Day 40

Well it was bound to happen, and it finally did . . . we have all taken quite ill.  All the symptoms are there . . . sick to the stomach, restless, irritable and sharing the general malaise that makes one not want to get out of bed in the morning.  Diagnosis?  Homesickness.  Cure?  Time.  It seems that the bottom has finally fallen out of the fantasy of this experience and the reality has finally set in.  We're not in Kansas anymore Toto, and not a single one of us seems thrilled with this prospect.  We hate life, hate France, and hate each other.  All the literature states that this is quite natural and just part of the grand social experiment that is moving abroad, but that doesn't make the sense of desperation any easier to cope with.  Day 40 was  . . . well, "shitty" for lack of a better term.  Nothing of any real importance transpired, it was just the sort of day that makes your skin crawl.  The temperature remains fairly stable, but the rain has set in under gray clouded skies.  The sun is gone for good and we have given up hope for its return.

To complicate our lives even further, it was a "RED" day today.  "RED" day you ask?  Well, "Madame Chabou's Reform School for Girls", as I now call it, has a fairly antiquated electrical system.  This being a land where government takes care of most of one's thinking for them, they have devised over the years a way to conserve electricity and make life just that little bit more difficult than it already is.  Today, the system is quite simple and essentially monitors days of electrical discount.  This simply means on certain days you receive a discounted rate on your electrical usage.  This of course encourages folks to use more electricity on these cheap days which in turn saves electricity on the regular days.  The system in this house of course is quite old and is controlled by a lovely lighted box in the kitchen.  There are three lights on this contraption, separated into Blue Days (cheap), White Days (moderate), and Red Days (expensive).  Electricity is so expensive on the Red days that it was recommended that not only do we not use lights any more than necessary, but the usuage of the electrical appliances should stop as well.  LOVELY.

So we sit here in the dark, running the battery supply down on every electrical gadget we own just trying to make it through one more day.  The little box indicates that tomorrow we will be back down to "Blue" and life can return to normal . . . or at least as normal as life gets here in the land of Oz.  And yes, this is the second Wizard of Oz reference for the day.  The reason?  Well, it seems that anytime I meet someone new and they inquire about where in the United States I am from, the first words out of their mouth are Dorothy and the "Magician" of Oz.  They could at least get the f_ _ _ing name right.  Since I sort of feel like I have been sucked up in a Tornado and spat into a foreign land, I thought I would carry this theme througout today's remarks.  So I ask myself, which character am I?  The Tin Man?  The Cowardly Lion?  No, I am going to go with the Scarecrow.  Anyone who knows me, knows I got a head full of stuffin, and if I had a brain I would have certainly said no to the idea of moving half way around the world when life seemed pretty damned sweet hanging from my pole in the corn fields of Eastern Kansas.  Much like the movie though, Dorothy's wiles were too much for me to ignore and I found myself dancing down the yellow brick road, arm in arm, with the hopes that the Wizard could fix my simple minded ways.

In a way I guess the Wizard has already shown me that I had smarts all along, for I am certainly thinkin thoughts I never thunk before!  And on that bombshell, I bid you a goodnight!   There's no place like home, There's no place like home, There's no place like home . . .  Nope, didn't work . . . still here.  Turns out Glenda is just a  liar with a "not so magic" wand, or maybe my ruby slippers are broken.  Either way, it looks like we will be here in Oz for a few more days afterall.  Miss you all.

Day 39

Don't call me a F _ _ _ing "EX"-patriot . . . the failings of Intercultural Training.

Today was a profound day in my life.  One which will in all likelyhood be a watershed day that I will remember for the rest of my days.  The day I discovered my inner American.  That's right folks, scratch me and I will bleed the stars and stripes.  After the day's discourse, I discovered something about myself that even I found surprising . . . I am, and will always be profoundly American and I am not ashamed.  If this were to be a self help meeting, I would certainly not have a problem with standing before a room of my peers and stating "Hello, my name is Ryan . . . and I am an AMERICAN".  With this revelation, I realized my mission here . . . the reason for my adventure.  It is not to learn the language or even the cultural practices.  It is to make myself a better American.

Now I ain't no "Merican" like in a country and western song, but rather American in the way it matters.  In the way same way it matttered to Washington and Jefferson.  So don't call me a F_ _ _ ing ex-patriot.  I am a Patriot in every sense of the word.  I don't live within America, America lives within me. We spent the majority of the day today in intercultrual training at my wife's place of business.  The goal of the day was to make us understand the ways of the French and how our two cultures are different.  The US has many failings and there are many wonderful aspects of our new home that are better than our old.  These are the things that I intend to bring home with me.  It is clear to me now however, that I come from a rich and diverse heritage that is bred of stength and honor.  A place where individuality and self reliance are not dead, but alive and well in the heart of those that remain faithful.

I could write a disertation on the finer points of the day, but the bottom line is that each culture has it's own brilliance, but ours shines a bit brighter still.  The things that I cherish most about myself and certainly about my children are those things that are typically American and are simply not tolerated in our new home.  I am loud and expressive, self confident and individualistic.  A lone voice in the night that can be heard screaming the truth.  That is my right.  That is my America.  I am not one of the whole, the group does not speak my mind and I am free to choose. I am not forced to know what I know or believe what I believe.  Don't get me wrong, there are aspects of the group centered model that are very appealing and work very well.

As American's we fear that which we do not understand and we are quick to try and label and classify our world.  The very term "Socialism" sends shivers down most of our backs, but there are concepts here that we as American's should take note of, because our way of life is indeed broken.  It is a way of life that is worth saving.  It is worth fixing.  It is something to be proud of.  The French system is not "Socialism", however there are very grand social aspects to it that we should learn to embrace not fear.  They have it right to some degree, but believe me when I tell you that they too have much to learn from us . . . our tolerance, our self-reliance, our respect for self expression, the very hallmarks of our American way of life.

Alas I will leave you with words that are not my own, but I think they speak my mind on this my 39th day: 

" . . . I'm the enemy, 'cause I like to think, I like to read. I'm into freedom of speech, and freedom of choice. I'm the kinda guy that likes to sit in a greasy spoon and wonder, "Gee, should I have the T-bone steak or the jumbo rack of barbecue ribs with the side-order of gravy fries?" I want high cholesterol! I wanna eat bacon, and butter, and buckets of cheese, okay?! I wanna smoke a Cuban cigar the size of Cincinnati in the non-smoking section! I wanna run naked through the street, with green Jell-O all over my body, reading Playboy magazine. Why? Because I suddenly may feel the need to, okay, pal?"

So, go out tonight in your big ass SUV and have a steak on me.  You're ruining our way of life and keeping it alive all in one fell swoop.  God bless the USA!

Day 38

How many lawyers does it take to screw in a light bulb . . . adventures in grocery shopping and moderate electrocution.

The day was relatively sedate.  The usual back and forth to the school house and the occasional wave of a paint brush here or there.  Since we had failed at our shopping adventure on Sunday, it was time to hit the market in an effort to replenish our supplies.  First to Pickards.  You see, the French have started to succomb to the western pace of life and as such, frozen foods have become a necessity.  The problem however, is that the culture is quite foodie and they take their chow seriously.  The quality must be up to standard.  That's where Pickard's comes in.  A frozen food store where they sell  nothing but more elaborate looking frozen fare and maintain a very limited supply.  It is very popular and probably a huge statement regarding the westernization of the culture.  The food is actually quite good and we have stocked our tiny freezer to the brim.

After Pickards, we hit the neighboring Simply for the remainder of our supplies.  Nothing major to report other than the Purdue jacket my wife was wearing garnered a coffee invitation from a gal from West Lafayette.  Small world.  Once back at the homestead, it was time to put away groceries and replace the burned out lightbulb in the utility room.  Removing the lightbulb was a snap, unfortunately, replacing it would be a shocking experience.  The lightbulb was of a variety that I had never seen.  It was a two pole affair that requires the removal of part of the light socket to replace.  Not knowing much about this system and handling this procedure, for the most part, in an entirely dark room proved to be a recipe for disaster.  When the human hand crosses both poles and the 220 begins to pour through your veins, there is a moment of great clarity.  A clarity that only a glimpse of the afterlife can provide.  Time stood still even though my convulsing body did not.  Nearly soiling my last pair of underpants, I managed to remove my now aching hand from the light socket when the breaker finally blew.  Fortunately I do not have much hair left on the top of my skull, or I would have certainly given Don King a run for his money.  Now walking with a limp on a burnt flip flop and a peering through a squinky eye on one side, I have a healthier respect for changing a simple light bulb.

I knew that life in France would leave a lasting mark on me, I just didn't think it would be in the form of a semi-permanent physical disability.  At least when I get back to the States I will qualify for the really choice parking spots.  I only wish the price of admission didn't involve drooling out of one side of my mouth.  That is all I have for now and it is time for my pain medications. 

Day 37

Three Americans and an Ethiopian walk into a bar . . .

