Day 206 through 210

Planes, Trains and Automobiles . . . Surviving the least Magical Place on Earth.

With the Jack Butler Hotel at maximum capacity, I find myself a bit pressed for time to continue with my usual academic pursuits.  That being said, we are turning in a bit earlier than usual this evening, so I feel I must jot something down on paper before I lose track of the mis-adventures that have filled the past week of our lives.  Our guests arrived a week ago Friday, and due to a slight miscalculation on our part, were forced to ignore their jet lag in favor of a 3 hour train ride to Paris that same evening.  I knew ahead of time that our travels would take us into the wee hours of the evening, but I didn’t anticipate that we would be dragging our luggage through a corn field at 2 a.m.  The TGV ride felt a bit lengthy, but everyone survived.  A whole lot of responsibility rested squarely on my shoulders as the expedition leader for our merry band of hillbillies.  I am the only one with any real world experience with Paris public transit and the maze of tunnels makes for indigestion for even the hardiest traveler.  Once off of the high speed train (approx. 190 mph top speed), we were forced into the tunnels for a fragrant ride on the Metro.  Like any subway, it has a certain melange of body odor, urine and petrol that can’t be captured by mere description.  Once through the maze of metro stops, we were to board a regional train for what I had measured as the final leg of the journey to our hotel situated very close the gates of Disneyland.  Somewhere along the way, the wife and I realized that my knowledge of the appropriate train stops was not going to get us from train depot to the hotel.  A quick call to the hotel confirmed that we would need to catch a bus from the train depot to hotel.  Now, this is a tourist hotspot, so there are trams that run at regular intervals from all nearby hotels to the gates of the park which is located right across from the train station.  We, however, had arrived a bit late for such a tram, so we would need to ride a city bus.  It was a one shot deal.  We arrived on the train with just enough time to make the last bus for the evening.  Boarding the bus, we knew that it would not shuttle us directly to the hotel, so we (or I) were/was forced to make a snap decision as to which bus stop we would abandon our ride in favor of a short walk on foot.  With very dimly lit stops and not a clue in hell where our hotel actually was, I went with my gut and we jumped from the bus at what turned out to be an inopportune moment.  I am still convinced that this bus was never actually going to get us anywhere near our hotel, but after dragging our bags through some darkened suburban streets, it was clear we were truly lost.  Arriving at a cross-roads of the paths to Snud and to Queast, it was clear that our hotel was nowhere in sight.  Admittedly, our vantage point was somewhat hindered by the rows of corn that we had encountered along the way.  We inquired with the scarecrow as to which way to Oz, but he too seemed as clueless as we were as to our current location.

Before bedding down for the night on a nearby park bench, we decided it might be prudent to give the hotel one last ring to see if they could fetch us a cab.  The answer was a bit disheartening.  No cabs.  Fortunately, the nice folks at our hotel offered to come pick us up in one of the hotel vehicles.  Now for the hard part.  Where exactly were we?  The wife and I ran this way and that in an effort to locate a discernable land mark.  Indicating that we were in the corn field was clearly not going to be enough for their GPS.  We did finally find a street name or two and within a few minutes a very nice woman pulled up to the curb and offered us the ride we so desperately needed.  Very tired and giggling like school girls at the events of the evening, we entered the hotel lobby.  The hotel was of the resort variety and was as kid friendly as could be.  As we checked in, we decided that perhaps the family suite that we had booked would be too cozy for the 6 of us, so we attempted to switch to two separate rooms.  The attendant assured us that the suite had separate rooms, so in the spirit of the evening, we kept our original accommodations.  Once we arrived at our room, we were face to face with one of the most unique hotel experiences I have ever encountered.  The room looked something akin to that of the 7 dwarves.  I haven’t seen that many beds lined up in a row before and if my wife was “Sleepy”, then I must surely have been “Dopey”.  Too tired to worry with the logistics, we decided to check the second room, assuming that it would serve as a means to let the grandparent types have a little privacy from the youngsters.  As it would turn out, it was the youngsters that would have their privacy as the second room contained bunk beds.  With all adults picking from single beds lined up in a row, I realized I failed to pack my crew anything to sleep in except for my eldest son, whom I outfitted with several pairs of athletic shorts.  The youngest would wear his older brother’s shorts or none at all.  Not a big deal.  With all the adults in one room, however, underpants for the wife and I seemed a bit too risqué.  I opted for my swimming trunks and the wife slept in her jeans.

Day two would be spent on a descent into parental hell.  Disneyland is a paradise to none.  The place was teaming with tourists and it would take most of the day just to ride a single ride.  The ride was enjoyable, but the remainder of the day was an absolute nightmare made even less tolerable at the hands of a very fussy 3 year old.  With spirits at low ebb, we decided to drown our sorrows with a liberal application of 1664 (a tolerable French beer).  Suddenly, the 3 year old seemed less demanding and the crowds began to clear.  Neither was true in actuality, but beer goggles can be utilized for more than just bedding down with an ugly gal at the end of the evening.  After an afternoon with Mickey and the gang, we decided to grab a bite to eat before heading back to the hotel.  A few more 1664s and an edible meal at a chain restaurant seemed to be an appropriate way to end our day.  We were even able to sweet talk one of our servers into some souvenir beer glasses.  Not for sale, but not necessarily unavailable either.  Back at the hotel, it was decided that we should keep the party rolling and find a nearby market to obtain additional adult grain beverages at a little more reasonable price.  The wife had the front desk call a cab for Grandpa and I, and soon we were off to a nearby “market” to obtain some liquid refreshments.  The nearby “market” turned out to be a convenience store that didn’t sell alcohol after 6 p.m.  That was a downer, but not nearly as big a problem as the fact that we now had no way back to our hotel.  Upon dropping us off at said convenience store, the cabby asked how long we would be and indicated that he would be right back.  He fled the parking lot atop squealing tires and indicated that he had another faire to handle before he would return for us.  Return he did not, and once again we were on foot.  This time, I had a rough idea what direction to head, so we set out through the woods nearby.  After a “Frogger” maneuver across a busy highway and a scramble up a sizable embankment and through some underbrush, we were once again head high in a corn field.  At least it was familiar territory.  Soon enough we found the main road and started toward the hotel a mile or two away.  As luck would have it, we were spotted by our wayward cabbie and he circled back for us to finish the job he had started.  Dropping us at the door to the hotel, he settled for a discounted faire, but not without an editorial comment or two.  Too tired for a physical altercation, we let that one go.  Back in my swim trunks, it was time for bed.

