Day 9

The dog has nine lives . . .

The day started at a relatively leisurely pace today.  We were pleased to discover that my pants had not walked off on their own overnight.  With fresh clothes on our backs, we enjoyed a quick bite to eat and then off to the park to let the boys stretch their legs a bit.  Was another moderately sunny day with relatively mild temps.  The park was quite busy.  The lack of open commerce on Sundays certainly forces relaxation.  The nature of the culture is very laid back, but as with any big city, things can be a bit frantic throughout the week.  Sunday, however, is a time for family . . . a time for friends . . . a time to relax and unwind.

We spent an hour or so at the park.  I am pleased to say that this time I was not escorted out by armed guard.  We enjoyed our time in the sun and piled back in our rental V dub for a short drive north for an appointment with an individual selling what we hoped would be our second car.  MY car.  This was to be our economy car and we had a strict budget to abide by.  We reached the small church in the middle of a quaint village by the name of Galgon to meet our friends from the North who had made the appointment and assisted us in our search yesterday.  We were the last to arrive.  This was going to be a private party transaction and the gentleman selling the car greeted us politely and was receptive to our French introductions.  We exchanged names and pleasantries in the mother tongue and  having exhausted our command of the language, we let our interpreter begin our inquiry about the vehicle.

As it turns out, the young man selling the vehicle spoke a bit of English, so we worked out some broken communications that we could all understand.  He understood a bit of my English and I am pleased to report that I could understand a bit of his French.  He was a tall, thin man in his late twenties to early thirties.  Dressed in jeans, converse, and a brown track jacket, he looked as though he had just walked off of a college campus.  Since this was to be my vehicle, my wife tended to the children while us gents chatted about fuel consumption and service records.  After a quick test drive down some very scenic byways, we returned to the town square to discuss terms.  We reached an agreeable number and it was then off to this gentleman's home to handle the paperwork.

The home was modest and was what you would expect of any young couple just starting out.  A yellow lab in the front yard and a wife tending to a 7 mo. old boy named Paul.  It was all very familiar.  Almost American.  They were very friendly folks that, like everyone else we have encountered, would have given you the clothes off of their backs.  After filling out some paperwork (in triplicate) and chatting in both English and French, the deal was complete and I had in my hands the keys to my new car.  The young man selling the car was actually a very whitty individual who was very proud of his 1984 vw beetle which he was obliged to show me.  One last matter to attend to . . . You see, as a cost savings, we agreed that this vehicle was going to be purchased without the radio.  He had a bottom dollar, and that bottom dollar did not include his radio that he received as a birthday present.

Not yet having any insurance for said vehicle we thought it best to park my beauty at our friends house until all the proper licensure and insurance had been obtained.  I am sure you are all wondering by now, just what kind of vehicle I am now proud to call my own . . . the ugly truth of the matter is that I will be jetting around town in Peugeot's finest 206.  A 2004 model . . . silver in color.  Unfortunately, the 206 is not a designation of it's horsepower.  I believe the 2 stands for the number of people it would take to pick the car up off of the ground, the 0 indicating the number of chicks that could be picked up while driving it, and the 6 obviously referring to the number of minutes it would take to reach the equivalent of 60 miles per hour.  To give you an idea of it's size, my father owns a Honda Fit in the States and you could put my vehicle in it's trunk.

Parking my "Lion" branded beauty at our friends' house after a quick and obviously quiet (hole in the dash where the radio used to be) drive to our friends house, we adjourned to their sun porch for some tea and cookies.  Chatting about our purchased, we sipped our beverages and watched our children play a little futbol in the backyard.  Our visit was cut a bit short because we had to get back on the road.  We had another appointment to keep today and, little did we know, it was going to be the most memorable event of the day.

During my wife's company Christmas party back in the States, the French CFO put us in contact with the folks that were renting his flat here in town.  An American couple oddly enough.  Even more of a coincidence is that the Mrs. is from Columbia, MO.  Small world indeed.  To be honest, I wasn't feeling very much like company after two long days of vehicle shopping, but it all worked out in the end.  When we returned to our hotel, we discovered that our room had still not been cleaned.  After sorting things out with the front desk a cleaning lady was sent up to our room to work things over.  Since we had to vacate our accomodations, the distraction of having visitors was a welcome event.  We decided to take a walk to the closest park to let the dog have some exercise and let the children burn of some more steam after being stuck in the car for the afternoon.

We reached our destination and had a pleasant chat in a familiar dialect.  The pleasant visit quickly turned to near tragedy.  This was to be the second time this week that I saved our dog's life.  STUPID DOG.  There were two other dogs roaming around the park this fine evening.  One was an elderly fellow.  Golden retreiver I believe.  Face grey and wise.  No owner in sight.  It turns out, he must have snuck away from home and was soon gathered up by his relieved owner.  A sweet dog with a kind temperment.  If the owners hadn't shown up, we would have certainly increased our number by one.  The other . . . well, the other dog was another story.  A thin and very prissy gent with cigarette in mouth wandered through the park with cell phone glued to his ear.  Dressed with all the trappings of those that don't particularly care for the fairer sex, he casually strolled around with an arrogant flair.  His choice of pet?  A black female pit bull.  No need for a leash.  This was a dog that that nearly met its end today by my size 10 American boot.