The morning began as every Sunday has since we have been here . . . leisurely.  We did put a bit more spring in our step than usual as we were hungry and our cupboards were bare.  There is a familiarity to this scene, isn't there?  We knew that shops close early on a Sunday if they are open at all, so we hustled our way out of the house and down a block to our local grocery.  Closed.  The joke was on us as we had just missed the operational hours by mere moments.  Damned you daylight savings time.  Fortunately, we were there early enough for a treat.  We WERE able to catch just the last few moments of the farmer's market.  Meats, Veggies and Textiles all sold under unmbrellla for a very reasonable price.  With a bit of produce in our shopping bags, we headed back for the house.  Oh, and just so you know . . . a kilo of cherry tomatoes is an absolute ass load.  Note for next time . . . ask for 1/2 kilo.

The remainder of the day unwound like Sunday's always do here . . . slowly.  We stayed around the house to tidy up a bit and make sure that laundry was done for the coming week.  I would have been quite content to stay in for the remainder of the day, however, we had dinner plans in a neighboring village.  My wife has some colleagues in town and we agreed to take them out for the evening.  Dinner was to be at one of the few open establishments on a Sunday evening in the little town know for its wine trade.  The town is a charmer.  A tremendous gothic church tower overlooks the quaint little burg, from which you can see most of the countryside.  If you were to paint yourself a romantic scene of a small French town in wine country, this would be it.  Narrow cobbled roads with small shops filled to the brim with wine bottles.  It is definitely a place that I will be returning when things are a bit more lively.  The town was sleepy.  Quiet exept for the song from a distant bird or two and the hourly chime from the ancient bell tower.

The food was favorable and the company was ingriguing.  Our guests . . . an American gal with a penchant for storm chasing and a wicked peanut allergy, and a very pleasant Ethiopian gentleman tranplanted in the US by way of Holland.  After a bottle of local red and a nice desert it was time to call it an evening.  I don't know that I can speak for everyone else at the table, but I had a wonderful evening and look forward to continuing these type of outings in the near future.  After dropping our guests at their chateau, it was time to get back to our home and relieve the babysitter.  All had gone well with the boys for the evening.  A relief, but not a surprise.  They were left in quite capable hands . . . thanks Oscar!

And so the week will begin anew once again.  I will be back to the daily schedule of juvenile taxi service and keeper of the house as we look forward to the next adventure on the horizon.  Stay tuned.

Day 36

Metrosexuality and a Reminder of Home

The combination of two very busy days and the loss of an hour on the clock has us two days behind.  So, again we will have to work diligently to get you caught back up to speed.  I apologize for the delay in these postings, however, having burned the candle at both ends for the past two days, I needed a little R&R.

Saturday was to be our day of commerce.  The boys needed new shoes so it was off to a couple of local shoe shops to see what we could find.  I had an agenda of my own . . . new underpants.  After we had previewed a few of the shoe sellers, I decided to venture into a neighboring clothing retailer where the promise of new underpants seemed . . . . well, promising.  Unfortunately, all that could be found was quite a row full of very brightly colored and heavily patterned man panties.  Now, I have a very good friend back home that argues that I am but a single chromosome from actually being a chick, but even I couldn't pull the trigger on a pair of sateen man panties.  The choice at this point would seem to be the man panty or nothing at all.  I am not a big fan of going commando . . . the boys need a home if you know what I mean.  I suppose I will eventually break down and purchase some pink man panties, but this would not be the day, so we returned our focus to shoes.

Perhaps proving my friend's earlier point, I did find two very nice pairs of moderately heterosexual shoes to purchase for myself.  Daddy likes a new pair of shoes.  The boys had mixed success.  The youngest was easy to please and we found two very stylish pairs of "Block Boy" shoes that he was willing to trade his mud boots for.  The eldest however, being much more fashion conscious than his younger sibling, was difficult to please.  The brands were foreign and the style was not quite to his liking.  My eldest has always trended to the urban skate scene in his choice of apparel, so he had his eye out for a nice pair of DC's.  Unfortunately, we couldn't locate a single pair on our outing.  Many of the brands are foreign, but there are many familiar faces out there as the American style of apparel is not lost on the youngsters here.  DC and Nike are just a couple of the typically American brands that can be found, so we knew there would be something out there for him, we just had yet to locate the correct retailer.  With the morning rolling away with the rise of the noon day son, it was time to conclude our time at the commercial center and head back home.  The eldest's shoes would have to wait for another day.

While we are on the subject of fashion, it is interesting to note that many typically American brands are quite the status symbol here.  Most notably, Levi Straus has a foot hold here that elevates it relatively humble US sales in recent years to rock star status among area retailers.  And they cost a fortune here as well.  If we are envied for anything, it is our access to Levi jeans at a cheap price.  The same can be said for Lee and Wrangler.  They are also very expensive here and seem to be very popular as well.  Everyone says we should buy them in the states as they are cheaper, but something is lost in translation that we can't seem to clear up for them.  The truth of the matter is, the brands are the same, but the jeans are not.  The cut and styling of the Wranglers, Lees and Levis here are much different than that which you find in the states.  These are fashionable brands here and workhorse brands back home.  Wranglers have a designer look and fit and the only similarity to their American counterpart is the familiar "W" stitch on the ass cheek.  I may look into a pair since it appears that here, unlike in America, you don't have to be a rough stock rider to legitimately pull this look off.  After a day of shopping, it is clear that our wardrobes need some help.  We will keep you posted as we begin to blend in a bit more so to speak.

This would be the evening that we would make good on our promise of a trip to the Carnaval.  After an early dinner we loaded the boys up and headed for the city center.  The weather had been predicted to take a turn for the worse by the end of the weekend and it appeared that we were going to get an early preview.  About half way from our parking garage to the public square where the Carnival is held, the rain began to fall.  Fortunately we reached an awning at a food stand before the rain started in earnest.  I could see the disappointment in the eldests face, so I was not about to call it quits because of a little rain.  Fortunately, we didn't have to.  As if by divine intervention, the clouds quickly parted and the short rain show subsided.  In fact, the weather for the remainder of the evening was glorious.  We sampled all that the Carni had to offer.  After Mom and I were certain that our pocket books could take no more abuse, we decided to head back for home.  One the way, we decided to stop at on of the food vendors for quick bite to eat.  Food in hand we settled into a plastic table and chairs at the outskirts of the fairgrounds.  Usually our chatter in Americanese brings scorn and wry looks from the locals, but this evening it brought about a welcome voice.  From the table next to ours, a voice inquired . . . "where are you from".  The accent quite familiar.  Californian to be exact.  A conversation ensued.  Our neighbors were a nice pair of folks . . . one from the US and one from the UK.  After a pleasant hour or so discussing culture and politics, we bid them a farewell and headed back to the house feeling somewhat less homesick than we had at the beginning of this day.

With spirits relatively high for such a late hour, we made it home and put ourselves to bed.

Day 35

Unemployment.

I have decided to quit my job.  The pay is terrible and the fringe benefits suck.  Raising these two young men is a daily gut check that I could frankly do without.  When my wife got home this evening and I damned near slapped her in the mouth for cheating on me.  There is just absolutely no way these two little bastards are mine.  I think I referred to them as retarded gangbangers awhile back and I have decided that I would like to retract that comment.  These two make retarded gangbangers look like class president and valedictorian material.  I love them both and would give my life for theirs, but there are days that I wonder if my wife was taking massive doses of meth when she was pregnant with them.  These two crack babies can't concentrate long enough to form complete sentences anymore.  Apprentice human beings, that's what they are.

With the rugged 206 glued back together again, I hit the streets this morning for one final school run for the week.  The youngest decided to make this morning a little extra lively by throwing a tantrum at the door to his classroom.  It was a real Oscar winning performance.  Next to the wet noodle, his favorite ploy is to flail his legs around until his mud boots come flying off of his feet.  On several occassions, I have narrowly avoided brain damage from a Wellie to the head.  My personal favorite is the "lay down on the ground and refuse to get back up" technique.  This usually occurs in the most inappropriate location you can think of . . . like a busy street full of motorists or the public bathroom floor at a 24 hour truck stop.  These are all ancient practices that have been passed down from one generation to the next.  My youngest is a Shaolin Master of these techniques and will gladly train any willing student.  Some of the bodily contortions require a degree of precision that you only find in a fine swiss timepiece.

Fortunately, the long week is over and I can put this all behind me to focus on the weekend ahead.  That being said, I am going to keep this short and sweet tonight so I can go to bed and lick my emotional wounds.  On a side note, a secondary inventory was taken of our personal belongings and it appears that we are missing my youngest's scooter and a box of baby wipes.  If they wash up on shore, would you be so kind as to pick them up and send them to me via air mail?  I have a hunch that pirates might have gotten my bounty.  I would like to think that somewhere in the world is a pirate astride a buzz lightyear scooter with a really clean ass.  Since I can no longer hold my eyelids ajar, I am heading for bed.  Take care and godspeed.