Day three required additional rail travel as we made our way into Paris proper to see the sights.  It ended up a marvelous day full of the usual highlights and a negotiation or two with local street vendors.  With some art purchased and some sights observed, it was time to call our trip complete.  Once more to hotel for a final night’s sleep before our Boxcar Willie caravan back home.  It is of some interest to the wife and I that our French has come a long way and communication on a survival level seems quite functional.  It is however a hollow victory, for it seems that in our new found comfort level we were able to recognize that we actually heard more English spoken over the course of the day than we had heard French.  It seems as though in the largest city, the mother tongue has all but been abandoned.

We would begin day four in a leisurely fashion as our train for home would not leave until later in the afternoon.  The three year old’s ill temper would be forgiven a bit as it was realized that he had infact taken ill in the middle of the night and we would once again put the French healthcare system to the test.  The poor little fella was miserable with fever and having inquired at the front desk if they had any Tylenol type product, the response was quick and effective.  They did not have anything for his illness, but immediately called a doctor who was at our room within the hour to exam our youngest.  Those of us that had slept in a bit, hid in our underpants in the bathroom and adjoining bedroom until the room service medical exam could be completed.  Inside of an hour, our youngest had been examined and prescriptions had been dispensed.  Again, the healthcare system here does not fail to amaze.  A bit of swimming for the eldest before packing and soon we were on our way.  Through the maze of RER and Metro we flew with the greatest of easy.  Upon boarding the TGV, however, we ran into a bit of a snag.  It appeared as though our seats had been double booked and the competitors had beaten us to our seats.  With some head scratching and intense debate, I began to have a sinking feeling.  My wife left the train in an effort to find answers.  The last thing I asked her before she left was if our tickets were for the correct day.  Upon her return the answer crystalized.  I was correct.  The wife had booked the tickets for the following day.  Now, when faced with such adversity, you can tuck your tail between your legs, or you can pull yourself up by your bootstraps and make something happen.  My choice is the latter.  We went to see if the tickets could be changed.  Non-refundable I am sad to say.  At the ticket booth, it was apparent that return tickets on the next train would be costly.  Fuck it, I have driven it once before and I can certainly do it again.  Arriving at the Europcar counter, the news wasn’t good.  Renting a vehicle that would carry 6 passengers put a mileage restriction on the transaction that cause a fearful increase in price.  New train tickets would be the lesser of two evils.  With new tickets in hand, we waited for an hour or so and boarded the new train.  Fortunately for us, we were seated near the café car and 1664’d our way back home.

Back at our hometown rail station, we faced yet another problem.  Where in the hell did we park the freaking car?  Leaving our crew in front of the rail station, the wife and I retraced our steps and after a half hour or so, we found our car parked where we had left it . . . short term parking.  I won’t tell you what the bill for that was, but let’s just say that I pray that the children are smart enough to get scholarships to college.  And so ends our weekender to Paris.  Shaken but not stirred.  I will do my best in the next day or so to get back up to date.  For now, we are recovering from just a bit of Train Lag, but its nothing an ice cold 1664 can’t cure.  Until next time.  R.

Day 202 through 205

The Jack Butler Hotel

Once again we have illuminated the “No” on the vacancy sign out front of the ole Jack Butler Hotel as we are preparing for guests come morning.  This time it will be the other half of my wife’s parental units and we are indeed looking forward to the visit.  I need deodorant and the children are desperate to embark on the side trip we have planned to Disneyland Paris.  There is but one small hiccup at the Hotel, and that hiccup has management in an uproar.  As you all know by now, my current scale for a successful hotel stay is the availability of a free WiFi connection.  Unfortunately, the internet woes at the Jack Butler Hotel persist and I have to give the JBH two thumbs down for their lack of workable WiFi.  We have a connection, slow though it may be, however it is a bit confusing and apparently runs much like a prepaid wireless phone.  Your subscription pays for a certain amount of data at a certain speed, and once you are done . . . YOU ARE DONE.  They are of course kind enough to allow you to purchase and extra Giga or so at an elevated rate for those suckers that weren’t smart enough to go all in for the highest price package.  Yup, Jack is one of those suckers.  We hit the screen of death just a week in and had apparently run through our entire months allotment of credit in that short time.  Perhaps we were surfing more than usual in a binge and purge reaction to our recent internet starvation diet, but one thing is clear . . . this isn’t going to work out as currently configured.  Telecommunications has proven to be an absolute nightmare since our move and the cost seems to be increasing by the day.  The satellite television is free except for installation and the boxes which cost a small fortune.  The monthly rate on my mobile phone is hardly worth the price of admission since I can scarcely receive the slightest of signals here in the sticks despite a recent SIM upgrade that was supposed to remedy the problem.  To add insult to injury, most of the buttons on Bill Gate’s wonder machine have busted and the screen looks like the windshield of a Kia after a serious collision with a large woodland creature.  The fine folks at Orange have outfitted us with a home phone, so we should be able to call back home again without draining our bank account.