The dog wandered toward our pug with hair raised.  Not one to judge any living creature by it's pedigree, I allowed a sniff or two, keeping a tight hand on my dog's leash.  There wasn't so much as a fuss.  The dog strolled away and back toward it's jack ass owner.  I continued my conversation with our new acquaintences and was quite surprise when the black bitch snuck up to attack my dog.  There are many folks in the world that are quite affraid of all dogs and especially affraid of the reputation that the pit bull maintains.  I am not one of those people.  With its mouth firmly around my dogs neck and my hand already at the Pit's throat about to dispense with it's misserable life, it's dainty owner rushed up to save his dog from what I am sure he sensed was going to be a quick and brutal death by my bare hands.  The rest of my party rushed to my side and all others in the area who had witnessed the attack stood with mouths agape.

The owner of the pitbull was not even remotely apologetic.  I can't say that I am surprised.  He stayed around long enough for an examination of our dog to be sure no damage had been done and as though carried away by the breeze, he disappeared as quickly as he arrived.  This was a good choice on his part, for if he had held his ground much longer, I am affraid that my loving wife would have dispatched with him much as I was prepared to dispatch with his dog.  After 10 loving years of marriage, I know when not to cross my wife.  The look in her eyes was one which I have become familiar and do my dead level best to avoid.  Trembling dog in her arms, our visit would continue if for only a short while.  Gathering the children, we strolled back to our hotel, being reassured by our American commrades that our new lives would work out and that they wished us the best in our new adventure.  Waiving them goodbye in the American fashion (no kissing) we headed back to our room to prepare for another exciting day tomorrow . . . The first day of school . . .

Day 8

Going where no Americans have gone before.  Today was to be a day of firsts.  So many, in fact, that I am not entirely sure where to start.  The day began as most have here in our new home . . . zero sun and the promise of rain.  What a magnificent day to purchase an automobile or two.  After buttoning up some administrative details we were off to our first appointment.  I wish I could say that over the course of this past week we gained a profound and thorough understanding of the language, but as you all know by now, this was not the case.  We were going to need some help today.  Strike that, we were going to need A LOT of help today.  Help came in the form of new found friends.

My wife is a bit of a hound dog.  She has a way of getting under your skin.  Loyal and trustworthy, the perfect companion.  She truly knows no stranger.  Over the course of this past week, she befriended a wonderful woman by the name of . . . Ok, I am not even going to attempt to spell her name, but all you need to know is that she is a magnificent woman with a wonderful family.  Having spent some time in the States, she was very sympathetic to our plight and offered her and her entire family's assistance in our quest for the perfect vehicle.  I am humbled and truly inspired by what I experienced today.  For those that call themselves Americans and have the audacity to speak ill of these people for their way of life, you can go to hell, because I would trade just two of them for a thousand of the close minded rednecks that wave the stars and stripes and believe that they are from the greatest country on the planet.  Our new friends would have gladly given us the shirt off of their backs, pants off of their waists and shoes off of their feets.  And yes, there is a story to that, but we will get to that in a bit.

We had assembled quite a team for this effort.  Two Americans (guess who), one gentleman from Czech and the French family I mentioned above.  You see, it wasn't enough for my wife's new friend to offer her husband's time to assist us in this automotive endeavor, she also took our children into her home and under her wing so that my wife and I could focus on the task at hand.  The morning was spent kicking tires so to speak at some of the local auto sellers.  We slowly began to narrow our focus as the realities of our budget began to hit home.  You see, this cast of characters each had their own way of things and the mix seemed to compliment each other as the day wore on.  I have intentionally not introduced you to our friend from the Czech, a co-worker from my wife's office.  Equally dear to our heart, I want to give him his own due later in this entry.

Our last stop for the morning was a Very shady looking spot where promise of a price point beater for yours truly to drive had us all chomping at the bit.  Now, it is important to point out that I began my day hoping to be ripping through the urban maze of narrow city streets in Jason Statham's bulletproof Audi A6.  What we had settled on was somewhat less glamourous.  The decision had been made to not split our budget down the middle and one of us was going to be left holding the short end of the stick.  Since the motorway is no place for a 2 horsepower sears and roebuck lawn tractor, I decided to throw myself on my sword and allow my wife the luxury vehicle of the fleet.

Staring down the barrel of a decade old sub-sub compact with a considerable dent in the front fender, the haggle was on.  I must note that she purred like a kitten.  Grey, I think . . . a little hard to tell from underneath all the filth.  After some very fast and tense words exchanged between our French friend and the moustachioed (second time to use that word in as many days) car seller, it was clear that this was not going in our favor.  I really shouldn't have used that word . . . Moustachioed that is . . . for it looked a bit more like the man had yanked the tails off of a pair of squirls and glued them to his face.  A portly fellow with a very bad attitude.  I suspect his attitude was soured by the fact that we were there just moments before the lunch hour and the businesses often shut down for lunch here.  We were clearly holding him up from his next feeding and I don't think he took this fact too well.