Day 34

Raising Red Coats.

Pita and Pole.  This is what my youngest kept saying to me in a sing song rhyme.  Over and over . . . Pita and Pole.  What in the sam hell is Pita and Pole I asked.  He wasn't going to give up the secret that easily.  Pita and Pole.  I was bothered by this riddle for most of the day today.  Then it hit me . . . Peter and Paul.  The children's curriculum is split into two parts.  One part English and one part French.  The interesting part is that my children are starting to speak their native tongue with a VERY English accent.  This is because the English teachers are from the UK and thus much of what they learn is not American English.  Aeroplanes and PREpositions.  I am clearly raising two children with a major identity crisis.  The youngest seems to particularly suseptible to the accent.  As if children in the US won't think they are weird enough upon their return, the heavy Brit lingo should do the trick.

The chow at the school cantine is still marshing my eldest's mellow.  Part of today's fare was couscous.  He called them tiny white balls and it took some interrogation to discover the identity of the dish.  He was less than impressed.  To make up for the rough culinary experience, we sprung from some pizza this evening.  Mind you, this is the first time we have been able to have any type of food delivered to the house in quite some time.  In fact, I can tell you for certain it has been over 6 years.  The novelty of this has yet to wear off and the intrigue is only heightened by the fact that our pizza was delivered via scooter that was parked heading the wrong way up our one way street.  I have seen these guys around town on a regular occassion and I have to say that the daring with which they ride their two wheeled hotrods is truly terrifying to watch.  The Pizza was from a place called La Boite a Pizza (literally translated as THE PIZZA BOX).  Their slogan is "goutez la difference" (taste the difference).  It was quite nice and not at all foreign.  Just what the doctor ordered for my 8 year old's tired digestive tract.

My day was fairly uneventful.  I spent a fair amount of time slathering a shit ton (that's 2000 shit pounds for you math geeks out there) of French Sherwin Williams on our walls in an effort to renovate this dump.  It is going well, but like all projects done in fits and starts, it is taking a bit longer than anticipated.  Still have a lot of edging to do and that project is time consuming without the aid of a good sash brush.  That being said, I should have it all buttoned up by the weekend . . . I HOPE.  The weekend promises to be another adventure.  I have been doing my best to maintain the functionality of my current wardrobe, however, my pants now hang on me like rags on a cadaver.  It is definitely time for some new apparel, but I am trying to hold out for warm weather gear.  I haven't a clue what they wear for summer and hope to god they aren't booty shorts to match the prevalent man purse.  What I do know is that it is time for new socks and underpants and this is something that can wait no longer.  We already have to hit the commercial center for some new shoes for the boys over the weekend, so I should be able to replenish my supplies at that time.

I do have some concerns about the undergarments.  Knowing that the need would soon arise, I have kept my eye on the men's counter at any department type store we have visited over the past couple of weeks and I am somewhat alarmed at the man panties that seem to be the only choice for testicle retention here in our new home.  If I have to start wearing man panties and booty shorts, I am going to go ahead and go all in on the man purse.  Maybe while I am at it, I can start shaving my legs and have my breasts augmented.  I will let you know how my trans-gendering is going after the weekend.  We have a dinner engagement on Sunday and if I have to spend it pulling string underpants out from between my hairy cheeks I am not going to be a happy camper.  The dinner engagement is to take place in a neighboring village.  It is reported to be a very quaint area known largely for their wine.  I have sampled from one of the vinyards of this area and it was excellent.  This will be the wife and I's first adventure out without the boys in tow.  We are overdue for some adult time.  Finding a babysitter promises to be a bit of a challenge, but we already have a couple of very reasonable options that should work nicely.

I am sad to report that my second hand 206 is starting to show some wear.  Back home, black rims are all the rage and are quite popular here as well.  The difference is that the black rims here used to be covered by hub caps.  This is something that I hadn't understood till now.  I couldn't figure out if there was a big fencing operation for stolen hubcaps in the city or this was just a fashion trend pulled off in an economical manner.  The truth, as I have discovered, is that it is neither.  Now having nearly disentigrated all the hub caps on my deuce ot six, I realize it is just simply a casualty of war.  A byproduct of city driving and parralel parking on very narrow side streets.  I am fairly adept at parrellel parking, but even I have nearly blown off a hub cap or two in my attempts to rush my shuttle into a waiting parking spot with horns blaring from the rear.  It certainly adds some pressure when you are blocking a line of impatient morning commuters.  I have already decided that if one goes, they all go.  I suspect that soon enough I too will be sporting black rims on my trusty 206.  The commute this morning was particularly rough as I had left the house a little later than usual and had to make up for lost time.  When it rains it pours, and on this morning's frantic commute, I ran into several blocked corridors which meant several daring passes against traffic down bumpy one lane roads.  Doing my best rally car driving, I made it to the school house on time, but my petite Peugeot paid the price.  It seems all the jostling about knocked the license plate lamp from its home.  A little super glue should do the trick.

If my hatchback isn't held together with duct tape and gorilla glue after our tenure here is complete I may well try to ship her home.  Even with blown shocks and a slipping trans, it is still a gas to drive.  I can only imagine the fun we could have on the back country lanes of rural Kansas.  The lust for a new bicycle is now unbearable and soon enough I should have an alternative mode of transportation that will save some wear on my beloved 206.  That is about all I have time I have for tonight.  The language barrier has become too much to handle, so I must spend some more quality time with the Rosetta Stone.  Good bye for now.

Day 33

The many loves of Juan Julio.

Today was a very busy day for old Jack Butler.  The house is unpacked and we are back to home improvement land.  Continuing efforts to slather on a fresh coat of paint over Madam Chabou's filth is proving to be a never ending task.  The weather of the past two days has been marvelous.  Crisp mornings with very mild and very sunny afternoons.  Today was so nice in fact, that I layed my paint brush aside in favor of a bit of gardening.  As with everything else here, Madam Chabou left her mark in the garden.  There was a ton of crap left behind that found itself a new home in her broken down shed.  I have now done enough work on the yard that I am starting to see the potential and the many soon-to-be pool side afternoons ahead.  One of the larger tasks of the afternoon was in fact a tour of duty as pool boy . . . just call me Juan Julio.  Doing my best Antonio Banderas I went about my business as if all the neighbor ladies were watching me in awe and wonder.  With the pool now clean and garden relatively sorted, it is time to start on the garage.  Wish me luck.  Right now, there ain't no way a car is fitting in there.  Even my pint sized 206 can't be wedged in that mess.  If I can accomplish that task and get the painting finished, we can finally breath a sigh of relief and start really enjoying our time here.

I think it is a good time to let you know about some of my favorite things now that we have been here for a month or so.  I already told you all about the cheese, but there are a number of other culinary wonders here that deserve a nod or two.  First is the bread.  Fresh baked every morn and a staple of every French citizen's diet.  The varieties are too many to count and I am doing my best to research them to understand the differences.  Today we have baguette epi and serventine.  The flavors are very similar, the serventine a bit wheatier (if that is a word).  Both are heavily floured which I prefer and I suspect that the type may have more to do with the way it is braided than the ingredient list.  I will let you know as I learn more.  The epi is very nice and is braided in such a way as it is easily torn for a snack on the go.  I like that very much as I don't like to rely on having to pull out our bargain basement bread knife.  If I come away from this land with no other souveniers, I do hope to acquire a nice bicycle, a nice wine set and a good set of knives for bread and cheese.  These things are staples of life here and things that will always remind me of our time in France.

Despite our 6 very large jugs of peanut butter that we shipped over, we have learned to have a jar of Nutella on hand just in case.  There is a very nice sliced bread (brioche) made with egg that is quite sweet and a killer snack with a liberal layer of Nutella on top.  It is a little like pound cake with chocolate frosting.  Likely very unhealthy, but it tastes great.  The kids are also very fond of the apple juice.  More of a cider here than juice.  It is super rich compared to its American cousin as most things seem to be.  The coffee is like crude oil and the gasoline is an atomic mix that doesn't smell anything like what we put in our SUV's back home.  I suspect it is something like jet fuel as there are times that I am certain the 206 is about to take flight.

Another more recent favorite of mine is channel 789 on our newly programmed satellite television.  It is adult channel, of course, and features very homely german women doing their best to look something more than dreadful in their old faded grandma underpants.  It is some really funny stuff.  I think its is some sort of a phone in program as they seem to be taking callers, but it is all in German, so they could be swapping recipes for all I know.  If I come up with a good recipe for bratwurst I will let you know.  These are just a few of the things that I have found entertaining and will continue to update you on all the new and exciting experiences in the months to come.  My next goal is to become more familiar with the wine industry here and it appears I will get my first opportunity this weekend.  More to follow.

Day 32

Hot Dogs and Chewing Tobacco.