Despite our telecommunications woes, we are going strong and the children seem to be absorbing the language at a prodigious rate.  That is what happens when you get thrown in to the deep end without your floaties . . . you either sink or swim.  Fortunately, both of my guys float pretty well and their educational endeavors are going quite well.  On my end, I am making fast friends with the neighbor.  He and I now see each other with some frequency and we share romantic evening walks down the lane as we drag our trash containers to the end of the road for the following days collection.  The harvest is in full swing and tractors are constantly running back and forth to the fields collecting the fruits of their labor (pun intended).  I have used our trash day walks as a way to learn more about the grape growing process and it is all quite fascinating.  We have not been asked to assist with any of the farming yet, but we are keen to dig a little deeper.  We have offered the occasional assistance with language for labeling to be used in the US market and I offer what I can by returning the trash can from the end of the drive whenever I retrieve my own.  We have actually become friendly enough to be invited to the theater next month.  The truth is, membership has its privileges.  As it turns out, a theater group from the big city has expressed an interest in taking their act on the road and their chosen venue will be the castle next door to my home.  The owners appear to be avid theater goers and were gracious enough to invite us over for the dinner theater to take place at their home in October.  Looking forward to that event as it will certainly prove to test and expand my knowledge of the French language.  I still suffer with it a bit, for those interested in such information.

That is really all that is fit to report for now and I will try to sneak online with Ninja quickness to post this thing before my internet connection runs out of credits and I have to insert more tokens.  Feels kind of like surfing the interent at a laundro-mat or self service car wash.  All I need is one of those change dispensers and a beeping  noise whenever my time is getting ready to run its course.    In parting, it seems that the broken toe on my right foot is healing and causes less pain with each day that passes.  I am able to run on it a bit and cycling does not seem to be a problem, so all is well that ends well.  The only problem now is that my feet are becoming as ugly as my wife’s.  Ok, I know what you are thinking, and I love the woman dearly, but she has got some ugly ass feet.  They look like they belong on Fred Flintstone and unfortunately mine aren’t now far behind.  Bent and mutilated like a half-eaten crunchy Cheetoh, both of my smallest toes seem to now merely act as my remaining toes ugly friend.  You know what I am talking about right?  The ugly friend ploy that reasonably attractive women use when going out to make themselves look even better?  That is how my big toes treat my little toes.  I am afraid the hurt feelings are going to lead to a revolt or at the very least self esteem therapy for the lot of us.  Take care for now.  Talk again as soon as I feed more coins into the slot.  R.

Day 201

Lessons hardly learned and a short course in International Marketing.

We have all seen these home video type programs on TV.  You know the ones, a grainy video hacked out on a Hi8 where some hayseed took time out of his day of Nascar watching to video tape his dog barking and attacking his own reflection in a mirror.  One would think that after the third or forth collision with the mirror that the dumb dog would figure out the error in his ways.  Well, that is me with the Wilkinson Sword.  After weeks of self mutilation, one would think that I would use better judgment, but the frugal consumer in me says not to waste the remainder of the pack in search of a better product.  Combine this with my continuing hope that the kind folks at Wilkinson pick up my ad campaign ideas and you have a recipe for disaster if not simply a royal case of razor burn.  The return to this topic put me in mind of a recent discussion my wife and I had over a bottle of Powerade.  Having trained myself to ignore the siren song of Caffeine, I am relegated to good old fashion H2O.  Occassionally, however, I long to have a drink with some flavor.

To satiate this need, I recently picked up a bottle of red Powerade at the store.  Now one would presume that this would be a safe purchase given the seemingly international consumption of this product.  How different can it be?  Quite.  It tastes something like the urine of a Wildabeast . . . er I think . . .  not that I would know about such things.  I asked my wife if it tasted strange to her, and she agreed with a long and painfully drawn out lesson from the cosmic wasteland that is her Marketing education.  The shit this woman knows still baffles me.  I never knew anybody that actually paid attention during class.  Probably why I am the deadbeat unemployed spouse and she is the mega mogul that has the clout to move us half way around the world.  The best I can offer is the ability to ask if you want fries with that in three different languages.  I definitely married up.  The truth of the matter is, I find marketing absolutely fascinating and am still in awe of the fact that there are different formulations for a product like Powerade depending on your geographic location.

This epiphany put me in mind of a conversation I had with a French gentleman who indicated that while living in the US he tried McDonalds breakfast (they don't have it here) and found it to be an unsavory experience.  Regardless of your opinion on the quality of the food, I think most Americans would agree that the taste of an Egg McMuffin is delightful.  As though someone turned on the light in a darkened room, I began to appreciate one of the remarkable differences in our cultures.  What we find pleasing and displeasing is simply a matter of environment and slick marketing.  Processed cheese is a laughable concept here in France.  Savagery of epic proportions.  On the opposite side of the coin, most Americans would find the mold encrusted fromage that smells like a wet gym sock entirely unpleasant and inedible.  You can make points and counterpoints as to who is right and who is wrong, but the truth is neither.  It is all a matter of taste so to speak and they differ only for the sake of location and the consumer's conditioned expectations.

Peanut M and Ms for example.  They are uniform in size and composition in the US.  Not so here.  They vary in size and are not even remotely circular.  We as American's have been conditioned to expect this type of quality control.  Can't get a white egg here and nearly all eggs in the US are white.  Why is that?  Because the marketing studies show that Americans prefer for their eggs to be white, so the producers provide what the consumers will buy.  All eggs are brown here by the way, not green or anything like a crazy Doctor Seuss story.  It seems the American consumer wants uniformity and consistency while others care less for that aesthetic sensibility when it comes to their food.