Never ones to fold under intense negotiations, we decided it best to fold and play the next hand.  We told the hair lipped thief where he could shove his jallopy and decided it was a good time to grab a bite to eat ourselves and check to see if our childen had offended our hosts or set their house on fire.  Lunch was to be with our hosts in their home.  A very beautiful estate in a small village a short drive away from the town where my wife works.  Three children in their lot.  Two daughters and one son.  The two younger, very comparable in age to our brood.  Peeking our heads in the young man's bedroom, it was clear that we were cramping our childrens' style and they did not need us babysitting them.  Already having had lunch themselves, they continued to play with their new found friends and we settled in to a very delightful and typically French lunch of pasta avec fromage (pasta with cheese) with a garnish of butter and dried tomato, jambon (ham) and of course vin rouge (red wine).

Now this menu seems tame enough, but there are some things I must divulge.  The ham for example was raw.  What I mean by that is that it was carved right off of the hock brought up into the kitchen from the cellar.  Absolutely delicious.  The main course of lunch followed by some unpasturized cheese, more bread and more wine.  The unpasturized cheese was an issue of comment from our host.  You see, these people know their cheese.  This isn't your pasturized and heavily processed crap we call cheese in the States.  This is the real deal.  Full bodied, very aromatic and covered by a moldy rind that must be cut off before consumption.  The blend of flavors was magnificent and I have to say this was the best meal I have had in as long as I can remember.  It was simple, basic . . . nothing overstated.  The flavors spoke for themselves.

It was all a bit surreal . . . treated as friends not as guests.  The sights, sounds and smells so delighfully foreign and inviting all at the same time.  Great food and very confortable conversation.  An hour (or so . . . no hurry here) comparing stories of our experiences in each others countries with respect and honor.  For desert, an icecream affair reserved for the holidays.  As the conversation wound down, the youngest of our children emerged wearing pants that were not his own.  Evidently had spilled on his own pants and was offered a replacement.  Transgendered though they may have been, he wore them well.  He was not the only one to be sporting the garments of his host.

The wife and I kicked off our shoes at the door as they were dirty and wet from the days adventure.  Within moments, both of us were provided with the last generation house slippers of our hosts.  I am still not certain whether this was a courtesy or a cultural exchange.  I thought perhaps it was an offense to be in anothers home in stocking feet.  We will have to figure that out before we start having guests of our own.  Either way, their I sat in the kitchen with these wonderful people, feet warmly snuggled into his own house slippers, sipping red wine and finding myself with very little desire to leave.  It was getting on toward 2 in the afternoon, and we had left our Czech friend with instructions to meet us back at our hotel to take a look at some vehicles in the big city.  Bidding our friends a fond farewell, we were off again to our next stop.

This was also our first experience with the kiss goodbye.  I am sure you have seen this custom in the movies.  A kiss on each cheek?  Upon greeting, my awkwardness was apparent and it deserved a giggle from the lady of the house.  Upon exit it seemed as familiar as the hug I extend my family when they leave my home in the US.  There is still an unwritten man code here, which I was ever so thankful for.  Dudes don't kiss.  You kiss the children, male or female, but men do not kiss other adult men.  I am as in touch with my feminine side as any man I know, but I am still not on level with snuggling up to another fella.  I might wear his shoes, but I gotta draw the line somewhere.  A warm hand shake goodbye and a round of kisses for the women and children completed our stay.

Back in town, we were to meet up with our Czech friend.  A very tall gentleman with a certain grace about him and a beaming smile.  The type of person you would find it hard to think ever gets mad or has their feathers ruffled.  My kind of guy.  Down to business with a quick gate, we were checking out the local shops with a purpose.  Within a half hour we had found what is to be our family vehicle.  The chariot that will escort my wife to work and the family on vacation.  It is a Renault.  Stoic, reliable, and dare I say it ? . . . Ugly as the day is long.  It is sort of a cross between a refrigerator and Frankenstein's ugly cousin.  It has all the styling sensibility of beef jerkey.  It's perfect.  You can't call it a mini van, you can't call it a cross over, you really can't define it at all, and I wouldn't want to.  I call it our French Escalade.  It seems to be all the rage with the family crowd and has more cubbies for your smaller items than I can count on my fingers and toes.

The best feature of the new family truckster.  Tray tables on the backs of the seats so the little ones can have their snacks on the fly.  A feature that may seem unfamiliar to some Westerners, but brings me back to my youth.  That's right, this is not my first exposure to French engineering.  Thanks to my Father's inspiration, I spent a portion of my youth tucked into the back of a French built station wagon.  Ah, the good ole days.  In spite of our early find, the desire not to have buyers remorse forced us to continue to shop for the remainder of the afternoon to be sure that this was just the right car for us.  Our Czeck friend?  By our side every step of the way without a hint that this might be an inconvenience.

Unfortunately our search for MY vehicle continues.  We should take possession of my wife's vehicle at the beginning of the week which will take some of the pressure off of having only one vehicle.  They have graciously agreed to let us keep the rental car for one more week, so we have a bit more time to find the right city car to suit my needs.  The truth of the matter is, we may not need that time.  You will never guess who gave us a call this evening upon our return to our hotel . . . our French friends from the North.  They had spent a portion of their afternoon searching for more options and have located a possible fit for me as well.  They even went so far as setting up an appointment and we are due to see it tomorrow.  The only thing I really know about it is that it has a dent in the hood and not quite enough horsepowers to beat a go-kart in a straight up drag race.  I guess I won't make it into the director's cut of Transporter 4 after all.