Well, what can I say . . . the apple didn't fall too far from the damned tree.  My young son is not the only addict in the family.  See, I have a nasty little addiction of my own.  A monkey on my back that I just can't seem to shake . . . untill now.  My little simian friend goes by the name of Nicotine.  My preferred method of consumption?  Smokeless.  Always there in a pinch so to speak.  Clearly not a safe alternative to smoking, or at least so sayeth the packaging and certainly a way to fast track yourself into early tooth loss.  Nothing says sexy like a guy missing his fronts.  So, the fact that they don't have such a creature here in France was certainly an issue of much contention and ultimately another great reason for making the move.  If I am not strong enough of will to quit on my own, perhaps moving to a desert isle where the supply is non-existant will do the trick.  I emptied my last can this morning and have regreted it ever since.  All that is on my mind now is sending up a flair for a rescue party to come and find my withering body.

Once the body becomes accustomed to a substance, it REALLY doesn't like you denying it access to that item.  My irritability was only heightened by the fact that I had many administrative tasks to tend to.  I am not big on paperwork and sitting at a desk making phone calls.  I have done that for far too many years in my life and returning to it in even a limited fashion makes me sick to my stomach . . . or is that the lack of nicotine again . . . hard to tell at this point.  One of the calls on the list was to my new wireless carrier.  As I may have already mentioned, all communications services can be bundled up into one nice little package that would on its surface seem to be as easy as pie.  Not so much.  The sattelite television is still not receiving the channels we requested and the only computer capable of connecting to our network is mine.  Not such a good deal as my wife is ALWAYS working and the only way we see her at all is that she can access her work from home.  It was time to get things straightened out even if it took all afternoon on hold.  And of course, IT WOULD.

We had been fortunate enough to luck into the number for the English speaking help line at our mobile carrier.  The best part is that this experience differs not from what you would experience back home.  The individual on the other end does in fact speak the English, however, it has a remarkably middle eastern accent.  I believe the gentleman's name was "Shawn", or at least that was the next name on his list.  He didn't sound like any Shawn I had ever known, but I was not going to start some holy war here, I just need internet access.  Well, it seems old Shawn couldn't help because the question I asked him was not on the script they provided him at his first day on the job.  Shawn said "hold d fone pease" and I was immediately wisked through their phone system, right into the French call center.  After a confused Bon Jour . . Hello?  Hello?  Bon Jour exchange, Pierre (I am guessing at his name since we didn't get to introductions) hung up on my ass.  This song and dance went on three more times before I decided that it would be best if I just sent all of my correspondence through carrier pigeon.  I am sure that Shawn and Pierre are having a good laugh about this as we speak . . . Pricks.

On to my next project.  French lessons.  Ah yes, time to jump on that educational chuck wagon and get er done.  Yet another uncomfortable exchange that went absolutely nowhere.  The woman at the school could BARELY speak the English and I didn't quite catch her name, but I had the sneaking suspicion it was Shawn again doing his best falsetto.  Prick.  The only thing that I was certain of from this exchange was that I needed the lessons and that they did not have any beginner courses open at the moment.  Looks like I will be sticking with Rosetta Stone after all.  Now on the edge of complete emotional fatigue and doing my best to cope with the Nicotine withdrawl that was starting to make my face twitch, it was time to do my usual run through the streets of Gotham to pick up my children.  So, I jumped in the old bat mobile and headed out.

Upon my return I was pleased to note that at least one thing had gone well today.  The movers made good on their word and came and picked up the cardboard mountain I had built at the front of our home.  With a few moments left in the working day, I thought I would spend the remainder of the afternoon trying to figure out the satellite system.  I went to every help forum on the net and still could not come up with the right answers.  With nerves frayed like the short end of an old shoe lace, I shut down the computer in just enough time to open the front door to greet my wife home from work.

Sometimes prayers are answered.  When my wife arrived home, I was informed that some of the gals from her office back in the States sent her a care package.  Contents:  Jolly Ranchers, ID badge holder, and a half roll of chewing tobacco in my flavor of choice.  Looks like my little primate is safe for now and I owe my wife's friends dearly for saving my rapidly declining mental health.  Since the boys had a late lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, it was decided to throw some fruit at them and head to the electronics emporium to see if we could get to the bottom of all of our technology issues.  We evidently asked the correct questions and were rewarded with some solutions.  The home phone now works, I am able to sign my wife on to our internet connection and I was able to upload a million sattelite channels with the flip of a switch.  Now, as always, there is some bad with the good.  First, the phone works for land line calls, but there seems to be a problem when calling some cellular phones.  Second is that my wife is able to get on the internet at home now, however, in order to do so she must enter a 7,234 digit pin number and then verify the same.  Finally, the satellite.  I am still not able to view the premium channels that I thought I paid for, but I was able to upload all the free channels within the reach of my dish.  The problem you ask?  I would say that a good 3/4 of those channels are German Porn.  Guten tag meine frau!  There is some scandanavian porn in there too, just to mix things up a bit.  This is probably not appropriate programming for my children, and if I hope to get anything at all done during the day we better get rid of these channels.

So, yet another fun filled day in the books.  I am now a day behind . . . and no, I didn't stay up all night watching porn instead of entering my blog from yesterday.  After dinner I will post once more so that you all can get caught back up to where I am now.  See you in a few.

Day 31

Karma . . . yeah, I know that bitch.

Ever have one of those days where everything you touch turns into a corn flavored poopcicle?  That pretty much sums up the entirety of my day.  Too much alone time with paintbrush in hand and my favorite playlist pouring through my earbuds has put me in a relatively melancholic state of mind.  In my wife's opinion, most of my musical taste leans toward the mournful.  I would argue "soulful", but I guess that is a matter of symantics.  The truth of the matter is, she is probably right.  There is a storm inside us all and mine usually rages just below the surface.  Somewhere just behind the humor lies the rage and sorrow that keep me balanced.  There is a truth to be found in the fact that, more often than not, the court jester cries himself to sleep.  Someone once called me a "son of a son of a bitch".  That probably sums it up.  Like my father before me, there is a fire in the pit of my tender belly.  One that will never go out and if left unchecked will burn out of control, consuming everything in its path.  I really should thank him for this gift.  It is my most cherished possession and unfortunately the cause for many of my sleepless nights.  It is the thing that keeps me moving forward.  It causes me to fight, even when fighting is futile.  It is that constant obsession with pushing against the immovable wall that makes one passionate  . . . and insane.

See, I told you I had too much alone time today.  If left to my own devices, I will ultimately self destruct.  One of the things that this change in my life has taught me is to let life wash over you.  Occasionally one has to stop fighting long enough to let the story unfold, because believe it or not, unfold it shall regardless of your efforts to try and stop it.  Whether you are fighting or not, it will unfold as it is meant to.  So, if I believe that life will unfold as it should, why do I spend so much of my time fighting?  Pushing back when it pushes at me.  The truth?  Because I can.  Defiance is what makes us great.  The right to choose to be as arbitrary as we want to be.  It is the decisions in life that make absolutely no sense on the surface that are the most facinating and lead to true inspiration.  So, do me this small favor.  Do something this week that makes no sense at all.  Do the unexpected.  When everything and everyone says go right and there is absolutely no reason for you to go left, for God's sake turn left.  When you get there, just let things unfold as they are meant to.  If you can do these two things you will know what it is to live here with me in France.

The days monotony and misfortunes had me seeking soulful distraction and allowed my mind to wander to a recent question which was this: "How do you feel at this moment about what it is to be living in France"  The above written sentiment is the best I can do to explain how I feel.  I turned left when everything in my life was leading me to the right and now I stay quiet and let this life I have chosen wash over me.  I wish you the same fortune, for I am truly the better for the experience.  I promise tomorrow's post will be at least moderately entertaining and I apologize for the downer at Day 31.  Take care.

Day 30

Little Pig, Little Pig, Let Me In . . .

Yet another adventure filled day in Madam Chabou's house of horrors.  Laundry proves to be the proverbial thorn in our sides.  Madam Chabou's washing machine has begun to make some interesting sounds.  Sort of starts as a low grumble.  A clap of thunder from an approaching thunderstorm.  The kind that would send chills up Dorothy's spine.  The grumble is followed by a screach and clank.  Then a resounding thud, followed by more screaching and clanking.  To stick with the Wizard of Oz theme, the whole scene is about like freeing the Tin Man from his rusty perch in the forest.  If you listen real close you can almost hear a muffled voice say "oil can".  Our first load of laundry ran in the washing machine for most of the day.  This wasn't by choice but by necessity as the washing machine would simply not let go of its never ending clutch on my laundry.  No matter how hard I pulled on the door, it would simply not open.  To add further insult to injury, the washing machine has a window so you can watch your laundry spin around.  I could see it, I just couldn't get to it.  I could see my underwear shedding tears as though it was certain it would never see me again.  After several hours of intense hostage negotiations, I finally coaxed the spinning devil to let some of the hostages go.  As with any police action, a price had to be paid in exchange for the release of the garments.  Apparently, the washing machine had heard our pleading for the safe release of our garments, but it was unfortunately in no position to grant our request as it was still quite full of water.  After ringing our our wash along the river bank as our frontier ancestors had in years gone by, it was time to bail water out of the machine itself.  Rather than passing a pail hand to hand in an assembly line fashion, I decided it would be best to see if we could let the machine sort out its own problems in therapy.  I turned the dial one last go round, slammed the door on an invisible load and walked away.