I have become accustomed to a new way of life and have witnessed a different way of looking at the world.  In many ways, the comforts of what I call home seem far away and as foreign as France was so many months ago.  This reality was recently brought to my attention as we paid a small fortune for UK satellite so we can watch something other than the god aweful programming on French TV.  It didn't really help that much.  Still watching old episodes of Quantum Leap and Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, but at least they are in English now.  Nobody does Hollywood like Hollywood.  The game may be tied in all other aspects, but Americans do TV better.  Probably why we are such fat disgusting couch potatoes.  Watching TV in our country is actually an activity worth indulging in.  Everybody goes out to the park for a picnic to discuss politics with their friends here.  I am beginning to think that it isn't that they are more socially conscious . . . it's cause there ain't shit on TV.  At any rate, the UK television and most notably the advertising seemed familiar and yet foreign all at the same time.  I can't put my finger on it yet, but it is quite American and its foreign feel makes me certain that a reverse culture shock is on my horizon.

This is just a very long way of saying that throughout the world, we aren't all that different from each other.  It is just a matter of geography and marketing.  Some of it good and some of it bad, I enjoy the things done better here while appreciating those things truly done better in my own backyarrd.  I realize that I have shed myself of the narrow minded nature of my American identity only to embrace those core values that we share in common with all of mankind across the globe.  It will eventually be a return to those core values that will once again make America strong.  For the record, I don't care what color my eggs are or whether my M and Ms are round.  It all eats about the same except for that deplorable Powerade crap.

The final observation I will leave you with this evening comes from an old school saying I remember growing up.  When confronted with someone that was wearing a bit too much cologne, it would be uttered that the person smelled like a "French whore".  I myself always found this to be a flattering statement that seemed to bestow a touch of class to the "oldest profession".  It seemed romantic and I thought it might be nice to meet such a person for surely they smelled like a meadow full of flowers.  If, however, the same holds true as it does with the term French Fries, then here you would simply remark that someone wearing too much cologne/perfume smells like a plain old whore.  That doesn't evoke any romantic imagery and the smell would certainly not be of a meadow of flowers but rather of intense body odor and cigarette smoke.  It is all in the marketing.

Day 197 through 200

The Accidental Exhibitionist:  Unlocking Victoria's Secret while giving the neighbors the Full Monte.

A miracle has occurred on this the16th day of September.  If you have been following along, we have been struggling with internet connectivity for going on two months now and I am proud to say that with a little stress and strife, we are now connected back into the information super highway and I can once again focus my passion on this project.  It has been a busy few weeks, so the inability to connect, while inconvenient has been a bit of a blessing.  We have been able to focus on the first weeks of school and balance our new life here in the country.  There have been twists and turns along the way, but this post finds us happy and healthy with grand plans for the future.

It has been a week or so since my last post, so I will dispense with the pleasantries and get right to it.  Life has been full and at times rather comical for old Jack Butler.  While my wife will not entirely approve of the content of this post, there are three highlights of the past week that I want to share.  By now, you should need no warning as to my lack of an edit button, so sit down and enjoy the ride.

In our continued adjustment to the boys' new educational experience, we have had to run back and forth to the store to pick up those supplies that were either not on the list or simply not obtained due to our linguistic maladies.  The most notable of these trips put me in a nostalgic frame of mind.  My eldest has entered the fourth grade, and my weakening memory holds but two pearls from this period in my own life.  The first was Mrs. Johnson.  My 4th grade teacher.  She was an absolutely foul woman, whom I detested.  She was in fact the worst teacher I had growing up and while her treatment of me was unfair, what she did to a boy named Noah will live in my memory for the remainder of my days.  We had just returned from Christmas Break and we were asked to describe to the class, one by one, what we did on our vacation.  Our classroom was of the typical old school composition . . . individual desks with attached chairs lined up in neat rows of 6 facing the black board.  This is a foreign concept to my children as the "new" way of doing things seems to be more communal with large central tables and accompanying chairs.

That being said, we were two or three children deep into our discussion of the holidays when a young man by the name of Noah raised his hand out of turn.  He was not due his turn for at least a row or two and his interuption of the proceedings was not well taken by Mrs. Johnson.  She gruffly asked Noah what he needed and he replied that he did not feel well and wanted to go to the nurse.  Not one for compassion, Mrs. Johnson told Noah to put his head down on his desk and sit quietly.  Theory being (I guess) that when one has the stomach flu, laying your head on a hard plank of wood will cure what ails you.  Two more girls describe their barbie dream houses and shared stories of stockings hung by their chimneys with care before Noah's hand was once again raised with a more urgent plea for medical attention.  Again he was dismissed by Mrs. Johnson and the show and tell continued.

By this time, Noah's coloration had changed to something more akin to pea soup than the normal rosie glow that all children have about their complexion during this joyous time of the year.  Noah's next request was handled on foot.  He stood and made his way to the teachers desk at the front of the room.  This time old Mrs. Johnson's reaction was more terse indeed and indicated that Noah was to keep his mouth shut and return to his desk.  Unfortunately, Noah was unable to keep his mouth shut during his short walk back toward his desk.  He mouth was quite open actually.  In an exorcist fit of epic proportions, Noah's lips curled and his mouth dropped agape revealing the splendor of a column of projectile vomit that I had not, nor have I ever since experienced.  Perhaps it is my youthful mind that remembers this so dramatically, but I swear to this day that not a drop of his carrot filled regurgitation hit the ground before it splashed down in the isle between the seats six chairs back.  Amazing.

