Day 21

Even God took a day off.  I am tired and going to bed, so there won't be our traditional post tonight kids.  Sorry.  I will however leave you with a few random observations. 

The first is that a parent should never have to buy their 8 year old a beverage from the liquor department.  As it turns out, a childhood favorite here in our new home land is Grenadine and water.  Now, I only know Grenadine as a mixer for a myriad of well known cocktails.  Here, it would seem to be a reasonable replacement for Kool Aid.  My eldest does find it to be a refreshing alternative to Coca Cola, which is your only option for soda pop.  I have seen Pepsi and Sprite, but it is few and far between.  Oh, and as an FYI: "Coca", as it is called, is traditionally served at room temperature.  Only Americans drink their beverages with ice.  This was a concept that offended me at first, but I now actually prefer it un-chilled.

The second is that upon cleaning the room today I ran into one of the toys that came in my youngest's happy meal a few days back.  It was comic book of sorts.  After leafing through the pages, I made a startling discovery.  One of the characters was an old man laying on the beach.  One of the more notable features was a thick swatch of pubic hair peaking out of the top of his swim trunks.  Won't find that in the good old US of A huh?  Not sure I am ready for that conversation, so it found it's way into the trash bin.

Finally, I am curious to know if they still sell scented toilette paper in the US.  I remember this from my youth, but I somehow recall it's ban due to it's possible link to anal cancer or some some other rectal condition that I would just as soon avoid if possible.  I ran out of toilette paper and didn't have time to wait around for house keeping to bring me a new batch, so I brought some back from the rental house.  It has a lovely aroma and is quite green in color.  Not sure of the health risks, but it does take the edge off of an unpasturized morning dump.

That's all for now.  I will be back up and running tomorrow for another hearty installment.  Until then, Merci and Au Revoir.

Day 20

A journey to the edge of hell to meet the three little pigs that live there . . .

Addiction is a painful thing to watch.  Heroin addicts call it "getting well".  It's that first dose that must be taken first thing in the morning, just to feel normal again.  That first hit provides no high at all and inevitably leads to a second.  The DT's had become just too much to bear for my youngest.  The dark cloud of his hotdog addiction hanging over his head like a growing typhoon.  Just a "taste" he promised.  What harm could just one hotdog do?  Unfortunately he didn't stop there.  One hotdog lead to two and before long he had overdosed.  It was touch and go for while and I was uncertain whether he would ever come out of the coma, but it looks as though he may have survived this set back.  I beg him to attend his meetings and follow the 12 step program, but he insists he doesn't have a problem.  You can lead a horse to water but you cannot make him drink.  Ultimately, he is going to have to decide to do this for himself.  No amount of persuasion on my end is going to help.  He has to want this for himself.  The best I can offer him is my support in the hopes that tomorrow brings a better day.

Living alone with two young men brings with it a certain bit of enlightenment.  First, I have to give a tremendous amount of credit to all single parents around the world, roughing out an existance in an attempt to raise their children into upstanding members of society.  It is a lonely and thankless road that is full of obstacles that would cripple most mortal men.  I only man this post temporarily and with the knowledge that sooner or later, the second parent will appear and carry their share of the load.  For some, this is not the case and I feel for the imprisonment that they must face each and everyday, with the knowledge that there is not repreive on the horizon . . . there will be no parole.

The second thing I have learned from my life with these gents is that men are pigs.  That's right ladies, i said it.  These children are absolute dirt magnets and despite their mother's best efforts, their manners still leave much to be desired.  Where do they get it from?  Me of course.  You see, it is hardwired into the male DNA to think farting is funny and that burpring is acceptable dinner conversation.  I apologize to each and every one of you women out there that have to deal with this sort of behavior on a daily basis.  It's not fair, but it is not our fault.  It is the way God made us and you can't change it any more than you can remove the stripes from a Zebra.  So, a big "thank you" goes out on behalf of us all for the patience the fairer sex shows in allowing us to remain in their homes and in their lives.  We might be better off grouped together in a smelly colony somewhere.  A place where you could visit but didn't have to stay.  A place where you could just sort of check us out like a library book and return us when you were done.  I do believe that my wife's only savior is a heavy travel schedule that she can lean on when she needs a break from this bleak reality.

The day has been spent up to my elbows in paint.  The task is nearing completion and not a moment too soon as we just received word that our items have made it safely to port and are set for delivery next week.  Exciting times indeed.  Laundry however, is going to be an issue.  I drug the dog and a heavy load of wash over to the new house with me this morning, unfortunately only one of those items returned with me to the hotel.  The washers and dryers here are incredibly small.  Just enough room for a tee shirt, a pair of underpants and one tube sock.  I now see why folks recycle their clothing so often here.  It's funny how your perspective can change so quickly.  Necessity has a way of leveling the playing field.  To tell you the honest truth, as long as the clothes don't stink, I don't see anything wrong with wearing the same clothes two or three days in a row.  Adulthood makes us judgmental.  Back home we would see someone wearing the same clothes for more than one day and would assume a defect in their personality or some lack of affection for hygene.  Children don't have the same preconceived notions about the world.   Charlie Brown never changed his clothes.  Ever seen an episode of Scooby Doo where Shaggy wasn't wearing the same jazzy green shirt and brown pants?  Ok, bad example . . . freakin hippy.

Either way, as the laundry piles up, the wardrobe we rely on will inevitably become smaller and smaller.  It's actually better this way.  The clothes that most wear here are very nice indeed.  They cost a fortune and are of as fine a quality as you will find anywhere in the world.   So, there is no need to have alot of them as they don't wear out easily.  The key here is to accessorize.  Same shirt, just put a sweater over it now and again . . . or pair that same pair of blue jeans with a pair of sneakers and a rockin belt instead of dress shoes and a blazer.  Indeed our styles will change . . . they will have too, or I will be chained to our tiny washer and dryer for the rest of eternity.

My time spent over at our new house brought about some other revelations I would like to share.  First off, this janitorial key ring I am inexplicably now tied to.  I realize now why the damned thing weighs so much.  Every door and window in the place has a separate key.  These aren't keys to the outside of the home, but rather keys to lock your self in from the inside.  What an absolute nightmare.  Checking all the doors in this son of a bitch will take all night.  Better start early.  It would seem that a great deal of the security in the home depends on the functional shutters on every door and window in the home.  When she is shut down, it feels alittle like a safe house circa the 1950s.  Some of the doors are even equiped with much more modern and fully automated metal security doors like you find at the mall.  These crazy kids love their contraptions.  During my rounds I also had the fortune of meeting our postman.  The door bell rang and I nearly pissed my pants.  Some melodic baroque number plays when the door bell rings.  Thought I was hearing things and that the place was certainly haunted.