I haven't had the heart to go back and check on the washing machine ever since.  A tsunami of water has not burst forth into our kitchen, so I am going to assume that everything went according to plan.  With our laundry woes fresh in our hearts we decided it was time for a little distraction.  The children are still a little under the weather, so it was decided that the Carnival was out for the day.  A quick trip to the park would be enough to stretch their legs a bit and would certainly be easier on our wallets.  It was a sunny afternoon, and for the first time in a month of Sunday's, we had mom home and to ourselves.  We took full advantage and went for a long outdoor adventure that warmed everyone's hearts.  Everyone's . . . except "Benji's" of course.  He had been siting in the cold front seat of my 206 for the duration of the weekend.  Rejected and feeling unloved, I could see him peering at us from his curb side prison.  After sever minutes of debate and negotiation with my youngest, it was agreed that Benji could go with us to the park.  A tear rolled down Benji's face as I pulled him out of his little case and set him in the back seat of the Renault.  I could tell he was greatful for the gesture.

Unfortunately, the youngest was still not thrilled with his prize and ended up throwing Benji into the back hatch like yesterday's garbage.  The entire ride to the park, I could faintly hear Benji sobbing from the second round of rejection.  In an effort to save Benji's fragile emotional state, I stuffed his little teddy bear torso into my jacket pocket when we exited the vehicle.  He would infact have his day in the sun, even if my youngest offspring didn't want him along.  What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right?  Benji giggled in glee from the front pocket of my coat.  I had to quiet him down for fear his adversary would catch wind of the hijinx.  Eventually, conversation of poor old Benji got the best of the youngest of our crew and he agreed that he would pose for an occasional picture with our little stuffed buddy.  Gleefully Benji made friends with my son and the photographs are definitely going to make it into our scrap book of life here in France.  I will return the bruised and emotionally battered teddy bear to the school tommorow and perhaps his wounds will heal with the aide of one of the other children in my son's class.  And so ends our weekend with BENJI.  I only hope that my son does not have another good week at school, for I don't know if Benji's stuffed psyche can handle another weekend of rejection.

It will be back to the daily grind come morning, with the hope that next weekend will bring with it a bit more relaxation than this one had.  My wife and I will welcome the week with open arms as we are to begin our organized French classes.  Hopefully, the more intensive instruction will yield better results than our self guided attempts with Rosetta Stone.  My wife and I will not be in the same course.  She will have personal lessons and I will be in a group course with 9 other folks.  That should be an amusement park ride that you won't want to miss.  I will keep you posted as I make an ass of myself in this up an coming educational endeavor.  It appears that my classes will be more based upon cultural activities than my wife's.  It should provide for mountains of fodder for weeks to come.  The first painful moment in our new education, was that when they called to set up the classes, they left us a message in French.  If I could understand the freaking measage, I wouldn't be taking the classes to begin with now would I?  I don't think we are off on the right foot already.  Wish me luck.  Untill tomrrow . . .

Day 29

An afternoon at the Mall.

With the house nearly sorted, we discovered that there were some essentials that we needed for civilized existance, so we headed to the local shopping mall.  After filling our basket to the brim we were ready to head back home to put some finishing touches on our unpacking.  The most notable purchase was a nice pair of house slippers.  We have discovered that the courtesy of passing out house slippers to guests isn't a courtesy at all.  It is a necessity.  Most traditional style homes in the area are outfitted with either parque or stone floors.  The stone floors are FREEZING and extremely hard on the feet.  That being said, we quickly discovered that the house slipper is an essential part of life here in our new home.  In addition to the cold floors, the house has radiant heat.  For those of you familiar with this concept, you already know that it doesn't hold a candle to the central heating systems we have come to rely on back home.  The house remains relatively chilly.

I suppose what makes this a negative in the mild winters, makes it a huge plus in the warm weather months.  Particularly important as there is no air conditioning in our home.  In fact air conditioning is still quite a luxury option hear and you will still find new cars sold without it to this day.  The house is an absolute vault.  I have never been in a home so quiet.  The reason for this is that the construction here is all stone.  They do not have access to lumber as we do in the States and the concept of a timber built home is unthinkable.  Building practice aside, we have discovered our home to be quite lovely and really larger than we need.  Unpacking usually takes a few weeks and you end up living out of boxes for more than a month before it all becomes unbearable and you just decided that the last few boxes don't really need to be unpacked at all and either put them in storgage or throw their contents away.  You see, I have a theory that if you haven't used the item in the last three months, you don't in fact really need it and it is ready to be discarded with.  My wife doesn't share my sentiment and is usually quite offended when I throw one of her treasures in the waste basket.  You live and learn.  Nowadays, she is generally diligent about gathering the items she truly cares about to prevent their disposal.

With all of this being said, my anal retentive nature does not allow those remaining few boxes to stay unpacked and I am now sort of marveling at the fact that we have gotten all of our personal items unpacked and in a semi-permanent location inside of three days.  What we have left, however, is a shit load of cardboard boxes and packing paper.  The office in our new home is now on the verge of bursting forth in a mad explosion of paper products.  Our moving company has been kind enough to come and remove all the debris on Tuesday and I should then be able to get the last room organized and get back to painting.  I have turned into quite the scavenger in an effort not to spend any of my own money on someone else's home and at the same time live in a place that I am proud to claim as my residence.  This hasn't really been all that hard as it would appear that Madam Chabou was not that big of a fan of throwing anything away.  Plenty of old paint laying around to finish painting the entire inside of the home and a bit of gate paint to refurbish a little of the lacking curb appeal.

The boys have been on video game overload.  The spoiled nature of their existence makes their most difficult decision of their day whether to play the XBOX 360 or the Playstation 3.  Both in full hi-def of course.  The eldest is pleased that under his expert guidance, he has trained the three year old to have bionic thumbs and a video game addiction that may put his hotdog addiction to shame.  It is amazing to watch kids these days.  You have to be an octopus to operate these controllers and at age 3, my youngest is damned near better than I am at it.  The key is to spend the requisite amount of stick time so that you no longer get a headache from the manic screen movment and you become as deft a thumb as exploratory surgeon.  Tonight I would get my chance.

After a long day of shopping and house cleaning, we had promised to make good on our agreement to take the boys to the carnival.  Unfortunately, the youngests still frail physical condition made the parental decision easy.  We would be staying in for the evening.  So as to not break my eldests heart, I brokered a deal that he could stay up late with me and we would spend some quality time on the sofa, entranced by the flickering beast.  We would try and make an honest run at beating his latest game.  It took us some time to outlast the youngest and virtually no time to outlast an exhausted mother, but soon enough we were deep into the bowels of machine gun driven fury.  Eventually, my parental instinct took over and I ushered my eldest to his bed for the evening.  Turns out that the Siren song of the Playstation was initially too much for me to handle and when I came to, it was three in the morning and I knew then that mom would not be impressed with me allowing the eldest to stay up to this hour.  So much for father of the year honors.

Another day in the book.  Perhaps tomorrow we will finally make the Carnival and get to spend a little down time away from our home improvement hell.  Rest Well.

Day 28

Descending through the 7th circle of electronics hell with a chest cold and a bear named "Benji".

I am overly excited to report that the last of the boxes have been emptied and we are "officially" moved in.  Things are still in quite a state of ill repair, but the worst seems to be behind us now.  We were even fortunate enough to wake this morning to a functioning television set that appeared to have satellite reception.  This day had promise.  In the end however, the ongoing battle I am having with French technology is beginning to swing in favor of the French.  First of all, I believe the home phone system is working, but I haven't a damned clue how to make a long distance phone call.  The procedure involves the "plus" symbol, but I can't seem to make my piece of shit German phone enter that character.  So for now, don't expect a call.  At least not in any case other than an emergency, so if you see my number on the caller ID, answer for god's sake cause it means I need immediate assistance.

Second, as a celebration of the completion of the unpacking, I settled onto my sofa late this evening to check out the premium satellite package I had purchased a few weeks ago.  It sucks.  None of the channels that I was supposed to be paying for even appear on the channel guide.  It isn't like I have a lot of time for TV, so this wasn't a day ruiner, but it still was a disappointing turn of events none the less.  What few channels I do have, appear to be home shopping and public access.  Watched a knock of Man vs. Wild where the host carried hiking poles and ended up at a very quaint mountain cottage.  Something must have been lost in translation.  If this wasn't a survival show, then I just wasted a half hour of my life watching some guy take a nice long walk.

