Every one of them looked exactly the same to me. They were all short with round faces and thick black hair. The US is a pretty diverse place in terms of Mendelian Genetics. France is too. Japan is not.

I looked at the people and said to myself, “Every one of these people thinks he/she is the most important person on earth. But that can't be true because the most important person in the world is me. I’ve never seen or heard of any of them, they don’t mean anything to me, and I will never see them again after this moment.” For the first time I was trying to comprehend the size of this world, and that in the grand scheme of things I meant nothing. It was stretching my mind.

In the ensuing twenty years, the increasing accessibility of the world's corners has only brought its enormity into starker relief. Yesterday I was at the Mormon Church on 51st Avenue and Pinnacle Peak Road in Glendale, AZ. I spoke with Courtney Dana, Larissa Boden, Kim Easton, Matt Robinson, and Sam Andrus. They’re all different people leading totally different lives, but all are very nice. Courtney has an amazing sense of humor and is really fun to be around. But, frankly, I like all of them. Especially Larissa, who I would marry if she wasn’t so religious and if I wasn’t already married to someone I really like. Plus my wife speaks French now and Larissa doesn’t. So I guess it’s never going to work out between us.

Only a few hours after seeing these people at perhaps the most American of churches, I’m now on a train watching the French landscape change from the falling red and orange leaves in Paris to the vineyards, cypresses, scrub oaks and pines of Provence. Sitting next to me is Costa. Costa has a bit of wild look in his eyes, perhaps from not sleeping enough, or from drinking too much beer or (most likely) from smoking too much weed. The train ride from Paris is five hours long, so there is more time to talk to Costa than words I know in French. So we mostly ride in silence as I tap away on my computer. But he's a nice guy and he knows more about the TGV than I do. About an hour ago he helped me find an outlet - in the bathroom in our train car - so I could recharge my iPod. Since I had to keep my eye on the iPod we both sat outside the bathroom and chatted for twenty minutes while I waited for it to charge so I could go back to listening to Natalie Merchant. He just wanted to smoke.

“Is smoking allowed on the train?” I asked him, knowing perfectly well that it wasn’t. “No,” said Costa. “But the ride is five hours. I’ve been smoking for so long that I can’t go more than two hours without having a cigarette.” His red eyes darted around, looking for the “Controle", who are the guys that will throw you off the train if they catch you smoking.

Since he was smoking and I was recharging, we got to know each other. Costa was born in Puerto Rico and immigrated to France with his parents when he was three years old. The rest of his family – grandparents and cousins – immigrated to Los Angeles about the same time. Thirty years and eight billion self-rolled cigarettes later, Costa is now working in an industry that has something to do with food. I think he’s a cook. I’m not sure. “I’ve been to California twice,” he said. But there’s no point going again because I can’t speak English and no one there speaks French. So I don’t see my grandparents and cousins anymore.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked. “Pas du tout,” he responded. “I only speak French at six million miles per hour.” I’m not sure he said that last part but he might have. I wouldn’t have understood him if he did.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Your parents are from Puerto Rico. Why don’t you speak Spanish?”

“Vous devez demander à mon parents,” he responded. “When we came to France I think they decided I needed to learn French and so they encouraged me to speak it as often as possible, even at home. By the time I was a teen-ager I would only speak to them in French and since I became an adult I’ve forgotten most of the Spanish that I once knew.”

I explained to him why Stasha and I have come here, and that I hope the kids can learn French better than I'll ever be able to. “Oh they will,” he responded. If I can learn it then they will for sure. I wish you the best of luck in your experience.” I got up to retrieve my iPod just as the train reached our first stop: Toulon, a town about an hour from Mougins. A lot of people got off the train and left empty seats behind them. Looking for extra space, Costa grabbed his stuff and went and found an empty seat in another car. In an hour I will get off the train in Cannes and he will continue on to Nice, fifteen miles further up the track. I will never see him again.

the Halloween Fête

The Halloween Fête was a great success. That Saturday afternoon, as Dave was simultaneously preparing to leave the country for ten days and helping the kids hang balloons and signs up for the party, I was busy drawing jack-o-lantern faces on clementines and making spiders out of ritz crackers, peanut butter and pretzel sticks.

One by one the guests arrived, each parent laughing, saying "Merci" for us giving them a couple of hours sans kids, and then "Bon Courage!" as they slipped back through the gate.
Being the dutiful American who occasionally visits FamilyFun.com, I had not only prepared healthy and festive snacks for our guests, but also some great games like "mummy hands" and pin the nose on the witch.