Quickly fumbling through the keys in my pocket for the right one to unlock myself from the inside of my home, I greeted the postman kindly at our front gate.  A nice young man.  Traditional post man uniform.  No mail bag, just a heavily cargoed yellow bicycle.  The thing looked so damned heavy, I wondered how he even kept it upright.  These people love their bikes.  As an aside and a continuation of my comments from yesterday, the postman isn't the only working adult that uses a bicycle as their work vehicle.  There are taxi cab bicycles, delivery bicycles, hell there are even bicycles for your bicycle.  It is a wild world that I look forward to becoming more familiar with and I will do my best to pass along my education as it becomes available.  With the postman gone, it was time to wrap things up at the house for the day.  The dryer would have to continue to cycle until late this evening.  I knew I shouldn't have put that second tube sock in there.

Back in the car it was time to do my usual dance through the city, running children to and from school like a red bull infused rally car driver.  Had another voicemail upon my return.  Still don't understand the guy on the other end.  I did get enough of a translation to understand that my voicemail is a voice recognition system . . . GREAT, like I don't have enough problems.  So, rather than pushing a button to hear you message, you have to tell the system (in French of course) what your menu selection is.  Curse you Rosetta Stone and your inability to teach anything remotely functional.  With messages unretrieved and a sore back from a days worth of toil, I will see you all tomorrow.  Until then . . . Cheers.

PS:  Day old cheesburger eaten by pooch = explosive diareha all over hotel rug . . . STUPID DOG.

Day 19

Special sauce, lettuce and cheese . . .

These will be my bed partners tonight.  Note to self, don't abandon the apartment with a day old cheeseburger within the dog's reach.  STUPID DOG.  Came home to a catastrophe.  Burger shrapnel everywhere.  It looks like Grimace and the Hamburgler had an orgy on my bed linens.  Just another listless day in the trenches.  Saw a girl eat it on a bicycle this morning.  Made me giggle.  Is that wrong?  The truth of the matter is, it was only a matter of time before I was witness to a gory bicycle accident.  This is of course the home of modern cycling.  Nobody does it better.  It isn't just a means of recreation here.  It is a mode of legitimate transportation.  It is a way of life.  They are so serious about it that the city will give you a free bicycle . . . not a rental . . . free to own.  You really see the full range of two wheel transporation in the streets.  Most of them look like they have seen better days.  Brands that have been abandoned long ago are still in modern circulation.

The truly terrifying aspect of this form of transportation is that the cyclists share their lane with the double jointed city buses.  Like I said, just a matter of time before I would be witness to an accident.  Despite the danger, it truly is the best mode of transportation through the city.  It is so preferred that you see every walk of life astride one of these rolling beasts.  From business men in three piece suits to filthy industrial workers pedaling their way home after a 12 hour shift.  After this morning's accident, I really started to study the art of riding in the city and the multitude of styles that accompany it.  My favorite from this mornings commute was a young lady in high heel suede boots, her purse over her shoulder and a cigaret in her hand.  As if changing a tire in the pits at Talladega she applied her makeup at a red light.  Classic.  I could truthfully dedicate an entire entry just to the variety of riding styles.  I may in fact do that, but not now, not today.  I have other pressing matters.  By the way, I already have a bike of my own picked out at one of the local bike shops.  It should be a matter of time before someone else is giggling at my misfortune.  I will keep you posted.

The relative lull in activity over the past couple of days has brought me to a stark realization.  I am at a crossroads with this thing.  I could simply continue with the mundane daily entry of my life's trivial events, or I could try to make this something more . . . something much more.  The truth of the matter is, I can continue to post the entertaining moments of our lives here and treat this as nothing more than a travel log, or I can attempt to make this a living, breathing thing.  There is nothing wrong with the prior, however, life will slowly and inevitably change from what was once a daily adventure to a weekly adventure and ultimately to the routine and the mundane.  You see, I am not one of those people that like to catalogue their child's every move, nor am I the type of person to waste precious time on something that has no meaning.  So, ultimately, my preference is for the latter.  The creation of something with meaning that my children can read years from now and know where they come from and understand me as a person.  My strengths and my weaknesses . . . my successes and my failings.  Unfortunately, to pull this off, everyone will be exposed to the deeper recesses of my particular brand of dementia.  My views on life, on poetry, on politics, on success and on failure.  Moments of  happiness and sadness.  The truth about love and hate.  My view of the world and where I fit into it  . . . if at all.

The only thing I can promise is that it will be a colorful ride and will not always make a lot of sense.  I have a habit of reading back through what I have written, but never edit anything more then spelling.  It is written as I feel it.  It is a dialogue from the steady stream of my thoughts and observations.  I hope that nobody finds offense in it, but ultimately if you do, I ask that you look the other way.  This will become a statement of who I am and who I desire to be.  Some of it will be humorous and some of it will be saddness, but at the end of the day . . . it will mean something . . . at least to me anyway.

Day 18

"Never judge a book by its cover" . . .My eldest has taken to making lessons for the day.  This was today's lesson.  I suspect todays lesson may have something to do with the lunch menu at School.  We have always taught both of our kids not to judge or summarily dismiss anything based solely on it's appearance.  This is particularly true with food.  As a result, both of our boys will try damned near anything . . . at least once.  That being said, sometimes stuff tastes as shitty as it looks.  In their lives, their successes have overshadowed their misgivings when it comes to trying to new flavors.  Eventually though, you are bound to get stung.  I think he is struggling a bit with the realities of that concept.  He is an open minded lad, but the chow is bringing him down.  I can't say as I blame him though, mystery meat is mystery meat just about anywhere you go.  You couple that with an unknown veggie and you have the recipe for dietary disaster.  This is also a lesson my wife is learning this week in her travels to Thailand.  It was recomended that she drink whiskey after each meal to kill all the parasites.  Yummy.

It was a really an uneventful day today except for the re-check on our rental property.  Today was our secondary inspection to make sure that all agreed upon repairs were made so that we could take possession.  Fortunately there were no disappointments today.  Everyting ran smoothly and the place looks great.  The garden is sorted and the house has been cleaned.  All that is left is to finish up on a little painting and we are ready to move in.  All is well that ends well.  Maybe I will suggest that for tomorrows "lesson of the day".  The truth of the matter is, the older boys lessons have really opened a nice discourse between he and I and has allowed for some very deep philosophical conversation.  This has always been our way, he and I.  For when I look back at my life, my fondest memories will be those times spent with him sorting out the meaning of life in the 15 minutes between school and our own front door.  We started that process back in the States and I am pleased that it has returned here in France.