It was also a bright day at the school house.  The youngest was awarded a priviledge as a result of having a good week at school.  His priviledge was the opportunity to take home a bear that they call "Benji".  The assignment is simple.  Take Benji with you everywhere you go over the course of the weekend and photograph your child with the bear along with a written description of the weekend.  Apparently this is the kind of thing youngsters here really go for.  Unfortunately, my son did not see the honor in the gift and would not accept it.  Upon my afternoon arrival at the school, the project was explained and it was conveyed that my son didn't seem to understand that this was a prize and didn't want the bear.

You see, my youngest son has a general hatred for all stuffed woodland creatures.  He was given a bear once on a trip to the emergency room back in the States and we hadn't made it a block from the hospital when he felt it necessary to roll down the window and chuck the bear from our moving vehicle.  I believe this is the fate that he intends for good ole Benji.  One our way back to my parked car, my son insisted that he did not want the bear and that I was to return it to the school.  In fact, he was quite insistant that the bear not even ride in the car with us.  Once if was evident that I would not be returning the bear to the school, he changed his tactic and demanded that it be thrown in the trash immediately upon our arrival at the house.  Neither of his requests were granted, but I did throw him a bone and left poor old Benji in the 206 for the  night.  We will see if we can coax him to accept Benji and complete his assignment.

If my wife hadn't broken my favorite camera, I am quite certain I could have caught a nice action shot of my son sailing Benji out of the car and onto the motorway with hundreds of cars trampling over his little stuffed head.  We could have called it Skydiving with Benji.  I wonder now if he is lonely there in my front seat.  I wonder if his feelings are hurt that my son will not love on him the way that so many other youngsters already have.  Benji is a bit . . . well . . . dingy for lack of a better word.  He is heavily encrusted with all manner of boogers and child slobber.  I believe that Benji may be a distant relative of Typhoid Mary.  So, in the end, it is probably just as well my son has absolutely no interest in Benji as I am not sure his weakened immune system could take another hit this soon.

Oh, I almost forgot . . . another piece of bright news.  I had shipped our PS3 to France with a promise to my eldest son that it would work.  To be honest, I didn't have the slightest clue at the time whether it would or not.  There are some very complicated flow charts and mathmatical equations that I could show you to explain why it potentially wouldn't work here as it had in the states.  This is much more complicated than a simple matter of voltage.  The amperage and the country coding of the games are just a couple of the, what seem to be endless, factors that could relate the the improper functioning of the American spec electronic device.  Fortunately, with the help of our power converters, the system seems to function just fine.  I had done quite a bit of studying on this issue before we left the US and was able to decode enough information to come to the conculusion that so long as you don't try to play a French game in the American machine or vice versa, it should function properly.  I also found out that there are some televisions here that are programed to follow both the French and the American broadcasting standards.  This all means that it may be possible to take our new television with us when we return to the US.

I am so dog ass tired that I am having trouble staying awake, so I am going to call it a night and will speak with you again tomorrow.

Day 27

I am pleased to say that we are  now back up to date.  This will conclude TODAY'S events and I am pleased to say that it will be posted in the usual manner as we are now back on the information super highway.  The phone technician came by and had us up and running in no time.  I had sent my wife off to work and dropped the kids at school in just enough time to meet the man from the telephone company.  He was a very nice young man who went about his business in a very quiet fashion.  With few words spoken, he checked to be sure we were online and then made a quick and quiet exit.

Now it was my understanding that once the phone situation had been resolved, the satellite television would be operational.  I can report that it is now 12:35 in the morning and the satellite is still not operational.  I can only presume that this will require yet another technician to come by the house to sort this out.  After my visit with the phone company, I returned to my work.  As boxes become emptied and items find new homes, what was once Madam Chabou's house is starting to feel like my own.  I believe that by tomorrow evening, all boxes will be disposed of and I can return my attention to the remaining painting that still needs to be finished.

The best part of any move is when the house you are in starts feeling more like your own than that of the prior occupant.  For me, the biggest part of that is olfactory.  I still get a hint or two of Ristine's presence, but it is already starting to smell like home.  I suppose now is as good a time as any to describe some of the oddities, both good and bad, of our new domicile.  The first I have already mentioned.  Having to lock and unlock all the doors with a key from the inside is frankly a pain in the ass.  It takes half an hour or better to make sure this place is secure at night.  There are 7 doors leading to the outside of the home and each has a different key.  The front door actually has two keys.  Anyone who has been in my home back in the States knows that securing several exit doors is a part of my nightime routine, but this is getting rediculous.  In addition, since we only have one set of keys, it will likely take a big chunk of my children's college fund to generate a second set.

The second feature of the home that we have yet to conquer is the stove.  It is a touch screen affair that doesn't seem to work at all.  Apparently, after some further inquiry, we discovered that it is infact and induction stove that requires a special pot.  None of which we have.  Great.  Looks like we will be hitting the ole Auchan for another shopping spree after all.  A third feature is the naked light bulb.  What I mean by this is, that most homes in the area are not equiped with light fixtures.  It is apparently quite traditional to simply have a wire hangin out of the wall with a lightbulb at the end.  That pretty much describes all of our lighting with the exception of the chandelier in the living room that we got second hand from Madam Chabou upon her exodus.  There are a couple of rooms that don't have any fixture at all.  I am going to have to see what I can do about that.

Another interesting feature is the washer and dryer.  No ventilation, so you must empty the condensation resevoir at least twice during the drying process.  All appliances in general are quite small, which continues to keep us tied to our daily shopping routine.  Finally and perhaps the most troubling is the separation of the toillete from the bathroom.  The toilette is not just in a separate closet, but usually down the hall from the bathroom.  It makes washing one's hands awefully inconvenient after using the head.  Other than these small annoyances, things seem to be coming together fairly smoothly and my hope is that we will be back to some level of normalcy by the weekend.  After a bit of paint and wallpaper, I should be able to shift my attention to the garden.  There are a few items of Madame Chabou's left both in and out of the house that I intend to put in her storage building so that we may finally call this our own.

That is really all for now.  I am going to try to get a better night's sleep this evening as the youngest saw fit to pass on his plague to his pappa.  Cough cough, sniffle sniffle.

Day 26

Life is Good

It was indeed to be an early morning.  With every electronic gadget in the place going haywire, I quickly reboxed our shelled LCD and sent it with my wife back to the electronics store to see if we could get it replaced and back in enough time to meet with the cable technician.  We decided it best to divide our forces for the day.  I would stay behind to continue the heavy lifting while my wife exchanged said television set.  It wasn't long before I recieved word from my better half.  They had hooked up the television and confirmed the obvious.  It was broken.  No shit.  Small problem, they didn't have any more of this model in stock and we would have to pick a different model.  We decided to throw a couple of extra euros at the project and increased our screen size by a couple of inches.  An LG LCD would be the next runner up and was soon to be on it's way back home.

Without internet, my wife needed to make a pitstop at the local McDonalds to use their WiFi to conduct a bit of business for the day.  Not surprisingly, the cable technician appeared long before my wife returned with the new boob tube.  No biggie, as he had plenty of wiring to tend to and a new dish to install.  He was a very nice gentleman with no working knowledge of the English language and you all aready know about my limited French vocabulary.  I have become quite use to using hand gestures to sort things out and soon he was going about his job.  I had to take a moment to check out his vehicle as I was certain he was in fact a plumber rather than a cable technician.  Can you see where I am going with this?  I spent more time face to face with his hairy hindquarters than I care to admit.  Nice guy, but the pants needed a belt.

Soon my wife returned with the new television and joined in the fun.  She too noted the prominent display of his ass crack and asked if I had noticed as if I had gone to Paris and didn't notice the Eiffel Tower.  After the giggling subsided, we soon found out that the lack of an internet connection would not allow for the full install of the Satalite television system.  Bummer.  After some uncomfortable calls to our telecommunications company, my wife was finally able to obtain the phone number for the English speaking folks and handed the project off to me.  The gentleman on the other end ran through the traditional diagnostics and it was determined that a phone technician would have to come to our residence the following day to sort out our problem.  Another day without connectivity.  It was just as well as there was still plenty of unpacking to tend to.

By now, all bedrooms had been assembled and boxes were being opened and contents removed.  The place looked like a bomb went off and there was paper shrapnel everywhere.  The guys in the US did not spare any tree in the packing of our items.  In the end it has paid off as there was only one casualty . . . a broken wine glass.  The volume of packing paper and empty boxes was beginning to pile up at a prodigious rate.  If I never see another piece of packing paper in my life, it will be much too soon.  After another long afternoon of unpacking, we finally laid our weary heads to rest and prepared for another day.  The wife would return to work in the morning and I would be on my own to finish the unpacking.

Day 25

Moving Day.

There is an old movie out there that I am not sure you have ever seen.  A Richard Pryor film about the perils a man faced when he hired a moving company to help relocate his family from one city to another.  This film has weighed heavy on my mind since the good folks from our moving company showed up to pack us up for our trip overseas.  Horrors of broken dishes and soiled garments were constantly churning through my head.  Fortunately, the guys in the States were pros.  Packed everything securely and itemized the cargo right down to every last spoon and fork.  It was truly and orchestrated sight to behold.  Their French counterparts however, were  . . . well . . . fragrant.  Let’s go with that.  The old saying “one of these things is not like the other” kept playing over and over in a sing song harmony inside my head as the crew rolled up in front of our new home.