Now, I am no dummy, and I knew that I didn't want to stick around for the reflexive vomit fest that would surely occur once the rest of the children caught the fragrant aroma of Noah's bounty, so my hand was the first to be raised when the class was asked for two volunteers to go summon the Janitor.  Lincoln was his name, and to be honest, the President met with an easier fate than this poor fellow did on this cold January day.  Noah was finally granted leave to the nurses office and unfortunately had a head start on my fellow classmate and I as we made our way to the Janitor's office/closet.  Poor Noah was staggering down the hall like a drunken sailor vomiting on everything in his path.  Floor, walls, wastebaskets . . . younger children . . . no one seemed safe from his spray.  My classmate and I kept a liberal distance and made our way to Lincoln, dodging puddles of vomit to the best of our ability.  Lincoln, unfortunately, was busy with another task, so he couldn't be along with his Folgers can full of saw dust (the method for cleaning up vomit back in the olden days) for some time.

Lingering as long as we could, my classmate and I made our way back to the classroom to face the music and inform Mrs. Johnson that Lincoln had been summoned and would be along after he had completed his current task.  What we returned to was chaos.  Children crying and gagging.  Everyone begging for relief from the odor that had taken control of the eastern wing of the building.  Mrs. Johnson, however, was having none of it.  We walked in on the tail end of a lecture on how the smell was not that bad and those that attempted to hold their noses would be punished for their weakness.  The only one to receive any compassion at all was a boy by the name of Alex who was the unlucky one to be sitting at ground zero (6th seat back) where the vomit finally came to rest.  Poor Alex was fairly coated with chunks from about the waste down.

The trauma of this event rests heavily on my mind as my child enters the fourth grade.  My hope is that his instructor was cut from a different cloth and that he will get to enjoy his fourth grade year.  That being said, this event in my life was somewhat overshadowed by a milestone that I have still not recovered from and it is an indignity that my son must endure as well.  In my school system, 4th grade marked a special time in every child's life.  It was this year that the curriculum mandated that everyone learn how to swim.  We were put on a bus and carted to a local public indoor pool for the sake of keeping us all from the inevitable drowning that would have certainly killed us all had it not been for these school sponsored lessons.  Now, I have always been a very athletic lad, but swimming was never my strong suit.  In fact, at that age, I was was terrified of water and my parents could scarcely get me to put my head under water to wash my hair let alone make freestyle laps across an Olympic depth pool.

This pill was difficult enough to swallow without the humiliation that these lessons were to be conducted in a rental Speedo.  We were not allowed to bring our own trunks, and what we were forced to wear has left a permanent scar on my self esteem.  They were neatly arranged in piles on a table at the door.  They were arranged by color as memory serves.  Light blue for the Ectomorph crowd, Navy blue for those of us with average build, and a lovely Maroon for those with an expansive waste band.  Unfortunately, they were all well used and had faded over time.  They were always steaming hot and fresh out of the autoclave that I presume they used to disinfect these spandex beauties.  This too, I presume, caused them to change a bit in color.  While I was depressed to be clad in my grey-blue (formerly navy) mediums, there was nothing more humiliating than having to be the one fat kid in class who would have to suffer the indignity of parading around in a pair of rose colored panties.

If this was something I could spare my eldest child, I certainly would.  Not two years after I endured this humiliation, our public pool was condemned and shut down, thereby ending the swimming program at my school.  This curriculum is alive and well, however, at my children's school here in France.  Fortunately, my eldest is allowed to have his own bathing suit.  Unfortunately, it must also be a Speedo.  And to add insult to injury, (despite having a hair style very close to his father's) he must wear a swim cap.  Poor bastard.  He does have an advantage that his old man didn't have . . . the kid swims like a fish and loves the water, so if he can handled the harsh reality of wearing plumb smugglers in public, he should have a smashing good time.

The subject of dainty garments proves to be a good segway into my next observation for the week.  My wife returned home from her business trip a bit tattered and torn, but overall  no worse for the wear.  On the trip out, they lost her bag.  This required an emergency trip to the market for some essentials, not the least of which being new underpants.  Now, when she described this event, I had a picture in my mind of what Bulgarian underpants would be.  Fortunately, I was quite incorrect.  I must admit that I am a bit of a sucker when it comes to underpants.  Perhaps the fact that I have to wear man panties has given me an appreciation for well made undergarments or perhaps it is because I am a guy and I like chicks in lingerie.  Maybe it is a combination of both.  In keeping with the Christmas theme, I would say that I am a "wrapping" guy.  The thrill of the gift is not knowing what is inside.  Tearing open the paper to discover the unknown prize inside is what makes Christmas exciting.  I would suppose that the same can be true for me when it comes to the fairer sex.  A clothed or semi-clothed woman is much sexier in my mind than the alternative approach.  It is probably why my wife and I always argue as to whether the gifts from Santa should be wrapped or unwrapped.  I'm a "wrapping" guy.

Anyway, this is a very long way of saying that the French, and all European folk seem to do this better than we do back home.  My man panties are quite comfortable and durable.  Stylish if there can be such a thing in men's underpants and the same is true for the ladies.  Victoria's Secret is that underpants are done better in other parts of the world.  Not only are they just as aesthetically pleasing, but they are made with comfort in mind.  Unfortunately for those single fellas out there, chances are, if you are lucky enough to unwrap one of these gals, her pits are likely to stink so terribly bad that no amount of beautiful wrapping in the world is going to keep your interest.  I am still struggling to find a deodorant that works . . . can you tell?  Anyway, a hearty apology to my wife for discussing her underpants and a nod goes out to the folks at Air France for replacing the piece of luggage that they destroyed in transit back home.  The gorilla that handled this bag, tore our hard sided bag to shreds like it was made of tissue paper.  You win some and you lose some.