After my children's wonderful acceptance of the days events, we have promised them a trip back to the large city park to play for a bit in the morning.  I must admit I am a bit nervous.  After near death and incarceration, I am none to eager to jump back in the saddle.  They deserve this though, and we shall give it to them.  Back at the hotel this evening, it was apparent that the room had not been cleaned as we had hoped.  This is a problem, because the bedsheets are starting to feel a little like a fairway sand trap at your local golf course.  I watched a program once about Navy Seals.  The drill instructor drug this poor bastard out of the freezing water after God knows how many hours and them made him lie down and roll around on the sand until his body was covered.  They called this procedure a "Sugar Cookie".  It feels a little like that guy slept in my bed last night.  Something has to change.

Upon investigation, we were informed that the ladies didn't clean our room because they were afraid of our rabbid dog.  Knew I shouldn't have saved his life.  STUPID DOG.  We have promised to cage him up tomorrow in exchange for a freshening of the sheets.  I guess I will sleep with the Navy Seal for one last evening.  The need for laundry finally reared its ugly head as we knew it would.  Fortunately we were prepared with a jug of Le Chat (translated The Cat) laundry detergent that I drug home in my trusty little grocery cart.  The name has me a bit worried.  As I have already told you, food seems marketed after its sound under tooth and cars seem to be named after feminine hygene products.  If the trend holds, I am guessing that my close will come out smelling something like cat litter.  There seems to be a feline trend to many products as well.  I have a box of Lion cereal and a jug of Cat laundry detergent.  I somehow doubt this is a coincidence.  The odd thing is that despite this obvious reverence to the feline species, I have not seen hide nor hair of one during any of my outings.  I will get to the bottom of this and let you know.

Laundry has the wife and I up late and we now have our unmentionables scattered all over the hotel room in varying states of dampness.  They have three washing machines, which my wife has dominated for the evening and defended jealously, but only one dryer that does not seem to get the clothes quite as dry as you would hope.  Inspite of it's ineffectiveness, my wife has had to defend our items from being discarded onto the floor in favor of someone else's items.  At last check, my jeans are still quite wet and will have to be left in the care of the front desk for the remainder of the evening.  I hope I have pants by morning.  If not, this town is going to see a whole lot more of me than they care to.

Until tomorrow.

Day 7

I am going to attempt to keep it short and sweet this evening as it is now extremely late and we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow.  The plan is to purchase a couple of vehicles tomorrow, barring any international incidents.  I am feeling a little less like a tourist today.  Maybe the honeymoon phase is wearing off and it is starting to sink in that this is not just a vacation, or perhaps it's just the result of the retail high that I am on from the purchase of a jazzy new grocery cart we bought today to drag our groceries back to the hotel by foot.  It is a neon green nylon affair with a couple of wheels and a handle.  It looks a little like a laundry hamper on wheels.  Perhaps not the statement of male virility that I was hoping for, but after lugging 735 lbs of groceries the two city blocks from the closest grocer back to our hotel with a Victoria's Secret sack, I am not gonig to complain. 

After my routine morning dung collection, the kids and I hit the streets in an attempt to commune with the locals.  Sunny day today . . . the first we have had since we landed.  The fair skies brought out sunny dispositions.  We encountered an elderly couple on the street and the 3 year old dazzled us all with the apparent firm grasp he maintains over the local language and cultural practices.  As we past, I did my usual . . . which is to say that I did my best not to draw attention or make any undue eye contact.  My youngest son evidently has a different approach.  With beaming eyes and a swagger in his step he lays his best "Bon Jour" upon them as he gallops past.   The hillbilly accent, rubber mud boots (that he won't take off) and sagging jeans proudly exposing his Iron Man underpants pegged us as Westerners.  This of course if of no concern to our youngest because today he was a man of the people.

After a half hour of co-mingling with some local children at the nearest playground (still affraid to test the water on our recent ban from the larger park) the eldest son proclaimed a serious hunger, ending our three hour tour.  Once back at the hotel we finally swept the back of the cupboards clean by testing out a can of raviolli which to be honest is not going to make Mr. Boyardee loose any sleep at night.  Given our immediate need for supplies we decided to hit the grocery store yet again this evening.  This is beginning to be a daily task which we are reluctantly becoming accustomed.  It is the way of things here and we must come to terms with that fact.  This pain is somewhat lessened by the acquisition of my heretofore mentioned (bad ass) grocery cart.  Now with the shelves stuffed full, I bid you all a fond adieu.

Day 6

Anyone have a row boat and a little extra time on their hands?  If so, could you pick up my furniture and row it over to me?  At the rate our (lowest bidder) moving company is moving, you would certainly beat them across the pond.  I checked on our shipment today and our furniture is due to arrive somewhere around December of 2017.  Not terribly surprising given how swimmingly everything else has gone, but disappointing nonetheless.