I don’t want this to come off sounding like they weren’t fine fellows or anything like that, this was just going to be a different experience than the one we had at home.  That’s OK though, because that is what I have come to love about our new home.  A vast departure from the expected.  They pulled their Mercedes delivery vehicle up front in a mad his of air breaks and a plume of diesel smoke.  On back, our shipping container.  Battered and bruised.  Assaulted by everything that Poseidon himself could throw at it.  Inside, I prayed, all my belongings rested safely in their well packed boxes.  At least for now anyway.  We encountered our first obstacle of the day almost the moment they arrived.  We live on a very narrow one way corridor with limited parking.  We had cleared our vehicles, but apparently this would still not allow for the unloading of the container.  There was a car even with our drive that needed to be moved.  The movers inquired with our neighbor and after a fair amount of discourse, we discovered that the car in question was in fact Madam Chabou’s that she had left behind.  The neighbor had already phoned her but she could not be reached.

Undetered from their mission, four of our relatively thin framed movers approached the vehicle.  Much to our horror and delight, the four simply picked up the car and moved it two spaces forward.  Until now I had only joked about this possible parking procedure for my 206.  I now know it can be done, for Madam Chabou’s vehicle is a little Fiat approximately the same size as my Peugeot.  With mouths agape, my wife and I looked on.  Note to self, have movers return the car to its original position when they are done.

I already knew that this would be a different experience than the one we had in the State because we had been informed that what took two days to pack in the US was only going to take 3 hours to “unpack”.  Perhaps the language barrier is to blame, but I think what they meant was it would take 3 hours to unload the boxes into our home between smoke breaks and what I can only imagine were pointed jabs at the Gringos.  Sorry, went with Spanish there as I don’t know what the French version of “Gringo” is.  The men were very nice and courteous and in fact offered to put by bed together for me, however, after a pack or two of unfiltered cigarettes and some heavy manual labor without the aid of deodorant, I decided that it might be best for my items to remain in their boxes until I myself could unpack them.  True to their word, within three hours the deed was done.  The once empty domicile of Madam Chabou was now our home . . . stuffed to the gills with huge boxes filled with our stuff.  This was obviously going to take some time.  Without a moment to lose, we set about unpacking our stuff and setting up shop.  Furniture assembly for me and a liberal dousing of Bleach from my wife.

We knew the children would not be entertained long by the piles of packing paper and empty boxes to play in so I took a moment to hook up our newly acquired French XBOX to our newly acquired LCD TV.  The entertainment didn’t last long.  Within moments, the brand new TV had had enough and went from glorious HiDef luster to some shaky orange and green lines.  Despite my best efforts of turning it off and on, I could not coax it back to life.  The piece of shit didn’t last a half hour.  I won’t name names, but the initials are SAMSUNG.  They will be receiving a letter.  Bastards.  This was inconvenient for the children, but a disaster for my wife and I.  Not only would our children not be entertained for the evening, but we would have to replace said TV within hours of waking in the morning so that we could make our appointment with the cable guy.

Needing a moment and now very hungry we sent my wife on foot to the local market.  She left with our little green shopping cart and my blessings.  She took and umbrella just in case it sprinkled as the skies were gray throughout the day.  Sprinkle it did.  Actually, more of a full on downpour.  Being the attentive husband that I am, I noticed the meteorological change of events and loaded the kids in the 206 and headed to the market before she had to walk back the rain.  I made it just in time and prevented another melodrama for the day.  It was decided that nobody was in the mood to cook in spite of our bag full of vittles and it might be nice to try out one of the eating establishment within spitting distance of our home.  The eldest boy’s target was a Chinese place we had seen on a prior outing.  Chinese sounded lovely.  We went in and ordered a bit of carry out.  A very nice gentleman greeted us and relieved us from our attempts at deciphering the French Chinese menu (yeah I said it) by not only offering us a menu with pictures, but also letting us know that he spoke a fair bit of English himself.

After a bit of time and several close calls with my parked vehicle, we made our way back home to enjoy our bounty.  This would be a bright spot in our day as the food was tremendous.  Absolutely full of MSG, and the medium well on the alley cat was second to none.  We will be getting to know our French Chinese friends well.  Back to furniture detail.  With back aching from labor and head aching from the Bleach fumes my wife was putting forth, it was time to call it a VERY late evening indeed.  It would be an early morning too as I spent most of my night tossing and turning with the worry that my youngest would exit the premises in the night and drown in the back yard pool.  The alarm that Madam Chabou installed was apparently low on batteries and was making such a racket that it would have woken the dead.  In an effort to have mercy on my new neighbors, I disabled the beast by removing said batteries and pitching them in the trash.  This action had me certain that I would awake to tragedy and that I would have to live out the remainder of my miserable days knowing that I was the one to blame for my child’s untimely demise.  I know, I have such a bright outlook on life.  You are clearly wondering if I ever frown.  Cheery, that’s what I call myself.  Fortunately, everyone is still here and new batteries have been procured.

Hopefully, within a day I will once again have access to the World Wide Web and will have caught you back up to date.  Good bye for now.  Two more installments coming soon.

Day 24

The Infirmary

A slight connectivity issue has prevented me from posting for the past three days, so I apologize in advance for the volume of this work over the next day or so.  My wife has graciously offered to be my surrogate as she has access to a WiFi connection during this period of communication darkness on my end.  This would be our last night in the hotel.  Our home away from home.  And not a moment too soon I might add.  As if the space was not small enough, spending day after day tending to sick youngsters had proven our little hotel to be a sarcophagus that I was pleased to be free of.  With my flock home from school, it was a relatively quiet day.  Heavily medicated down time would be the name of the game.

I watched the clock for my wife’s return.  She had mercy on my and called it an early day with the exception of an afternoon meeting that I was to play navigator for.  As you already know, there is no love lost between the Garmin and myself.  I prefer to navigate by my wits and experience.  I have hit the streets regularly in order to learn my way around.  My wife’s reliance on the Garmin shows her faith in mankind and a trust that I am not ready to give.  Shortly after her departure for her meeting, I received an urgent call.  The Garmin had failed her and could not acquire the address of her destination.  I quickly grabbed a map and would spend the next 20 minutes giving her a turn by turn tutorial of the streets of our fair city.  I am proud to say that only once was I forced to scream “recalculating”.

Unfortunately, my wife had plugged a location close to her desired location into her trusty Garmin and I spent that 20 minutes trying to convince my lovely wife that she married me, not the bitch on the GPS.  Who are you going to trust here?  Thankfully, she took my advice mere moments before I was ready to power down so to speak.  Fortunately, her meeting did not last long and soon she would be back at our hotel, ready to relieve me of my watch.

Upon her return, we realized that we had little time to accomplish a key task . . . purchasing a new TV.  I was saddened by the thought of this purchase, but I let her talk me into it anyway.  The children seemed to be feeling better, so we doped them up one last time for the evening and headed to the local equivalent of Best Buy to purchase a newer, albeit smaller version of the magnificent LCD that I had left in the States.  We decided it was best to take both vehicles to ensure we would have enough room for electronics and children.  That is where the evening ended up taking a turn for the worse.  See, my wife had taken my beloved 206 to the airport so that I would have use of the larger vehicle to cart the kids around while she was away and had in fact driven it to work a time or two as well.  I think she is trying to steal it from me.  That being said, we decided this evening that we would each drive our own cars.  Her in her techno-wonder Renault and me in my trusty 206.

It seems she had become accustomed to the 206 and it’s simplicity of uses, for we did not make it out of the parking garage without incident.  Apparently she was under the impression that her new fangled Jeston mobile would relieve its own emergency break.  By the way . . . it does not.  That proved to be a problem on the very steep exit out of the parking garage.  In a fit of squealing tires, stalls, too many to count and a bit of aggravated honking from the following vehicle (MINE . . . couldn’t let her get off that easy) she finally gave up and let myself and the vehicle behind me pass her by.  A very dangerous maneuver in a steep and winding parking garage I might add.  That being said, the more competent drivers made their way forward, but she was not yet done being a fly in the ointment.  Her automotive convulsions occurred right over the automatic sensor for the gate exiting the parking structure.  We were trapped.   Stuck between a steel gate and the sputtering tire burning fury that was my wife’s continued effort to get her spaceship in gear.  There was nothing left for us to do but to back down the ramp and around the corner to attempt to trigger the gate for a second time.

Fortunately for myself and the vehicle behind me that had made the same leap of faith, my wife figured out her parking break issue and we did not have to pass her backwards down the spiraling drive.  We were finally off and running.  Now, we had done a bit of price shopping earlier in the week and already had our desired device picked out.  This would be an in and out strike that would literally take a matter of minutes.  We went with a familiar face.  Not just a similar TV to mine back home, but the exact TV in a smaller package.  Not too small mind you . . . we are not savages.