Quite ahead of schedule, as he always has been, I think he is coming to terms with just what it is that we are doing here and the profound influence it is going to have on the remainder of his life.  Pretty damned impressive for an 8 year old.  He humbles me everyday.  He is my better and I know it.  Today we had lessons in diplomacy, perspective and above all patience.  At school he learns the nuts and bolts, at home he learns theory and above all, heart.  The kid has one (a heart that is) like a nine pound hammer, both physically as most know, but also emotionally.  He is the calm in the storm.  He is what my father taught me to be.  He is the best of me and I am greatful for the chance to know him, not as his father but as his pupil.

All the philosophy of the day brought me back to my own observations that have been accumulating over my time here.  You have heard many of the highlights which often point to the ways in which we have failed on the otherside of the pond.  Walmart and super sized fries for example . . . dear God don't get me started.  There are failings here as well.  The man purse for example.  European carry all my ass.  The damned thing is a purse, and this is one custom of our new home that I will not be adopting.  A grown ass man has no business prancing around with a purse on his shoulder.  They are everywhere and they make me terribly uncomfortable, sort of the way clowns make other people uncomfortable.  I would be affraid that if I carried one I might get it snagged on something which would cause me to fall down and break my vagina.  For now I think I am going to go ahead and stick with my wallet.

While I am still channeling Dennis Leary, I am going to go ahead and rant about my new French cell phone.  It is a marvelous device, don't get me wrong . . . and despite my recent falling out with Mr. Gates, I chose a Windows based phone.  It is simple in design.  It functions as it should and does so in a simple and easy to use format.  No need for a bunch of meaningless "apps" and gadgets that do nothing but eat up battery life.  I am quite pleased with it over all, but I have a hard enough time setting up my voicemail without the process being in a foreign tongue.  If you are like me, you re-record your voice gretting at least a dozen times before you are satisfied that you have changed your natural voice enough not to sound like a nerd or a pervert.  The whole time I sit there and think to myself, "is that REALLY what I sound like, cause that ain't how I hear it in my head".  All this is really just a diversion from my real gripe.  I don't care where I call in the the United States, I always get the option to choose a different freaking language.  Usually Espanol, but none the less, we give you the option.  No option for English here.  I have three pending voicemails and no clue if I will ever get to hear them.  I am really rather concerned that the calls may be about the millions of dollars I just won or my trial membership at the hair club for men.  I am an important guy and I have important business to attend to.

For now, you best email me, cause the French dude on my cellie ain't speakin my language and I haven't gotten to the "setting up your voicemail" portion of Rosetta Stone yet.  Until tomorrow's lesson, I bid you all a good night.

Day 17

Jack is Back. 

After being treated like Bill Gates' cell mate yesterday evening, I awoke this morning determined to pull my self up by my boot straps and dust myself off for one more round.  Threw on the light in the bathroom for my morning beauty ritual and blew out the lights in the whole damned room.  One outlet seemed to still be in operation, so we took care of our morning business by the light of one lonely flickering lamp.  The problem with this one single lamp is that it provided absolutely no light in the toilette.  Pooping in complete darkness is scary.  What they say about the blind is absolutely true, for when you rob a man of one of his senses, the remaining become stronger.  The smell was unbearable and I vomited a little bit in my mouth. 

The trip to school this morning was a high octane Renault driven blur full of pitched turns and squealing tires.  With children more or less safely delivered to school, it was off to the rental for home improvement hour.  This would be the first time I would test out my new set of keys.  Unfortunately, with all the drama surrounding the rental negotiations, I sort of forgot which key went to which door.  This wouldn't ordinarily cause me much concern, but I knew this was going to take some time since I was having trouble keeping my pants up under the weight of the 73 keys in my pocket.  The key ring looks a bit like the kind carried by old time prison guards.  A key for each cell.  After about 20 minutes of hand cramping key sorting I finally unlocked the three deadbolt locks on the front door and made my way inside.  With all the locks on the door, I wasn't sure if I was in France or in Compton.  I decided to throw on my White Sox hat just to be safe.

As promised, I was greeted with three vats of white paint, two roller handles and four roller heads.  Not a brush in sight.  Edging is clearing going to be tricky.  Without any time to lose, I dove right in.  I keep meaning to draft a list of the oddities I have encountered while transitioning from one cultural norm to another.  I wouldn't have guessed it, but painting would make that list.  The paint said satin acrylic, I THINK, but the consistency was a bit closer to Elmers School Paste.  It smelled like paint and looked like paint, but didn't so much pour like paint.  I just sort of fell out of the bucket with a rather unpleasant sound reminicent of a really moist fart.  I wasn't sure if I needed to roll it on or get a trowel and sort of scoop it up onto the wall.  The roller heads didn't help the situation any.  No synthetic materials here . . . I think it might have been cat hair or maybe lama fur.  Either way, one thing was certain . . . it was going to be a long afternoon.  I toiled for a couple of hours sort of smearing this white gloop on the walls in an effort to make the joint look new again.  Unfortunately, the filth on the walls was not going to go away without a fight.  Eventually, I got the hang of things and made some reasonable progress.

It was soon time to make my way back to the school house to pick up the children, youngest first.  He had a good day today and I am pleased to report that they find him to be a happy child.  There wasn't even the usual screamfest when I dropped him off this morning.  Like the painting, perhaps we are making progress.  The youngster requested some McDonalds for lunch as soon as we reached the car.  This wasn't really in the plans, but it was surely better than slipping back into his back alley hot dog addiction.  I threw the coordinates into the Renault's indash sat nav and we were off for a bit of sightseeing.  Found a new park not far from our home . . . a place where I don't have a record.  Nothing like a fresh start.  It was nice to be mobile and finally able to get my bearings a bit.  Since I am usually the wheel man on family outings, they have all come to rely on my sense of direction.  We sort of meandered our way out to McDrive and it was time to once again test my French.  Not really all that hard at McDonalds, but the more practice the better.

With happy meals in hand we headed back to the hotel to await the eldest's release from school.  Just as we were getting ready to load back into the car, the phone rings.  Time to test out the old French skills again.  This time?  Failure.  The gentleman on the other end of the line did not speak much english at all and his French was so fast I could only pick up a word or two.  After quite a bit of awkward hmming and hawing from both sides as to how we were going to communicate, he was able to flag down an individual proficient in English on his end.  It was the phone company.  Just needed a bit of follow up information in order to activate our land line.  Why couldn't he have just said that in the first place?

With both children back from their educational outings it was back to the usual evening routine of homework and sibling rivalry.  This place is starting to get too small for the both of them.  As for me . . . their mother won't get back soon enough.  They would test my patience to its limit this evening.  How can two people with the same genetic makeup hate each other so much?  With both of them acting like retarded gangbangers, an earlier bedtime was in their not so distant future.  With both finally at slumber, it is time for me to follow suit.  Jack Butler . . . over and out.