The kids and I laid low today to take care of some domestic duties around our hotel room.  The hotel staff only cleans these babies once a week, so you really can't treat your room like a rock star.  The children have been tremendously tolerant considering the cramped quarters, but I think the novelty is starting to wear off.  As for me, the attempt at conserving our wardrobe to avoid having to go to the VERY expensive laundry is starting to take it's toll psychologically.  A man can't feel himself when he is on his second day in the same underpants.  We asked to borrow the vaccum cleaner that was evidently available for our use in order to clean our floors since they feel a little more like a gravel road than precut laminate.  What we got was a dust buster.  I can now tell you from experience, that it is hell on the back trying to vaccum the floor with a dust buster.  Plus, since I have so abused the elastic of my underpants from multi-day use, my pants kept falling down when I would bend over to vaccum.  Oh the indignity.

To be honest, we are starting to get to a critical level on many fronts.  Ran out of toilette paper today at an inopportune moment, polished off the last of our Monster Munch and made our final effort to choke down three day old Pizza Hut.  Got a piece of stale crust lodged in my throat and thought I was going to choke to death.  Getting pretty tired of taking the dog for a walk in the morning to do his duty.  Nothing says breakfast like picking up steaming dog nuggets off of the pavement in front of throngs of morning commuters.  STUPID DOG.  Probably all for the best though . . . the walks give me some exercise and after doing a rough conversion of the nutritional data on the back of the Monster Munch, they may have to cut the door off of the hotel room and extricate me with a crane.  I knew nothing that tasted that good could possibly be good for you.  I believe they are just deep fried chunks of pork fat cut into the shapes of little smiling ghosts.  At 8000 calories and 657 grams of fat per serving (God I hope my math is wrong), I should be in the hospital by the weekend.

Started shopping for vehicles today in hopes of making a dent in that project by the weekend.  My wife keeps reminding me that our budget is strict and that these are going to be vehicles of necessity not luxury.  Re-sale value and compact size are going to be the deciding factors.  Both the wife and I do agree that we would like to stick with a domestic, but I am having a great deal of difficulty purchasing one of these little "citadines"  translate: "city car", because they all have names that remind me of a feminine shaver.  Names like Micra, Mitto, Clio and Panda don't paint mental images of a moustachioed Bandit screaming down the road in a jet black Firebird, but rather a hand model softly displaying the pocket size and simple design that is sure to minimize razor burn at your bikini line.  There is just way too much truth in advertising in this country.  I guess if food is supposed to be named for the sound it makes when you injest it, why not name a car for what you will feel like when you drive it, RIGHT?  I will keep you posted.

Day 5

Terrible argument this morning . . . 

You see, I now have three women in my life . . . my wife, a very pleasant english gal named Tom Tom and an abrupt and calculating american lady named Garmin.  Unfortunately not a single one of them can navigate worth a damn.  I now spend my days with each of them shouting directions at me and arguing with each other as to which is the best route to take.  The wife . . . she is never quite sure, but always goes with her gut instinct.  My sweet English gal . . . always gentile and never uncertain of where she is or where she is going, but gives you very little warning as to her next decision and it takes her an eternity to make up her mind.  Alas, my not so gentile American lass.  She is by far the best at giving you fair warning as to your next mis-step, but she keeps changing her damned mind and telling you to go where you cannot .  Now a days, whenever I cross over a bridge with these three ladies, there is a moment when I sincerely consider turning my little city car into a freaking submarine.

We all got up with the sun this morning to drop off mom at her office in a neighboring town.  On my way back home, having lessened my navigation crew by a factor of one, the sweet English lady and the angry American got into a horrible fight.  Neither one of them could agree which way to turn, which left me . . . well . . . LOST.  I went with my fellow countryman and ended up in a mud bog surrounded by caravans.  For those who aren't familiar with that term, caravans are travel trailers used on holiday.  The problem with these particular trailers is that they appeared to have long outlasted their usefulness on holiday and now had become someone's semi-permanent residence.  With untrusting and likely criminal eyes gazing in my direction from behind tattered plaid curtains, I renounced my patriotism and told the American bitch to take a hike.  Sometimes a clean breakup is the only way to go.  I apologized to my English love, praying that she would forgive me.  Thankfully, once I had pledged my allegiance to the crown, we were back on the paved straight and narrow.

Back at our quasi-bachelor pad with mom away, the fellas and I formulated a game plan.  Going to chill for a bit and eat some sandwiches on our recently purchased "American" bread, then jump in our rental car to take the dog for a long walk at the much acclaimed city park.  The "American" bread was a bit yeasty, but edible.  Don't think the kiddos enjoyed it that much.  To be honest, the stuff kind of sucks the moisture out of one's mouth to the point of dehydration.  Stomachs moderately full of spongy goodness we hit the streets.  Not wanting to soil the interior of the car anymore than we already had, I put the dog in the back hatch . . . MISTAKE.  Upon arrival at the park, I popped the hatch and the dog sprang forth like those snakes you find in a novelty peanut can.  Unfortunately, he didn't take flight toward the curb, but rather right into the path of a speeding Citroen.  Knowing the kids would not forgive me for killing their dog inside of a week of our arrival, I dove for the dog like a wide receiver diving for the game winning touch down.