Finally, perhaps the most humiliating news from the week comes at my expense.  The discussion of underpants and lack there of once again serves as a nice transition into this final tidbit of news from overseas.  Despite my generally weak will power in recent years, I have mustered enough mental fortitude to make something of my quest for physical fitness.  I have continued to run, ride and lift weights at a rigorous pace.  I don't know that it is paying any physical dividends, but it has helped improve my mental state tremendously.  That being said, my domestic duties intermixed with a workout or two means that I end up showering somewhere in the middle of the day.  Most usually right before I head out to pick up the kids at school.  This unfortunately backfired on me a day or so ago and I haven't been terribly comfortable to speak of it until now.  It should be noted that in my shower there is a medium sized window that lacks covering.  The typical shuttering has long since been removed which makes for a lovely view while showering.  Not a big deal as, as everyone in the house except for myself is of small enough stature that they couldn't be seen except for the  top of their head.  There is also a heavy tree line along the adjacent bike path and not another house for miles, so the odds of being seen in the evening or the morning are slim to none.  Unfortunately, this is not the case at mid-day.

This is a living place.  A business.  A working vinyard with people coming and going with some frequency in the toil that is the agriculture of the region.  For my part, I am a tallish man.  Standing just a pinch over the 6 foot mark, my frame is not obscured from view out of our bathroom window.  The stars aligned and as I commenced my post workout shower, I peered out of the window as the water warmed a bit.  In doing so, I noted the neighbor (owner's) dog milling about in our side yard.  She is out with some frequency, so I thought nothing of it.  I watched her for a bit and she stayed in the area for some time.  This is not her usual pattern of behavior.  When not with her owners, she generally passed through our yard with a smell or two along the way and then disappears into the far reaches of the property.  As she made her way stage right, I realized why she was lingering.  The owners (Mr and Mrs) were standing next to my home examining the property next door for renovations to be completed for the next tenant.  With them were two gentlemen that I presume were hired for the job.

As I quickly scanned the group, there was no indication that the gents had noted my presence in the window.  When I got to the Mrs., however, it was clear that I had been duly noted and she was doing her best not to look by shielding the corner of her eye with her hand.  I nearly slipped and cracked my skull as i leaned hard against the shower wall in order to remove myself from the picture window.  I waited an uncomfortable amount of time before I dared look again.  I was trapped.  The only way out of the shower was back past the window.  I waited until the water was starting to become intolerably cold and I took a peek.  They were gone and so was my humility.  I finished what I had started and made for a quick exit.

And that my friends about sums up the week.  Hope you have enjoyed.  I will be posting with some frequency now, so stay tuned for more misadventure in days to come.  Take care for now.  R.

Day 192 through 196

Deliberations at Daybreak . . . Flied Lice for Breakfast

I realize it has been many days since my last post and I have likely alienated what remaining readership I have left.  I would like to say that this fine morning finds me with a robust internet connection and a hat full of ideas, but unfortunately neither is the case.  It was suggested to me recently that locating the Holy Grail might be a more worthy and fruitful quest than obtaining a French internet connection, and at this point I might have to agree.  Indiana Jones himself would be unlikely to find the clues necessary to unlock this riddle.  I am at this point only lacking one final piece of the puzzle, before I am able to finally surf the internet and watch meaningful television.  The new ETA is midweek, but again I find myself blue in the face from holding my breath.  We will see what happens.  In a feeble attempt to catch up on a week’s worth of activity, I will do my best to recap the highlights for you now.  The middle of this prior week found Mom returning from distant lands to join us in the pursuit of academia.  The boys seem to have adjusted well to their new learning environment and time will tell exactly how difficult this adjustment proves to be.  The youngest has few concerns as the curriculum is primarily play based and you don’t have to have a stellar understanding of the French language to finger paint.  As for the eldest, that is a horse of a different color.  The homework has been difficult and plentiful to say the least.  Both boys love their new school and have a bright outlook on the future, but the eldest has a tall hill to climb that has already caused a tear or two to fall.  We have played this scenario well and the collateral damage has been minimized due to repeated warnings of the tough times ahead.  Nobody said this was going to be easy, but the reward will be far more than even I could have anticipated.  The truth of the matter is, this language is difficult enough that even at the 4^th grade level, the readings are elementary indeed.  As I have indicated in the past, my eldest is able to polish off and adult level novel in his mother tongue in about a week and he is unlikely to see comparable text in the French system until the University level.  That being said, a simple 30 page book full of illustrations is enough to cripple even the wife and I, so I can only imagine how daunting it must seem from his vantage point.  There are some refreshing differences to his new curriculum that I don’t recall from my American education at this same age.  The eldest curriculum has so far included math, which is his strong suit and seems on par with that he would be experiencing back home; literature, which again is classical, but somewhat behind his reading level if not for the language barrier; Geography, which is obviously more global in its scope than that found in the US; and finally, Poetry.  No shit . . . Poetry.  God bless the French.  Being able to recite French poetry by heart is likely to get him his fill of feminine affection as he grows older.  Lucky bastard.