Day 16

Bill Gates and the Carnival.

Curse you Bill Gates, why have you foresaken me?  After several paragraphs of what was to be today's post, internet explorer took a poop in a jar and I lost it the whole nine yards.  Oh well, the writing was a bunch of crap anyway.  I really do this more for my own gratification than anything else.  I don't know that it is necessarily informative or entertaining to anyone else and I don't really care.  The cold truth of the matter is that anyone who would write one of these things is a self absorbed jackass anyhow.  Like anyone really needs to read paragraph upon paragraph about the exploits of a balding, unemployed, middle aged jerk-off who clearly married up.  Holy shit, I just had the realization that I'm not Jack Butler . . . I'm George Costanza.  Perhaps I should change the name . . .

Today was pleasant enough, I guess.  I had a really romantic soliloquy written about life in the city that was full of witticisims about child rearing, souldful Sunday afternoons and the meaning of life, but Bill Gates saw fit to wipe his ass with it and flush it down the toilette.  I am now left with an empty canvas, a broken spirit, and a possible computer virus that makes syphilus look like the common cold.  With no ink left in my pen, I think I might just call it a night.  No, I can't do that.  I wouldn't respect myself in the morning if I quit now.  Besides, my youngest child has decided that sleep is an overrated endeavor and is now on strike demanding better hours.  Since I am going to be up for awhile waiting him out, I may as well try to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Sunday is fast becoming my favorite day of the week.  Things slow down to a crawl.  No more kamakazie scooter jockies lane splitting their way through congested city streets leaving a two stroke yawl in their wake. No more rattle and hum from overwork diesel driven busses, and no more chatter from the pedestrian masses hustling their way to and from work.  It is quiet on Sunday.  It is almost an unsettling quiet, and I love it.  Now, I am well aware that I have thus far written romantic volumes about the adventure of it all, but the truth of the matter is that I am still just a good ole boy from the backwoods of the Ozarks Plateau and sometimes I need a little peace and quiet.  In fact, I find myself seeking out the back alleys and lesser traveled corridors of the city.  This is where you find the heart that beats within, this is where you find its soul.  Voices from an open window, the sound of a loose cobble beneath leather soled shoes,  the patter of a pigeon's wing as it comes to rest on it's perch . . .  The soft murmur from a nearby church, the distant sound of children at play . . . all culminating in the rhythm of a heartbeat.  This is the sound track of my life here and this is one of the things that I will never forget.

We didn't get too excited this morning.  We woke up when our bodies had recharged and set about the day in a leisurely fashion.  It was scrambled eggs this morning.  A time tested favorite, for this was to be my final attempt to get the youngest of our clan to eat anything other than a hot dog and ketchup ("dippy" he calls it).  It is his preferred meal for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  At present, he is on a three day bender.  Much to my relief, the eggs did the trick and he began to detox from the hotdog-a-thon we had been on over the course of the past 72 hours.  We had an errand to run, which gave us a good excuse to get out and stretch our legs a bit.  We ran down to the bank to activate our recently obtained debit cards.  With the push of a button, we were back to the modern age of banking.  And not a moment too soon I might add, because writing one of these checks is a mystery I have not yet solved.

After we concluded our banking, it was time for a quick round of tag with the boys in a tree lined park and then down to the waterfront for a stroll along the river.  We had been here before, but something seemed different.  Something was building . . . something that would soon break the quiet peace of my Sunday afternoon.  After a bit and with stomachs grumbling we started back for the hotel.  On our way back, we took a small detour through the Carnival that is in town.  The Carnival proper had yet to open, but the vendors were already in full swing.  The truth is, the food looked quite tempting and a departure from your usual Carni food.  No deep fat fried Snickers here.  Delicate pasteries and bagguette sandwiches as well as a candied apple that looked very appealing.  Doing our best not to lose any of our hard earned money to the gypsy hoard we decided to push on.  As we walked along, I now noticed that on nearly every street corner there was a balloon vendor selling their wares.  A bit strange I thought, but perhaps this is customary.  I mean really, who couldn't use a good balloon on a Sunday?

Nearly back at the hotel, the eldest professed his serious need for food.  We ducked into a little bakery, not even a block from our hotel, to order a bite to eat  Now ordinarily we fumble through the ordering process by leaning on the content of the private French lessons my wife received prior to our departure from the States.  Today I would be on my own.  I am overly proud to say that all this exchange took place entirely in French and much to my astonishment I don't even think the shop keeper pegged me for an "out of towner".  It was clear that my eldest son was surprised and impressed at my mastery of the language.  The latter has kept my chest puffed out for most of the day.  Back at the hotel it was a quick bite and a bit of X Box with the eldest while the youngest took a nap.

The peace of the afternoon was broken by a noticable increase in the noise coming from the street.  The street in front of our hotel was now barricaded.  I knew there wasn't that big of a Sunday balloon market to support that many vendors.  Something was clearly going on.  Within moments my phone rang.  Patricia on the other end.  Mystery solved.  Apparently the Carnival kicks off tonight and to celebrate that event, there is a street party that takes place near the city center.  There were people showing up by the van load.  Still seemed like a lot of people for what appeared to amount to a very short parade.  Our friend Pat went on to explain that this was also the Sunday before Ash Wednesday and that these two things culminated together to bring folks out in mass.  I think there is a pun in there somewhere.

I tried my best to wake the little one from his nap so we could go and join the festivities but it was to no avail.  It was just as well, for we have school tomorrow and the sleeping little brother eased the sting a bit  from the "no" that was summarily handed down when the inquiry came about returning to the Carnival to ride the spinning wheel of death.  I know that the dismissal of this request couldn't have been pleasant to hear, but it was equally distasteful to say.  The children have been quite good through all of this and they deserve a little bit of youthful entertainment.  So, against my better judgment, I have agreed to return to the Carnival later in the week so that the boys can get their fill.  To be perfectly honest, I am as excited to go as the boys because the names of the rides truly have me intrigued.  First stop?  SEXY DANCE!  The name still makes me laugh.

Day 15

Groundhog's Day . . . Magneto, The Cat and Madame Chabou's Lover (Part Deux)

"Then put your little hand in mine, there ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb . . ."  I swear I have lived this day before.  Oh, that's right . . . yesterday.  More of the same today with one notable exception.  No wait, two notable exceptions.  The first?  Drove North bright and early this morning to take final possession of my sub compact dream machine.  About time.  She rides like she is floating on a cloud and corners like she is on rails.  Ok, not exactly, but she is still pretty sweet nonetheless.  The best part by far is how easy she is to park.  Simply pull up to the parking spot, get out of the car, pick it up, then set it in the desired location.  No parking spots available?  Not a problem.  Just stuff it in your back pocket and take it inside with you.  I think I have a future in marketing.