Imagine this scene: 7 or 8 little witches jumping on the trampoline, 3 or 4 princesses swinging on the hammock, a few playing dolls on the kitchen floor, some on the monkey bars and some hanging around the family room watching "Harry Potter", which I had turned on earlier to set the mood for the day. We also had one self-described "diablesse" (she-devil): Ysabault, from Abby's class at school, who wore a witch's dress and a hideous pumpkin death mask with green hair that made her sound like Darth Vader when she talked. I couldn't understand Darth Vader when he was talking in English. Trying to understand a 9 year-old female Darth Ysabault speaking in French was hopeless. At one point I thought I heard her say "RESISTANCE IS FUTILE", but it turns out she just wanted a piece of candy. After that I asked her to remove the mask.

Darth Ysabaux

After about an hour of witches and princess madness, I tried to round them all up to force the "fun" of playing Halloween games on them. They were perfectly happy already, so it was no surprise that we only made it halfway through one round of "mummy hands." (Think hands wrapped in toilet paper trying to sort candy into different bowls). I gave up. Off they went to play again.

I insisted, however, on carving pumpkins. No one had even heard of a Jack-O-Lantern, and after the searching I'd done for pumpkins it became necessary to insist upon pumpkin carving. Or "il faut", as I hear a hundred times a day. The search was not easy. There were no big piles at the grocery store or at Carrefour (think Target or Wal-Mart) like in the states. I did find some teeny ones at a shop called "Botanic" for five euros each. So when I spied the guy with the truck selling potatoes on the side of the road, the flashes of big, fat, orange caught my eye. He had seven decent sized pumpkins and I bought the best five on the spot. It set me back €25 ($37) for five very flat, medium-sized pumpkins, but it was for the great cause of HALLOWEEN!

You can see that these pumpkins are not your typical US Halloween Carving Pumpkins. No shiny, bright orange skin, tall and fat, just waiting for a face or an elaborate cut out of a witch on a broomstick. Ours were much shorter, not super duper orange, and the insides were so gloopy the girls squealed in disgust and delight trying to scoop them out.

Abby's French tutor, Thierry (with whom, as far as I can tell she only speaks English), actually did an excellent job carving his Jack-O-Lantern. The mouth was carved underneath the pumpkin, but I thought his effort was otherwise outstanding. Incidentally, in this photo Thierry looks exactly like a monk, but those were in fact his normal clothes.

A Monk & a French-O-Lantern

Between the pumpkin carving, eating gobs of candy that people had brought to share (Dave said that many parents asked if they could bring something, so he just told them to bring a bag of candy), along with the witch's brooms I made from pretzels and fruit rollups, strawberries dipped in white chocolate (little ghosts!) and the pizzas we made, no one left hungry. Sadly, only one clementine was eaten, and not a single Ritz spider--must have been the peanut butter, since literally no one eats peanut butter here. That I've met anyway. In fact, I had my peanut butter shipped in two months ago when my mom visited from Ohio.

But the greatest thing about this party was that everyone in Sophie's class brought her a gift. It was a sea of Pet Shop, My Little Pony, Dora the Explorer and other wondrous things that delight a six year old, especially when it is not even her birthday! Needless to say, Abby was extremely annoyed. I asked Stephanie about the gift thing and she said, "the girls in Sophie's class must have thought it was her birthday. Nobody has a party here unless it's your birthday." Abby said, "Maybe I should throw a Thanksgiving party and I'll get an iPod". Smarty pants.

All in all, I think the party was a success. Lots of smiling girls running around having a great time, not a tear shed and no wardrobe malfunctions. And the very next week Abby was invited to have a sleepover with the She-Devil. Hooray! Our little plan worked.

The French Heart

Dave writing again. As you know, Stasha tries to use this blog to post some of the most interesting - and hopefully funny - things that happen to us as part of this experience. There has been much to talk about.

But life is instead sometimes tragic and that is the case in our family this week. Since many that read this blog are already aware of what has happened, and those that don't know may soon find out anyway, it seems that the right thing is to be up front about what has happened and then try to move on as much as is possible.

My younger brother has twin boys that are nearly 18 months old. A few days ago, without anyone noticing, they went into an upstairs bathroom, climbed into a tub and turned on the water. We don't really know what happened, except that they drowned within a few minutes, and both boys died yesterday morning [Update: You can read more details here, in the Washington Post].