Socially, life is good for the boys.  Being the foreigner has its advantages.  Full of mystery and allure, everyone at the school knows them by name and making friends has proven to be an easy feat for both lads.  Kids share a common language, the language of childhood.  Neither needs to understand the words spoken to understand each other’s meaning.  That has truly been a blessing and has made this transition a bit easier than I had anticipated.  The same can’t be said for those of us on the PTA.  I can’t say that the parents want much to do with me and I slip in and out of the school like a ghost with little conversation or eye contact.  We adults have much more social baggage that prevents us from making acquaintances as readily as our children often do.  I have exchanged pleasantries with the youngest’s teacher, but had not even met the eldest’s until the second day of school.  The meeting was unfortunately not by chance.  The courtyard in which recreation is observed is a cramped area that is a teaming mass of chaos while the children are at play.  The eldest was the victim of a head on collision during a misguided game of tag.  The wreck left him with a skinned elbow and a couple of healthy contusions to the skull.  Now, this was of some concern to his instructor who walked him out after school to explain the circumstances of the incident.  The best I could work out was that he hit his head and she had applied a cream to the affected areas.  Funny stuff.  I understood some of what she had said and knew from the conversation that his head was ill and that some treatment had been rendered.  After an interrogation of the eldest, it seems he and another child collided while running in the courtyard during recreation which left both children with head injuries.  While perhaps mildly concussed, I had little worry about the physical state of my child.  His career as a martial artist and football player has rendered his dome something akin to a piñata, so a blow to the head is not likely to knock anything looser than it already is.  He is on the mend and so far he doesn’t seem to have a stutter or anything that is going to require intensive therapy to heal.

While the boys have been hard at work, I have been hard at play . . . sort of.  The extra time I now have during my day has allowed me to shift my quest for physical fitness into overdrive.  Alternating between heavy doses of running and cycling has left my lower extremities a wreck.  I began with a 5k run on Thursday and a very brisk 30k bike ride on Friday.  I will be saddling up again this afternoon for another round of cycling for which I will exchange my mountain bike for my fixed gear bike just to keep things interesting.  I have no hopes of 30k today, but I plan to ride to failure and pray I don’t have to push my bicycle back home.  Tomorrow will be more running, and so on.  The mild temperatures promise that I should be able to maintain this pursuit well into the winter months.  I am glad to have this time to devote to fitness as the lack of farm related toil requires additional work on my end to stay fit and active.  I am not the only one to benefit from this new focus on recreation.  The wife was offered an opportunity over the weekend to “saddle up” as well.  We left a farm full of horses (the wife’s passion) and she has not been the same since.  A friend arranged a riding lesson for her on Saturday and despite her insistence that she didn’t have the time, we made the necessary concessions for her to attend.  My wife does not need lessons mind you.  She has been on horseback since she was knee high to a grasshopper, but this would be her first attempt at “English” riding and a little instruction is always helpful.  Being a gear head, I was also insistent on kitting her up with all the riding gear for her new hobby.  The pants are some funny shit.  David Lee Roth would be proud.  I am glad to see her back in her element and the time it takes away from other activities is well worth it, just to see the light in her eyes.

The weekend was the first true test of academic fortitude as well.  The eldest had a butt load of homework and he was none too thrilled with the idea.  His teacher is a gem and has made concessions for his lack of langague in assigning different tasks for him than the other students in an attempt to get his language caught up to where it needs to be.  The sad truth of the matter though is that this means that he has to complete twice the work the other students have to do and it did finally bring him to tears in the darkened hours of Sunday evening.  I was sad to see him struggle, but reminded him that when it seems tough, he needs to ask himself but one question.  Is he ok being Average, or does he want to be Great.  We both know the answer to that question.  The tears dried and a smile returned as he finished his assigned task.  It is this value in hard work and dedication that his parents hold so dear that will see him through.  Overall, the Autumn finds us happy and health here in France but missing the familiar sights and sounds of home all the same.  That will never change.  We all love France and the opportunity we have been provided, but we are American and are proud of that fact.  Though our country is presently broken and battered, it is still a worthy place to call home.  We look forward to the coming holidays and our return for a visit to recharge our batteries.  It will be a trip a year in the making and while we are the same at heart, we are scarcely the same family that left Eastern Kansas so many months ago.  I only hope our friends and family recognize us upon our return.  Despite our many changes, my wife and I still struggle with the language.  I wish this were not the case, but it is perhaps one of the hardest things I have ever tried to learn.  It is perhaps the biggest lesson I have learned since I have been here and one which I think everyone in the world could benefit from.  I will leave you today with the following thoughts on cultural acceptance . . .

It has been a failing of my youth to be all too ethnocentric in my beliefs.  I would have been the first to criticize an immigrant for not understanding the English language and I had very little compassion or understanding of a day in the life of one who is trying to make a life in a foreign land.  I am now quite ashamed of this narrow minded viewpoint.  Bless them all for their courage.  This is not an easy task and not for the weak of heart.  So, if you have a problem with the immigrant at the local market, restaurant or convenience store . . . FLUCK YOU . . . have some flied lice and just chill.  True beauty in life is found in its diversity.  I learned that from a Frog.  Take care and speak again soon . . . hopefully.  R.  