The second exception?  Well, the second came in the form of a God send named Pat.  We were due back at the rental house this morning to take instruction on pool maintenance and put a final nail in this housing coffin.  This time we came prepared.  The landlady had her own counsel the evening prior, so today we came packing a little of our own.  The deck was now evenly stacked.  Ok, not evenly stacked.  Advantage . . . Foreigners.

The evening prior we were not at all prepared for what we would find, nor were we familiar with the acceptable concessions that could or should be made.  You see, renting a home here is quite different than renting in the States and my wife and I are not the kind of folks that assume the whole world should revolve around our expectations.  We have discovered many wonderful differences between our cultures and were not and are not about to start whining because we got our little American feelings hurt.  Just the opposite is true.  Given the hospitality we have been shown, we were not willing to walk into this woman's home and demand that she bend to our every whim based upon some preconceived notion we have about the way things are supposed to be.  We did however, need some guidance.  This guidance was supposed to be provided by our relocation agent, however, it became clear to us over the course of our dealings that this was not to be the case.  It was clearly time to take matters into our own hands and set things straight.

Our new best friend in an American gal we befriended the night of the pit bull attack.  After recovering from last night's drama, The wife and I put our heads together and sent out an SOS to anyone who might have more experience with this sort of transaction than we did.  The general consensus was that the condition of the home was not the cultural standard and that our original relocation agent had done us wrong.  The call was answered, however, in no uncertain terms by our friend Pat.  She and her husband have lived in France for some time now and their business is the renovation of old buildings.  Not only did they agree that the situation was not acceptable, they offered to show up today to help make things right.

Pat is a spitfire of a gal with short blonde hair, steely blue eyes and lightning in her veins.  We had clearly not been able to clear the lines of communication given our very basic command of the language, so our new translator would help us along today.  We arrived at our appointment a minute or two after the hour and there was a bicycle parked out front we had not seen the night prior.  Pat had already arrived.  The truth of the matter is, Pat had already made herself quite at home and assessed the situation on our behalf.  After a quick tutorial on pool maintenance, the check in inspection would begin anew.  The concessions made the night prior would stand and additional concessions would certainly be made.  After a few hours of ugly debate and generally unpleasant conversation we were back in business.

Our original relocation agent had abandoned this project long ago and she had sent a replacement in her stead.  She is a wonderful person in her own right and has treated us very fairly since her involvement, but the damage had already been done.  She was not really in a position to put herself in the middle of a "he said she said" between her coworker and ourselves, so she had clearly been walking very fine line the night prior.  that being said, she too showed up this morning to make sure everything was settled and that both parties were in agreement at the end of the day.  This new team of folks made all the difference in the world and we are pleased to know that we will be able to move into our new home when my wife returns from her trip in Thailand at the end of next week.  It is just as well, since our personal belongings are still floating around the Atlantic Ocean somewhere.  At last check they are due to make landfall somewhere around the 11th.

Now, all this wheeling and dealing did come at a fair price.  As I mentioned last night, one of the concessions was that part of the interior of the home would be repainted at the cost of the landlord, which is not the apparent standard here.  She agreed to purchase the paint and materials and has enlisted a wonderful man to handle the application process . . .YOURS TRULY.  In addition, the wife and I decided so as to not cause undue emotional disress, we would remove the pink flower wallpaper from our eldest son's room and give it a fresh coat of paint as well.  My anal retentive nature will likely call for a repaint of most of the interior of the home, so we can start with a fresh slate.  The landlord agreed that this would be acceptable, so it look like I am back in the home improvement business.  Thought I had left all of that behind in Kansas.  Apparently not!  We did inherit some very nice antique furniture, utilitarian bookcases which we will make good use of, several bottles of wine and of course the cat.  The landlady was unable to find a suitable home for the cat and my wife would not here of it being rudely evicted without anywhere to go.  Here we go again.

With our dysfunctional version of House Hunters International out of the way, I could turn my attention back to what is truly important in life . . . our newly acquired automobiles.  Upon returning to the hotel and obtaining new key cards to our room, having demagnitized another set with my manhood , it was time to check out what we had purchased.  My car . . . basic, economical and dare I say damn good looking for its age.  My wife's car . . . complicated, a technological marvel, and inevitably high maintenance.  I would say that the cars are much like their owners, but that might get the shit slapped out of me.  The truth of the matter is, that no matter how much I say I like my ride, I am still pretty envious of the Renault.  It has so many space aged features, it would make George Jetson proud.

This thing has automatic everything.  No key, just a card . . . and somehow, the car knows where that card is located at all times.  If the key finds itself anywhere inside the vehicle, it will allow you to engage the push button ignition.  The moment you step outside, the doors lock and the mirrors fold inward.  While standing outside the car with said key tucked securely in your pocket, you need only to run your hand by a motion sensor and the car unlocks to allow you passage inside.  Windshield wipers . . . rain sensative.  They come on with the first few drops and adjust themselves based upon the volume of rain hitting the windshield at any given moment.  Sat nav, cell phone and every other electronic gizmo you could think of, all find themselves tucked neatly into this funky looking package.  No doubt I have her on looks, but my hoopty looks like wooden teeth next the her modern age porcelain veneers.

Fear not, for I will not be blinded by the the luminesent glow of the Renault's guages nor will I be charmed by siren song eminating from her premium sound system.  I will stay true to my little Peugeot and I shall give her a name.  I think I shall call her Ristine.  Sleep well Ristine, sleep well.

Day 14

Magneto, The Cat and Madame Chabou's Lover.

Sometimes shit just doesn't go as planned.  The day started like any other.  The daily grind.  Up with the sun . . . children to dress and miles to walk.  Another scream fest at the early learning center.  Par for the course.  Could not deny the spring in my step, knowing that this would be the last time I would travel this route on foot.  By nightfall I would have my feline UAV (urban assault vehicle).  Life was good.  Even locking myself out of the hotel this morning was not enough to bring me down . . . not today.  The folks at the front desk know me well by now.  An extra key was waiting for me.  It seems that there is something about my body chemistry that de-magnatizes the room keys.  I am on my 5th set.  I am very careful to put the keys in my left front pants pocket to ensure that they aren't next to any electronics or keys that might have a negative effect on their proper functioning.  I keep telling my wife that my junk is a magnet, but she ain't buyin it.

Lunch consisted of the last of our supplies . . . French Ramen Noodles . . . the verdict?  Terrible.  Oh well, we would be in our new house this evening and able to properly stock our cupboards.  Picked up the eldest at 4 and headed to meet my wife for a very busy evening.  First to the car dealer and then to the House for final walk through.  What could go wrong?  EVERYTHING, that's what.  Traffic was a nightmare and after just a few moments waiting in line to finish the final paperwork on the Renault, it was clear we were going to have to divide and conquer.  Reluctantly I left my wife at the car seller and made a mad dash across town through dimly lit narrow corridors to make our 6:00 appointment at the house.  With two kids in tow and a notable language barrier, we began our inspection. 