The dog and I survived much to everyone's surprise.  Both our heads escaping bumper driven decapitation my a matter of inches.  Now dirty, with blood dripping from the road rash on my hands, I gathered the crew and headed into the park.  STUPID DOG.  Once in the park, everything seemed so serene and peaceful.  Perhaps it was the near death experience that has brought about this feeling of bliss.  As with everything in my life lately, however, this feeling was short lived.  We strolled on and on, enjoying the flora and the fauna until we finally made our way to the playground area that I knew would be too much for the boys to resist.  Settling back onto a nice park bench, I tended to the dog and my wounds while my offspring went to play.  We were there for about 5 minutes before I noticed  a very proper looking policeman heading in my direction.  As if near death was not enough for the day, incarceration would surely add a nice cherry to the top of this sundae.

It is well established by now that my comprehension of the national language is somewhat lacking, but you add the pressure of "official" inquiry and I fold like a cheap suit.  By now, however, I have managed to memorize some basic phrases.  Trying my best not to seem guilty of anything,I stammer out that I do not speak the language.  In a surprisingly kind response he began gesturing and spitting out basic vocabulary, a bit of which I could interpret.  He either said something about our dog and eating or something about a midget and a banana peal.  A bit more feeling out seemed to indicate to me that I had broken the rules and that there was perhaps a concern that my rabid dog was going to eat the children's faces.  He escorted us out and we parted our conversation with a "thank you" on my end and an "enjoy your meal" on his.  I am still not entirely sure what it is that got us bounced like a patron at a nightclub or why he thought I needed to have something to eat, but I just hope that this was not a lifetime ban from the park.  Fairly dejected and with somewhat unhappy kids in tow, we jumped back in the car and headed back to the hotel.

I knew that the kids weren't interested in spending the remainder of the afternoon crafting father of the year cards for me, so I just settled for a group nap.  The wife decided to catch a ride back with a co-worker so as to not add insult to the injury that was our day today.  She appeared just in the nick of time, because I swear I heard my kids hand crafting pitchforks and torches chanting something about Liberte!

Day 4

Slow day today.  The wife went off to work this morning and left the boys to their own devices.  Slept in a fair amount and made the kids wash the stank off of their bodies.  Breakfast of Frosties and Knackis (really thin hot dogs) for Lunch.  Still no complaints about the chow from the youngsters.  In fact, the ketchup flavored Monster Munch is a big hit with the youngest of our crew.  Had to run to the commercial center for a stool for the 3 year old to use the toilette.  Standing on a carry-on suitcase was obviously not going to be a long term solution.  No major issues.  Exchanged pleasantries with the clerk, but no real conversation.  The language barrier still scares the shit out of me.  Feeling more comfortable, but still like a tourist.  The wife had a disasterous commute back from work.  Got lost and then once back at the hotel, could not pull the subcompact into the appointed parking spot.  Didn't hit the wall much to my disappointment, but when we went out to run some errands this evening, I had to Bo Duke it into the vehicle since she had parked it so close to said wall.

Errands were fairly uneventful this evening.  Picked up some more Monster Munch and a new cereal called "Lion"   Rooooaaaar!  Impulse buy based exclusively on cat graphic on the box.  What can I say, I didn't mature much past the age of 13.  Since our tiny dorm sized refrigerator doesn't hold much, dinner was from Quick Burger.  Knew ahead of time that it was going to suck based upon prior experience, but it was the only thing open.  Let me tell you the difference between a Supreme Cheese and a Big Mac . . . The Big Mac tastes like boot leather and the Supreme Cheese tastes like the dog shit you scrape off of the bottom of that same boot.  To be honest, if I don't spend a fair part of the evening in the toilette, I will be very surprised.  Plan on taking the wife to work tomorrow so that the gents and I can have the vehicle.  Going to do my best to map out this town so I know where the hell I am going.  A couple of things have become evident . . . the need for a new cell phone and the purchase of a new vehicle.  Both events should be great comic fodder, so stay tuned.

Day 3

Well, I have finally achieved my goal.  This post will summarize all that we have experienced TODAY.  If you have been brave enough to read through the depth of this work so far, perhaps you will be willing to stick it out for a little longer.  As in any survival scenario, you have to satisfy some very basic needs quickly if you have any hopes of lasting survival.  For us, today's first task was . . . food.  Perhaps not as dramatic as Bear Grylls sucking the guts out of a Mountain Goat, it was still an obstacle that we had to overcome.  Armed with a handful of Euros and good intentions, we set off for the market.  Now we had tried this before, on our orientation trip, with disasterous results.  The sights and sounds are remarkable, but the SMELL,  Oh boy, let me tell you about the smell.  Somewhere between raw fish and bus exhaust mixed with a little ass and feet you find this unique perfume of life.  Brands you have never heard of, but some you have.  Tony the Tiger is selling "Frosties" not "Frosted Flakes" and Lays Potato Chips are sold as "Max Craquantes".  A lot of the marketing seems to focus on the sound the food makes when one injests it.  I have yet to figure that out.  We decided on a well rounded mix of the familiar and the not so familiar.  Fortunately most of it has been a hit with the kids.  It helps to have open minded youngsters, but the new flavors have generally been very tolerable.  Food . . . CHECK.