This could happen to anyone.

There is no point in trying to describe the anguish in my family at this time, and particularly for my brother and his wife Melinda. I am deeply affected by this, and yesterday explained to several friends why I must suddenly return to the United States. Though Stasha and I told few people, the word got around quickly. The response has further opened our eyes to the people that surround us.

Sophie's teacher at school, Madame Brigitte, found us after school yesterday to say she had been thinking of our family all day. Lawrence, the mother of one of Sophie and Sam's friends came up to me with tears in her eyes and said "my heart is with your sister-in-law and your brother". Another friend, Stephanie’s husband Pierre, called from Marrakesh, Morocco where he often works, to relay his deep sympathy to Paul and to my sister-in-law. And this morning I received the below from the Decemmes, who (you may remember from an earlier posting) we went hiking with a few weeks ago. Chris Decemme is the artist of the painting you see at the top of this post. It hangs in the house here in Mougins. She learned to paint in her late 60’s.

Nous sommes très tristes du drame que votre famille subit en ce moment. Nous prenons part a votre grande peine et vous souhaitons beaucoup de courage , ainsi que a la famille de votre frere, c’est vraiment horrible. Nous vous embrassons de tout coeur. Chris & Paul

We are extremely saddened to hear of the tragedy that your family must suddenly endure at this time. We extend to you our greatest sympathies and hope that you may have great courage, as well as to your brother and his family, for which this is a horrible tragedy. We embrace you with all our hearts.

This is typical of the kind of people that live near us. Just like in the United States.

In the end, the joy of life is determined not by where we live or what god we believe in but by the quality of our relationships with the people that surround us. Each of us may spend our lives emphasizing the differences between us and others, or we can embrace those small differences and also find joy in the endless similarities that exist between us and those we live among, whether in our neighborhood or on this planet. Focusing on those similarities brings great happiness into others’ lives, as they feel embraced by the acceptance that is imparted to them, and respond in kind. The French have treated us this way from the moment we have arrived and we have responded. We will not forget it.

If you want to express sympathies to my brother and/or his wife, please post a comment below and I will forward it to him. The most touching expressions of sympathy often come from people we don’t know, because it further humanizes those we might otherwise dismiss as faceless. And it reminds us that we are all the same, no matter how hard distance, language, culture and religion may try to teach us otherwise.

I suspect that after this weekend we will try to get back on track with normal updates. There are so many beautiful things that happen here; perhaps the quickest way back to happiness is to focus on them. We'll try to do that.

La Lettre

This is the next great French song. And the video is good too. I'm starting to like this stuff. They could just speak in English and then what they say would make a lot more sense, but I guess it's easier for them not to speak English or something. Seems nutty.

You can read the words in French here. The lyrics all make sense when you watch the video, which is very entertaining. The guy has very skinny arms. I've translated the lyrics below to the best of my ability, but I'll probably get some stuff wrong. Suggestions are welcome. Both the music and lyrics are great.

La Lettre - Renan Luce
I received a letter, it was perhaps a month old
It arrived by mistake, a blunder by the mailman.

It had spray perfume and red lips on it
I had the letter, but perhaps I wasn’t supposed to open it.

But I am a man who likes these kinds of games
and if she wants to call me Alphonse or Fred then so be it...so be it.

Some pretty daisies dotted all the “i”s
With handwritten curves, like at the abbeys
It had some spelling errors and showed a slight dyslexia
and was signed by a petite sexy blonde.

And I am a man who likes this kind of game
I don’t like nuns, and I had fallen in love…in love.

She wrote that Sunday she would be on the cliff
Where I had once held her by the hips
And that if I lacked the tact
To take responsibility for my frolicking
She would choose the impact
Of thirty meters below.

But I am a man who likes these kinds of challenges.
I didn’t want this senseless thing to happen
Because I had fallen in love…in love

Thanks to the letter’s postmark - a city at the English Channel;
I arrived in front of the post office on Sunday morning
The place was deserted, but I had to be patient.
There are not a lot of suicidal blondes.

And I am a man who likes these kind of challenges,
wanting to beat Newton (gravity)
Because I had fallen in love…in love.

She was looking over the English Channel.
When I saw her again I grabbed her by the sleeve
My little smart one
Who was not so much normal
In regards to her profile
There was a little someone living there…
under her navel.

And I am a man who likes this kind of challenge
And I’m happy to be called Papa if she wants…if she wants.