I would like to tell you that the kids welcomed this event with open arms, but after a long day at school, neither was in any mood for what was to transpire.  It mattered not, because there was to be no translation here.  I could spend my time managing the children.  The inspection would proceed in the mother tongue between the landlady, our agent and a woman who was never introduced, but I suspect may be cohabitating with said landlady.  The house is now empty, well sort of.  It appears that we are to inherit some items.  A few dirty mattresses, trash bags of unknown content, broken windows, misc. home furnishing and a tabby cat named Ristine.  The mystery as to the strong feline content of our stay so far was not a coincidence.  It was an omen.  Lion cereal, Cat detergent and car with a notable hood emblem . . . I should have known.  Here kitty kitty.  Ristine seems to be a pleasant enough cat, but the notable fragrance of the now empty house would indicate that perhaps Ristine had used the kitchen as a litterbox.

The stench was not the only horror we would encounter.  The repainting that we had been told would be completed, had not . . . and would not.  The filth on the walls gave them a nice grey sheen, sort of like the walls at a bus depot.  The grey wall color went nicely with the orange carpet.  Newly installed carpet that doesn't appear to be affixed to the floor in any way.  Curious contruction practices.  It was time to bring these proceedings to a halt.  We pulled our agent outside for a bit of a chat.  I kept looking up and down the narrow road infront of the house, hoping . . . no, praying that at any moment Holmes on Homes would show up to intervene.  No such luck.  After some phone calls and some not so pleasant conversations about what was promised and not performed, a few concessions were made . . . most of which involved a lot of manual labor on my part.  So much for my life of leisure.  One thing was clear, we would NOT be moving into this home this evening . . . if at all. 

The misery of the evening left its mark.  Tempers were high and spirits were at an all time low.  To add salt to my gaping wounds, it would not be possible this evening to go and pick up my newly purchased muscle car.  We were being tested.  As we always have, we let our cooler heads prevail and decided that tomorrow was another day.  Sleep well Ristine . . . sleep well.

Day 13

Part Two . . .

Today was a better morning at the red doored school house.  Despite an early insistance that he had "quit" school, I coaxed my little one into the class room and abandoned ship with less fuss than the prior two days.  At this point, I will take any progress I can get.  Took my usual trip back to the hotel cursing at the ground and waiving at the bats . . . empty stroller . . . still getting looks.  Cold again this morning, but the Sun made a rare appearance and hung with us for the remainder of the day.  It was a welcome sight as I think the facial tick that I now have is an early warning sign of seasonal affective disorder.  It is that or the fit that I have been throwing to take notice away from the empty stroller is starting to make itself permanent.  Maybe mom was right . . . if I keep my eyes crossed that way, it really will stick.  The morning was the usual short lived childless bliss.  Ran to pick up a bit of dry cleaning and to see about finding a new way to cut my hair.  Now, there must be well over 100 machines available at the shops to shave your face, but only one to cut your hair.  It's a Flowbe, I think.  It will have to do or I am going to start looking like a less glamorous version of Fabio.  Maybe the cover model of a smut book based in a trailer park rather than a southern plantation.

Took my usual 800 trips back and forth to school and I have decided that the shin splints may get me before the torn ACL.  Now a days I spend a fair amount of my time waiting outside of the school house chatting with the other "moms".  They all refer to me as a "house husband".  I am going to be honest, I am not in love with that title.  The position is great, but I am working on a title with a little more pizzaz . . . something like  Domestic Beefcake, or maybe House Stud.  So far the French Moms have paid me no mind, but the Aussies and Brits have been very kind and welcoming.  My addaptation to the language is coming along relatively well and I feel more and more comfortable with it every day.  The wind was taken out of my sails a bit this evening when I asked a clerk where the bathroom was and she looked at me like I had three heads . . . Do I offend?  The eldest boy had another stellar day at school and got a "credit" in his assignment book for his fine work with the French language.

Things were going so well, I thought it might be time to crack the lid on this whole French cooking thing.  Took a shot at the main course we enjoyed with our friends from the north.  A noodle affair with dried tomatoes and a rather unique shredded cheese.  Had polished off our last baguette earlier in the day and wine was out of the question as we had errands to run immediately after.  This was a quick and dirty version of the feast we had enjoyed, but I am pleased to report that it was a hit and so far nobody has errupted into explosive diarrhea.  I consider that a success.  I had planned a nice mint ice cream for desert, but my wife was delayed enough from work, we didn't have time for the desert course.  I did whip together a little appetizer consisting primarily of my new favorite "Comte" cheese.  My wife says I can't describe what it smells like, but it tastes fantastic.  If you really want to know about the smell and aren't easily offended, send me an email and I will describe it for you.

Regardless of what today could have thrown at me, nothing could marsh my mellow, because tomorrow I received my "super mini" with the lion badge.  I feel like a teenage boy who just received his driver's license.  I am thinking about popping off the hub caps and searching out the local drag spot.  Who knows, maybe another movie roll . . . Too Slow, Too Serious?  Sounds kind of catchy if you ask me.  Maybe if the new flowbe doesn't work out, I will grow out my mane to match my car, grow a thick moustache and pitch my idea to the networks.  Sort of a hillbilly Magnum PI moves to Europe thing?  I gotta find a dude that can fly a helicopter though.  If you ask me, TC was the real star of the show.

As you already know, tomorrow promises to be a big day on many fronts.  We take possession of both vehicles and the house of Madame Chabou's dreams.  In anticipation of the big day, we had to run to the French Walmart (Auchan) for some essentials.  Airbeds, sheets, towels etc.  The essentials, plus one French X Box and a new big screen TV.  You see, it took months of begging to free up a big screen TV out of my American wife, but my French wife was more than willing to make the purchase.  God I love this Country!  We are all very excited to get settled and start really digging our heels in.  So far we have sort of been living "on" France rather than living "in" it.  We have been surviving, not really making an impression.  Just shadows passing in the night, ghosts that are seen but not seen, simply bystanders that have been allowed a ticket in but have not yet been accepted to the VIP room.  That is all about to change.  It is time to lay down some roots.  Get connected.  Find some favorite spots and drink some wine.  Become residents not just wandering tourists.  Wish us luck.