The next necessity:  Housing.  After a jaunt out to my wife's new office we headed for our rendezvous with our new landlady.  Against my better judgment I let my wife drive.  Hell I already wrecked this thing, what is a blown engine and juiced transmission?  I must say, I am proud of her.  She showed quite a bit of improvement today and only stalled the car three times.  In a driving rain we made it back in time to see our new house.  This was the first the kids and I had seen of the inside of our new home.  My wife had toured the home while in town for work prior to our big move.  I am going to go ahead and be honest here, there is very little chance you are going to see this baby featured on an episode of "Cribs".  It does have some of the trappings of a rock star's home.  A swimming pool for example.  Not too shabby right?  Almost camoflages the graffiti laiden neighborhood and the noticible grime on almost every wall in the home.  It has potential.  Good bones as they say in the real estate game.  A splash of paint and we should be underway.

The landlady appears to be a stearn lady who knows very little English and we obviously know very little French.  I believe she had the upper hand in this negotiation.  Even with an interpreter, neither my wife nor I had any idea what we were signing.  All I know is we now have a whole lot of keys (several deadbolts . . . bad neighborhood?) to a house with some yellow and orange carpeting.  That's right, brand new yellow and orange carpeting!  The icing on this cupcake is the matching wallpaper!  Oooh La La!  How could we have been so lucky to find this gem?  I am surprised there wasn't a bidding war.

Back at the hotel now, unwinding from another day in the trenches.  The real surprise for the day?  The fact that I actually ever parked our rental car in spot 39 without hitting the wall like a crazed Nascar driver.  I am taking bets that my wife hits the wall tomorrow when she arrives home from her first day at work.  Any takers?  I will keep you posted.

Day 2

Early to bed, early to rise.  That's the creed we live by on the farm.  Awake and refreshed from a good night's slumber we check the clock to see just how long we would have to wait until shops started to open for the day.  2:30 p.m.?  Could this possibly be correct?  A second and third check of multiple timepieces confirmed the diagnosis.  Who the hell sleeps for 14 hours straight?  I will tell you who, 15 year old boys crashing after an all nighter hopped up on Red Bull and the latest itteration of the HALO franchise and as it turned out . . . my family.  Awake, albeit somewhat disoriented given our revelation as to the hour, we knew only one thing . . . we were hungry.  You see, a quick walk around the block confirmed that there is a slight problem with sleeping this late on a Sunday.  Everything is closed.  If it was open at all, which most things are not, it would have been open early in the morning.  Abandoning hope for any chow within walking distance of the hotel we piled back into our trusty compact and hit the streets.

What seemed charming in the sleep deprived melaise of the night prior was now absolutely terrifying.  Driving seems to be a mix between F1 racing and Mario Kart.  As luck would have it, a quick spin out to the location of our newly reserved rental house ran us by and open bakery where we bought nearly everything they had left in inventory.  This one meal would have to do for the day.  Taking the long way home to see the sights, let us reflect on the prior day's events.  Feeling proud that we had yet to be beaten we decided not to push our luck and headed back to the hotel for more sleep.

As it turned out, my luck had in fact run out.  Pulling back into the parking garage we found ourselves involved in a bit of an auto accident.  Pulling into spot 39 (our spot), I kissed the wall of the parking garage with my front bumper.  Perhaps that is what I get for pulling through a dimly lit parking garage in Ray Ban sunglasses with an attitude that would make Jason Bourne proud.  The wife was less than impressed.  Back to bed.  Couldn't sleep.  Was it the auto accident or just the result of a lifetime worth of sleep the night before?  Either way, there would be no rest this night.

Day 1

As our luggage began to pile up at the curb in front of the airport, I could not help but liken the scene to circus clowns piling out of their vehicle to the delight of the cheering masses.  Unfortunately, our unloading procedure did not go un-noticed by the transit police.  It took some smooth talk and a sweet smile to prevent a ticket and a tow of our drop vehicle.  I don't know how, but we made it.  In the matter of a day we had finished with our life in the midwest, leaving behind an empty farm and all those that we knew and loved.  15 pieces of luggage, a car seat, stroller, two children and 3 year old pug.  What were we thinkining?  After a fair amount of shuffling items back and forth between suitcases, each made weight and we were off.

It seemed as though we were going to pull this off without incident.  The first flight, a breeze.  Children well behaved and excited for the adventure ahead.  All was well, that was of course, until the youngest of our clan decided to drop his pants and expose his junk to a terminal full of happy travelers at our first layover.  And no, for those of you that are of a like mind to my wife, he is NOT just like his daddy.  Pants firmly at our waists, we boarded the plane for what was to be the longest leg of our journey . . . an 8 hour flight over the ocean.

Much to our surprise and delight, it all went off without a hitch.  We managed to survive the flight without a peep from our sleeping brood.  The next hurdle was going to be an issue.  Packing all of our luggage into a very small european car.  Keys in hand to the largest conveyance that Europcar had to offer, we headed for the garage.  I am truly a packing genius.  Somehow managed to cram all of the luggage, the wife, two kids, and the dog in what appeared to be a matchbox car.  For those of you that don't know, I took a poop this morning larger than most of the vehicles driven in this fair country.  This is not a complaint, simply an observation.  They certainly make a fair amount of sense when compared to the brontosaurus sized SUVs that we know and love.  This is especially true when you encounter the very narrow and congested streets in the urban jungle that we now call home.  We will get to all of that soon enough.