With our package tucked safely (sort of) in my wife’s car, it was agreed that we would head directly to the new house to drop off the television after she had run through the Quick Burger (yuck) to get the youngest a “patty” as he refers to it.  By this time, both children had switched vehicles to ride with Dad.  I can only presume out of a sense of self-preservation given the terrifying ride they had experienced leaving the parking garage earlier in the evening.  Not wanting my wife to take a misquided step at the hands of her Garmin I agreed to lead our caravan over to the new house, so I parked behind the burger joint to await her return.  Her vehicle disappeared into the drive through lane and I waited, and waited, and waited.  Knowing that surely they could have inseminated the cow, birthed the calf and raised it to slaughter in the same amount of time, I through the old 206 in reverse and headed around the building to see what was what.  No sign of my wife.

I am generally not the type of person that is tied to technology and it is usually of no importance to me when I leave my cell phone at home.  That would not be the case tonight.  Thinking that my wife had not seen where I parked and assuming that she knew the plan was to head for the new house, I set out in an effort to catch up.  My blood pressure was already on the rise due to the miscommunication that I still believe to be upon my wife’s head.  It was however, through the roof when I pulled up to the house to discover that my wife was not there.  Surely she was lost. Surely she had taken a wrong turn at the hands of my arch nemesis (Garmin, for those of you who haven’t been following along).  Not wanting to leave just moments before her arrival, I decided to wait.  Regardless of all miscommunication, this was to be the rendezvous point and I would stick with the game plan.

It wasn’t long until I realized that I would be drawing my social security benefits before she would arrive.  Now with a stroke clearly pending, I headed back for the hotel, swearing that if I saw her car already parked there that it would be grounds for divorce.  Leaning heavily on the throttle of my souped up 206, I bombed through the darkened city streets teaching my children some new vocabulary words that they had not likely encountered in their schooling.  Pulling into the parking garage, there it sat . . . the Renault with the sticky parking break.  I knew it was her car from the bald tires she had worn from her early efforts at overriding the vehicles safety measures.  I was pissed and she knew it.  After some friendly words, we made nice and ate our now cold Quick Burger.  YUM.  With unsettled stomachs we headed for bed.  Big day tomorrow.  Moving Day.

Day 23

A day late and a dollar short.

Since yesterday evening went to hell in a hand basket, I did not have a chance to complete my daily entry.  Mom's triumphant return from parts unknown was certainly the highlight of the day.  I imagine she was somewhat disappointed with her greeting as the eldest was on the back end of a very long nap and the youngest was predictably coming down with the plague.  When the youngest awoke from his afternoon slumber, the fever was apparent.  It was obvious now that the puke fest of the prior evening was just round one and that we were in for a 15 rounder.  The remainder of the evening was spent soothing his needful condition and coaxing the not so tired 8 year old back to bed.  Welcome home babe! 

The wife did bring with her a welcome surprise . . . a bucket of the Colonel's finest.  Turns out there is absolutely no difference in the KFC here when compared with that which is found in the States.  Guess that's why they call it the Original recipe.  If it ain't broke, don't fix it.  Besides, chicken is natures universal flavor, right?  How many times have you seen this scenario play out . . . some heavily bearded survivalist finds his way to the Discovery Channel by displaying his zest for the consumption of dung beetles all the while lying to the viewing public how "it tastes just like chicken".  So honestly, how bad could they really screw it up.  After all, if the French version of KFC actually tasted like a dung beetle, apparently it would still taste like Chicken and I wouldn't be the wiser.  It's a win/win situation.

Other than my wife's return with a piping hot bucket o' chicken, the day was the usual Sunday affair.  Quiet and restful.  Just the way we like it.  We ran a couple of errands, but nothing earth shattering.  We would soon be on the eve of our final transition into our new home and we were happy to keep the day low key as the next several promise to be relatively hectic.  At this point, we are just hoping that the attrition rate of the youngest's flu bug remains low and that the rest of us remain healthy since we are going to need our energy for the days to come.  The wife passed out with ease as a result of some considerable jet lag and I eventually outlasted the eldest boy and was finally able to get some much needed sleep.  The rest would be short lived as the usual middle of the night treatments of ibuprofin began not long after my weary eyes closed for the evening.  For those that have children, I am sure the scene is familiar.  A wimper and a cry, a hot touch to the forehead and a cup full of yummy grape flavored elixer.  Back to sleep and up again to repeat.  Makes for a long night and a very early morning.

Perhaps tomorrow would bring a better day . . .

Day 22

I am starting to get a little tired of cleaining up bodily fluids.  It seems as though the dog's bout of explosive diarrhea has subsided in just enough time for me to shift my focus to my youngests projectile vomit.  I suspect it is just the fall out from the recent hotdog overdose, but I am going to monitor the situation closely just the same.  We had another day of rain today.  Not really a down pour, just enough to be an inconvenience. We really didn't dare to get too far from the hotel as the three of us have had quite a case of the bg's (bubble guts) today.  In fact, I am thinking of intalling one of those "next customer" counters on the bathroom as there seems to be a steady line at its door.  Thank god for the scented toilette paper. 

We did get out of the room for a bit while they came to do their weekly cleaning.  We took a nice long walk through the city center to experience the flow of commerce on a Saturday afternoon.  It is an absolute madhouse and quite intoxicating.  The sights and smells are beyond description.  Everything is a boutique of sorts here.  There aren't many stores of general merchandise and the price of admission into these boutique stores is enough to send a cold shiver down your back.  There is definitely an old school flair to shopkeeping here.  Stores are item specific and the craftmanship is carried on as it has for centuries.  From cobblers to hatmakers, you can press your face against the plate glass and watch the artisans at work.  It is a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon and an easy way to relieve some of that extra weight from your pocket book.

On our way back, I made the mistake of seeking out a second bicycle store that I had done a little research on.  There she sat . . . a pretty little thing.  The new object of my affection.  I had already made my selection at another bike shop . . . but this baby was a game changer.  Black as the night and with all the subtlty of a bullet through your skull.  An urban streetfighter with the brawn of Rocky Balboa and the grace of a Ferrari Daytona.  If a mechanical thing can be a work of art, this is such an item.  Now the sticky little matter of passing this expense by the boss.  Sent a quick text to test the waters.  Things were not going well on the other end.  Her flight back home had been overbooked due to an earthquake and tsunami threat, and at last check she would be re-routed through Qatar.  Hmmm, maybe not the time to ask to spend a solid chunk of her hard earned cash.  Reluctantly I pulled my face off the glass and with one last look over my shoulder and a tear in my eye, I headed back for the hotel.  I plan on visiting her daily until she is mine.  My hope is that my wife will see my pathetic yearning for this item and have eventual mercy on me.  It works for the boys, so I figure I may as well give it a whirl.

Back at the room, the cleaning had been completed and we were welcome to return to a semi-vegitative state for the rest of the afternoon.  I should have known something was a miss, as the youngest complained of not feeling well and took a rather long nap, which is not usually his style.  When he awoke, the complaints of feeling puny had not subsided and not two steps into the kitchenette, the vomiting commenced.  Sort of an exorcist style affair without the split pea soup.  This baby was all hotdog and corn flakes.  For vomit, it really had sort of a pleasant aroma about it.  Kind of reminded me of an afternoon at the ballpark.  I could almost hear Harry Carey singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game".

If my wife makes it beyond the Arabian Sea, we should see her sometime tomorrow evening . . . and not a moment too soon.  This week has been one for the record books and my skills as a single father have been tested to their max.  I am ready to have my partner back to assist in the raising of these lads and to nurse my injured soul back to health.  We have a way of doing that for each other.  I think that is the hallmark for any good relationship and we have it well perfected over the years.  We are a unit she and I.  By ourselves, I would argue that each of us are a force to be reckoned with . . . but together we are a force of nature.  I do miss her so.  At least for the moment anyway.  Ask me again about a half an hour after she returns and my tune may well have changed.  She has my heart and she indeed has my soul, but the woman can be a damned handful when she wants to be.  I suppose that is the way of things, for I am no saint myself.  The key is finding that perfect someone that puts up with your insanity as well as you put up with theirs.  Somewhere in the middle you will find grace.  Someone to lean on when times get hard . . . Someone to set your shit straight when you are out of line, and for me . . . someone to share that "what the hell were we thinking" moment that seems to creep into my life more often than I care to admit.  Who better to share your life with?

The coming week promises to be another action filled adventure as we FINALLY get settled into our new home after a month in a hotel.  With our personal items on dry land and a fresh coat of paint on the walls, we are finally heading in the right direction.  I will keep you posted as life at Madame Chabou's unfolds and I promise keep a watchful eye on the horizon for any of you brave enough to come and share in our adventure.  Until tomorrow . . .