Day 12

For those handful of folks that have been following along, today will be a special DOUBLE installment!  A mind bending migrane headache yesterday evening prevented the very thought of staring at a computer screen to accomplish much of anything.  The day was relatively quiet really.  Only two trips to the school house, which I was thankful for as the weather has turned somewhat cold.  Not Carhart cold, but cold nonetheless.  Grey continues to be the preferred color of the sky and I am beginning to wonder if the Sun is even still out there somewhere.  Half day of school for the eldest and no school at all for the youngest, so the afternoon stetched on like an endless winter slumber. 

I had a few errands to run, but the boys were none too interested in braving the cold.  No need to get stressed out about it, the errands will wait for another day.  I am beginning to get the hang of the laid back way of things here.  I am though starting to get curious about the rate of mental illness in this country.  Don't get me wrong, I have seen some crazies on the street and Jess damned near got leveled by a dude that clearly thought he was from another planet as we were walking into a shop the other day.  Other than a few folks barking like a dog or carrying on angry conversations with acquaintenances that I could not see, I can't imagine mental illness is that prevalent here.  Certainly depression cannot be a frequent battle, as you would have to be concerned about things to get depressed about them.

We would spend a lazy afternoon slipping in and out of conciousness until mom arrived late in the evening.  Her commute is proving to be a bit longer than anticipated.  In addition, she had to stop by the auto seller to finish up the paperwork on the Renault this particular evening.  We are hoping the move out into Merignac will shorten her drive a bit.  Unfortunately, the delay and lack of my usual liberal dose of caffeine gave me just enough time to develop a debilitating migrane headache before her return.  Fortunately, everyone was quite tired from the labors of the week thus far so we called it an early night.  Friday promises to be a big day.  All automobiles will be picked up and the house will be ours.  Finally back to a bit of normalcy!

I ran into my first hiccup with power conversion today.  As most of you know, I like to keep my head shaved like a new born baby's . . . well you know.  It has been some time now since my last shearing, so I pulled out my trusty clippers and plugged them into one of my handy Korean made power converters we bought out of some back ally web store.  So far the converters have been a dream.  Not so lucky this time.  Upon thowing the switch, an arc of electricity and plume of smoke shot out of the wall causing the clippers lurched from my hand with an intimidating growl.  The clippers now free to roam the floors a la the vaccum cleaner in Mr. Mom I immediately sprang into action.  Trying my best to remember everything that Les Stroud ever taught me about capturing a venomous snake, I jumped to the side and then dove for the back of it's head.  You know the spot, right behind the blades so you can really control the creatures movements without recieving a nasty bite.  It looks like the hair is going to have to grow for yet another day.  I am beginning to look a little like Alfred E. Newman . . . Thanks Dad.

Since I am now a bit behind and due back at the school before too long, I will have to cut this a bit short.  I still have yet to collect my dog logs for the morning and have a couple of other matters to attend to before picking up my youngest.  Don't tell my wife, but my habit of picking up the dung has become a bit lax.  If it lands on a grassy patch, I am inclined to leave it behind as fertilizer.  Only in the event of a catastrophic pavement dump do I choke back my vomit and soil my delicate hands.  Other dogs are clearly handling their business in the grass and leaving it behind, so I figure this must be an acceptable practice.  A practice that I will continue until told otherwise.  STUPID DOG.

Oh, by the way, there is a not so subtle hint in the fourth paragraph for those of you that have been combing the internet for the answer to the riddle . . .  Who is Jack Butler?  If you can't figure it out from there, I can be of no futher help.

Day 11

The journey of 1000 miles begins with one step . . . and then another . . . and then another . . . and then another.  Hey, I am not quitter, but at mile 25 I am going to say "fuck it" and head back home.  I walked my ass off today and my feets is burnin.  My bride took off with the the rental this morning which left me and the boys hoofing it for the school house.  Yet another traumatic drop off during which they sort of peeled the youngest off of me like the paranormal investigator peeled his face off in the first Poltergeist movie.  That damned movie still scares the bajesus out of me.  Go away from the light Carol Anne!  As it turns out, his fit was short lived and he had a wonderful day at school.  The problem with dropping off the kids on foot is that they have to be picked up by the same means.  I took that same Journey 6 times today to be exact.  The first leg was a breeze.  Smart enough to bring along the stroller to cart the 3 year old.  Received some strange looks on my way back to the hotel with an empty stroller.  I thought it might make more sense if I seemed mentally unbalanced, so I cursed out loud alot and occassionally swung my hands above my head as if fending off a swarm of invisible bats.  After that, people stopped even noticing the empty stroller.

Upon returning the stroller to its home, I was back out the door to sort things out with the mobile phone vendors.  I settled on Orange which seems to be one of the largest carriers here and is certainly one of the most recognizable.  I got the works with a side of gravy.  Didn't spare any expense.  Didn't have too.  Let me tell you kids, they are ripping us off back home.  I splurged for the full compliment of satelite television, fixed phone, highspeed internet and the coolest damned windows based cell phone I could find and didn't even crack the $100 per month mark.  I can call everyone and everywhere for FREE.  That's right, FREE . . . and thats from our land line.  Unfortunately, this purchasing frenzy put me a bit under the gun on the noon pick up deadline at the school.  I was quite a ways further now from the school than my hotel and had not quite enough time to get there at a comfortable pace.  Wheezing and clutching the school door for support I made it right under the wire.  Small oversight . . . no stroller.  No way this kid is going to make the voyage back to the hotel under his own power.  Way to far for such short legs.  Nothing else to do but throw him up on the shoulders and head off again.  I don't know what this kid has been eating, but it wouldn't hurt him to miss a meal or two.

Had just a moment or two of rest back at the hotel to play with my new toys and then it was time to head back to the school for Round 5.  Unfortunately, we had lingered at the room just long enough for the little one to slip into a post lunch coma.  In an attempt to gently slip his coat on his shoulders and mud boots on his feet, I woke the sleeping dragon and boy did I get burned.  He went ape shit.  Arms and legs flailing about as if the were independent of the rest of his body.  If I hadn't been on a deadline, I would have run in fear.  Standing back it looked like a scene out of the Exorcist.  I am obviously on a horror film kick here . . . lets see if I can keep it going.  Once restrained and relatively clothed, I attempted to put him in the stroller so we could set out.  He decided he would pull out the time tested toddler favorite . . . the wet noodle.  You know the routine, you set them upright in the stroller and as you walk around back they involuntarily slump over, eyes rolled back in their head and sort of ooze out onto the floor.  After three or four attempts we were out of options.  This kid was going to have to be carried.  And while he seemed to be happier with this option, it didn't stop the wailing.  Out on the street we were making such a ruckus that cars were pulling over to yield right of way for what was surely an emergency vehicle approaching from behind.  Nope . . . just us silly American folk with our ill tempered children.  Good times.