Now mobile, we hit the road for what turned out to be the most painful and in many ways most entertaining 5 hours of my life.  After two hours of driving on the heels of some 10 plus hours of air travel, I was finished.  We stopped for some roadside fare and moderately recharged our batteries with something called Dark Dog (similar to Red Bull but with an ingredient list full of things I had never heard of before . . . some questions are better left unanswered) we were ready to set off again.  Fortunately, my loving wife offered to take over for an hour or so.  With little resistance on my part she settled into the driver seat and we were off again.  Did I mention that almost all cars outside of the good ole US of A are manual transmissions?  Well it would appear that ours was malfunctioning.  At least that is what my wife would have you believe.  The truth of the matter is, she was a little bit rusty and she killed the motor a time or two . . . or eight to be exact.  That's right, I started keeping count.  It was the only thing that kept my mind from wandering off to those "blood on the highway" films they made us all watch in driver's ed class. 

The seventh and eighth were by far the most entertaining.  We had to pull off into a little town named "God knows what" so that our youngsters could use the head and wouldn't you know we got caught dead  in the middle of a police action.  From out of nowhere a police van was upon us and moving up fast.  With all the finese of a sumo wrestler my wife lurched our vehicle toward and ultimately onto the curb in the middle of the road.  The pressure of the blues and twos screaming at us from the rear proved simply too much to handle.  Upon restarting the now exhausted motor the next lurch forward caused another stall.  The second burst of forward movement was, however, just enough to let the emergency vehicle past.  It wasn't long before we both agreed that it might be best if I went ahead and drove the rest of the way home.

Night was falling fast as was my energy level.  Thankfully the lights of our new home town in the distance brought on a renewed vigor in all the troops.  A rush of culture poured upon us in the shadow of the dimly lit architecture.  We were home.  How the hell do we find the hotel?  Ah, our next challenge was upon us.  Fortunately, the kind folks at Europcar had equiped us with a Tom Tom and a nice lady with a very British accent led us to our destination.  Now we knew from prior expeditions that parking was going to be an issue.  The plan was fairly simple:  pull up to the front of the hotel, stop in the middle of oncoming traffic while my wife ran in to the hotel to find out where we could park.  She didn't prove to be fleet enough of foot and a city bus immediately put our plan in jeopardy.  Left with no other choice, I drove on.  After several laps of the hotel a la Clark Griswold I finally negotiated my way back to the front of the hotel.  Unfortunately, the traffic gods were not in my favor and I was forced to leave my wife standing on the corner shouting instructions as I passed for one more go round.  Determined not to fail, around the horn we went, with the youngest child inquiring as to why we kept leaving his mother on the street.  Finally in a mad rush of blurred street lights we pulled into the designated parking garage and put our now battle tested steed to rest. 

It took three trips from our room to the parking garage to finally relieve the pressure we had placed on the rear shocks of our rental vehicle.  We needed sleep, but the kids needed food more.  Fortunately in the blur that was my Talladega circuit around our hotel, I had noted that there was a familiar face right around the corner from our hotel room.  PIZZA HUT.  Deciding to play it safe, we sent mom next door to get some grub.  Upon her return, it was clear that we were not in Kansas anymore Toto.  It had a familiar look and aroma.  The taste?  A bit of a departure from the expected, but not bad at all.  The wife however, was less than impressed with what they called BBQ sause as the condiment of choice for her breadsticks.  Bellies full and thoroughly exhausted . . . Alast sweet slumber.

Abandoning ALL we have ever known . . .

Our story begins three days ago, so I have a bit of catching up to do.  My hope is that this will eventually be a "realtime" account of my experiences and my life as I understand them.  As a simple matter of good house keeping I think it best to provide a bit of a history lesson.  This may shed some light on the author and make sense of all of this, if in fact any sense is to be made of it at all.  We are from Middle America, the midwest, the God fearing buckle of the bible belt.  This is a place where men are men and sheep are nervous, a place where Nascar is a religion and front teeth are optional.  Please to not misunderstand these observations.  This is a place I love, a place that I would defend jealously as a momma bear defends her cubs.  It is, however, a place of many downfalls. 

I am an attorney by profession and misfortune.  Third generation to be exact.  The men before me?  Drunkards and degenerates, guardians of the truth, poet saints . . . the voice of those who cannot speak.  This is what made them great.  This is what made them my heroes.  This is what made me who I AM.  To be honest, my choice in career was made for me.  It wasn't as though I spent hours in a high school guidance counseler's office pouring over my options.  Math and Science were never my strong suit and as I am sure you can already tell, I like to hear myself talk.  These factors culminated themselves into a promising legal career.

You see, life has a way of balancing the equation so to speak.  The loss of a job, a transition from lawyer to full time dad and an opportunity in my bride's career that could not be denied.  An opportunity that was a long way from where we called home.  This is where we find ourselves.

Hello, My Name is ________

Hello.  My name is Ryan, and I AM Jack Butler.  This is not a riddle, simply and introduction.  Some of you may already understand.  For those that do not, I trust you will figure it out as these writings evolve.  There is really only one thing that you need to know, and that is, that I love my wife . . . usually.  I would follow her to the end of the earth.  The truth of the matter is, I already have.  This is our life.  This is our journey.  I hope you enjoy riding along.