Day 186 through 191

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

The exceedingly frenetic pace of my full time job as a part time single father of two has once again kept me from writing or painting much of anything over the past several days.  Once again, life finds my wife out of town during a stressful period in our lives.  This in fact marks the second day of school of my young lads at the French private school we have enrolled them in.  Her absence was indeed noted on my end and I found myself quite angry with her as the first day of school approached.  Once again, my selfishness knows no bounds.  The truth is, being gone is harder on her than it is on those left behind.  Having to miss out on these days, stressful though they are, is far worse than being the one here to watch it all unfold.  I realized that being irritated over someone else’s loss is foolish and short sighted.  The slight inconvenience that I experience simply cannot compare to the alternative.  I tossed and turned for most of the night last night, trying to sort it all out in my mind. I have come to one incontrovertible conclusion.  I love my wife.  It is in that simple statement that this project began and it will likely be how it concludes, for she is my beginning and my ending.  I exhaust my mental capacity when I contemplate the words to express what she means to me.  To that end, I intend to dedicate this entry to her.  To prevent this from becoming a horrible hallmark moment, I am going to put my love for her into the following words . . . She is my forgiveness, my savior.  She is my ego defeating, daily gut check, slap in the face that keeps me from inevitable self destruction.  Without her, I cannot breath.  The greatest gifts I have ever given her have been these simple words.  I have perhaps cloaked them in more flowery prose, but the sentiment remains the same.  I am as “in love” with this woman as the day we were wed some 11 years ago.  The real difference is that I “love” her more still.  Perhaps this makes little sense, but as one gets older you begin to realize that which is truly important is that which isn’t as easily identified.  I still have that “always thinking of you” excitement for her as I did in my youth, but what is underneath is far more important to me.  I would gladly lay down in traffic for this woman.  I would walk to the ends of the world for her only to be demanded to return once more without question.  The pendulum that is my broiling psyche swings wildly when she is not with me.  She brings me peace.  She brings me order.  She brings me balance.

I have referred to this in prior posts, but the attraction of polar opposites could not be more true.  She and I are nothing alike and yet exactly alike at the same time.  She likes to work, I like to play.  She loves science and I failed Chemistry (joke in there somewhere).  She is a little bit country and I am a little bit rock and roll.   Somewhere in the middle, however, we are one.  In the 11 years we have been married, we have nourished each other with those opposite values.  I now appreciate a hard day’s work and she appreciates a hard day of play.  She tolerates loud music and I own a cowboy hat.  She loves science and I still suck at Chemistry.  Some things, afterall, never change.  While my bravado continues to feed my ego by referring to myself as a trophy husband, my lack of meaningful foliage atop this tree and withering stature don’t compare with her beauty.  She is more striking than the day we met with hair of flame and eyes as blue as the ocean deep.  Behind those beautiful eyes however, is the wisdom of time . . . an understanding of my failings and my strengths.  This is what makes her my wife.  I miss her terribly when she is gone, but am glad for her to leave.  It is often these absenses that make me appreciate that which I don’t make note of on a daily basis.  Don’t get me wrong, there are days in which I hate her as much as I love her and most days she doesn’t find me funny, but in the end, we find the perfection in each other and that is all you really need.

In keeping with this theme, I feel compelled to describe the days she has missed in hopes that if she reads it, she will feel closer to home.  The final days of summer break were absolutely unremarkable.  I asked the boys for any special requests and none were proffered.  Perhaps that is a sign that they are ready to get back to business.  Monday was soon upon us and early Sunday bedtimes were complied with which made the early Monday rise a bit more tolerable.  Both boys seemed keen to get the day started and the morning routine flew by in an instant.  I was indeed more nervous than the lads and I think they knew it.  I did my best to quell this feeling to bolster their confidence, but in the end, their grounded demeanor kept me from losing my composure.  We arrived at the school early, which proved to be a mistake.  One of my wife’s colleagues met us at the school as her children had attended this same school and she thought it might be helpful given my mediocre control of the language.  It was in fact very helpful as the place was a madhouse and I would not have had a clue where to go or what to do, had her experience and knowledge of the institution to point me in the right direction.  The courtyard was full of families seeing their young ones off on their first day and the sound was deafening.  Unfortunately, the process took almost two hours and by hour two, my youngest had lost interest in the process and was begging to return home.  The eldest was of course unruffled by any of it and stood patiently waiting for the day to begin.  I held the youngest and attempted to sooth his aching soul as the eldest lined up to enter his classroom.  He quickly disappeared and it was soon the youngest’s turn to take this journey.  He clung to me tightly when his name was called.  I walked him into his class, sat him in his chair and abandoned ship.  Not a word was spoken as his anxiety was felt by his instructor and she began to ruffle her hands through his hair and speak kind words to him as I walked away.   French words, but universally kind all the same.  I could tell that the two had an instant bond and he was well tended.  I went about the remainder of my day in the quiet solitude that hadn’t been graced our home in many weeks.  It was strange to not have them with me and I missed their company.  Don’t get me wrong, I now understand why stay at home moms are so glad to see their children back to school after a long summer break.  It is like tending to wild woodland creatures.  They are fun to watch, take pictures of and feed . . . for awhile.  Eventually, however, they turn on their trainer and someone gets their face eaten.  Always remember, don’t feed the bears!  The second day was met with less drama still.  The first day had gone well and the only one that felt the sting of the beginning of school was yours truly.

I had homework . . . a lot of it.  Forms to fill out and administrative details to attend to . . . I was busy translating these gems till well into the late evening hours.  I figured MOST of it out and will have to seek out a native speaker to sort out a document or two which made absolutely no sense even after translation.  The beginning of day two was met with strife followed by a smile.  The youngest is getting all too independent and was not keen on the clothing I had selected for the day.  We fought for most of the morning and I was certain I was going to have to send him bareassed to the school house and let them figure it out.  After an hour or so of intense negotiations, we finally agreed on an outfit and left the house.  We arrived at an appropriate hour and the boys were both very excited to get on with their days.  A manly fist bump to the eldest and a sneaky forehead kiss for the youngest had them off and running to scholastic glory.  All is well and we await Mom’s return on Wednesday, our day of rest.  No school on Wednesdays.  I know what you are thinking, only 4 days of school?  Seems easy enough until you take into account that they attend school until a quarter till 5 each day.  That is a full day’s work for a 4 year old.  The last piece of news to share is that we FINALLY are set to have our internet installed on Friday.  I know this to be the case, because I have the equipment in my hot little hands and have and English guy coming to do the installation.  I am excited to get back online and continue this project in full swing.  Take care until then.  R.