He had finally calmed by the time we reached the School to pick up the bigger one.  After a short meeting about the upcoming class trip to Wales we started back for the hotel.  Limping around the last corner and perhaps in need of an emergency ACL repair, I was never so glad to catch site of our home away from home.  Back at the Bates Motel, we settled in for the afternoon to await my better half's arrival after a long day at the office.  She arrived with a bit of a surprise.  We had to return our car today and rather than simply re-issuing her the same whip for the remainder of the week, they had her bring it in for some service and issued her a new ride . . . Lord won't you buy me a MERCEDES BENZ!  Now were talking!  Actually, I don't know if this is a step up or a step down from our little VW.  You see, the MB doesn't quite hold the same prestige here as it does at home.  It seems to be the urban workhorse vehicle and can be more often found in commercial use than in personal transport.  From moving vans to trash trucks, from city busses to tractor trailers, there doesn't seem to be an inappropriate use for this stately german mark.  The car with the three pointed star is a working man's vehicle . . . the equivilant of our beloved Ford F-150 with rubber floor mats, gun rack, and a big ass dent in the fender.

Our little benz is everything you would expect it to be.  Simple, oddly shaped, and well engineered.  No extra buttons on the console.  Just plain ole fashioned reliable transportation.  I already miss the VW.  It is of little concern though, because soon we will take possession of our permanent vehicles and oh the times we will have.  In fact, I may try to ship my little "Lion" home with me when we return.  If I fold the mirrors in, I think it will probably fit in my carry on.  More walking on schedule for tomorrow, assuming I can get out of bed.  Only two trips this time as we will be treated to one of the unique features of this new culture . . . half days.  School lets out for the eldest at Noon tomorrow and the youngest doesn't attend at all.  I don't know what we will do for the rest of the day, but I hope the boys suggest a nice long nap.  Keep your fingers crossed.

Day 10

School Daze.

It has been an exhausting day.  The first day of school has taken its toll.  I would like to say that everything went smoothly, but that wasn't to be the case today.  Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose.  We arrived as the school building a bit early to ensure our first day would get off to a smooth start.  Upon entry everything seemed to be going smooth enough.  Found the little one's class room without issue, but entry into said classroom was a journey he was not willing to take.  We decided perhaps if we got the eldest settled first, it might inspire the second to be more willing to take the plunge.

Upon reaching the third grade classroom, it was clear that our eldest son is truly in his element.  With a fist bump goodbye, he was ready to embark on this new schoolastic adventure.  Back down the spiraling marble staircase we would again test the waters with our youngest.  It took an hour and a half to cut the tie.  He finally came out of his shell enough for us to sneak out.  We were only gone for a moment and he could be heard searching the hallways.  As if we were on the run from the cops after hitting a liquor store or pulling a daylight bank job, my wife and I dove into an empty classroom to avoid detection.  Stifling our giggles like small school children, we waited quietly behind some book cases.  The teachers ushered him back to the adjacent classroom and we made a final break for it.  Almost a clean escape.  Upon entering the courtyard, we would run into our eldest who was on an outdoor break.  He smiled sharply at us to let us know all was well and we passed without words.

The curriculum is actually quite intense.  I myself was a bit intimidated by the tone of our youngest's French teacher.  She is quite fluent in English, but does not speak a word of it around the children.  She explained that she does not want them to know that she is adept at any other language.  No where to run.  No escape.  No way to hide behind your native tongue.  We were due back to pick the youngest up in only an hour and a half, since we had spent half of his half day there in the class with him, so there really wasn't much time to accomplish anything for the morning.  We ran back to the hotel for a moment of quiet time and then headed back.  The report was favorable . . . sort of.  He handled the structure of the classroom fairly well, but freaked when they went for recess.  Apparently he didn't get the memo that recess is the best part of the school day.  This being a VERY small facility, the older boy reported witnessing the beginning of the meltdown.  Apparently it wasn't pretty.

I really can't blame the kid.  Three years old and up-rooted from everything you know.  Living out of a suitcase in a hotel, and not having a clue what in the hell these people are saying to you.  I think I would really be more concerned if he wasn't a little freaked out . . . because I am, and I am a grown ass man.  We took him with us to the grocery after class, and the stress of the day had him falling asleep long before the shopping was complete.  Put more groceries on our shelves and it was back to school again to pick up the 8 year old.  I am starting to see that my days are going to be filled with this commute.

The elder son's story?  A day well spent.  The first subject of the day?  SPANISH!?  This kid is going to be able to speak so many languages when he gets out of here that he won't know where to call home.  This kid is going to save the world one day.  In his subtle way, he never misses an opportunity to show off.  As most of you know, the white american male is rapidly becoming a minority in the US.  A working understanding of the Spanish language is a handly thing to have since our neighbors are jumping the border faster fleas abandoning a newly dipped dog.  That being said, there is a fair amount of exposure to that language in our public schools back home and his own father is relatively well versed after eight years of study.  He would let them know in no uncertain terms that he too was relatively bi-lingual and was very pleased to report to mom and dad that he was the star of his new class in this familiar subject.

Not having officially taken possession of either of our french fried hotrods, we are still limping around with only one car.  This means we will be walking to school tomorrow.  I contemplated the bus system, but after an hour of translating the local bus routes, my brain hurts.  The damned thing looks like a thousand legged spider on roller skates.  Multi-colored lines and arrows going every direction imaginable.  I am affraid if we jump aboard in the morning without a dry run, we may end up in Moscow.  Google reports this to be a 15 minute walk, but having driven it a time or two, I have my doubts.

We are to move into our permanent residence on Friday evening.  Not a moment too soon.  Since all of our worldly possessions are still lost in transit somewhere over the atlantic, it looks like we are in for some more indoor camping.  Have to buy some basics to survive, but anything is better than our current living arrangements.  Don't get me wrong, our hotel is equiped with most of the modern conveniences, but it is starting to feel a little like living in a POW camp.  Rations are usually low and the kids don't really seem to care for BBC news.  They say watching TV is a good way to learn the language, but after watching National Treasure in French last night, I am on the verge of hanging myself by my underpants.

As with everything, the excitement of moving into our new home is bittersweet.  As I mentioned, we take possession on Friday evening, however, my wife will be leaving us for 7 days in Thailand on Saturday.  I hope the French ramen noodles we purchased are as good as their American cousin.  Actually, the pagentry of the French dining experience is starting to get into our blood.  We have experimented with our diet and have essentially abandoned all those familiar foods that we had been using as staples over our first week abroad.  Fortunately, no major intenstinal upset to report.  With a real kitchen at our disposal, the possibilities seem endless.

It will be another adventure tomorrow and I will be left to my own devices for the first time since we have been here.  Wife at work and children at school . . . God knows what I will get into.  Keep the bail money at the ready.

Day 9

The dog has nine lives . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until tomorrow.

Day 7

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

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

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