The Great French Saga, Part III

Our first Saturday and Sunday in France were our weekend with Carmen "La Fabulous," our dear friend who lives in London.  She took the Chunnel early Saturday morning and met us at the Quai Branly in Paris.  This is the location of one of the only parking garages in Paris high enough to accommodate our rented Fiat 9-passenger van.  Almost every single parking garage in Paris has a maximum height of 1.90 meters; our van measured 1.93.  A bit of a nightmare, which we overcame in time. 

From Quai Branly, we took the metro the Place Denfert-Rochereau where the entrance to the Paris Catacombs is located.  We waited in line for a good hour (which was a surprise; I had no idea the catacombs were such a popular spot), but Carmen is so entertaining that the time flew by.  She adores our kids and engages them so fully that each of them secretly believes that she loves him or her best.  But I secretly know that she loves ME best. 

The catacombs were fabulous.  The wait was so long because they only allow 200 people to be underground at a time; once we were in the tunnels, we felt like we were basically alone, which was nice.

You have to walk for a good long time (after descending many, many stairs) before you get to catacombs proper.  The tunnels were the headquarters of the French Resistance during WWII, which added to their attraction for our older boys in particular.  When we finally neared the ossuarium, we turned a corner, and Tess squeaked, "I see a dead person!"  We all looked, jumped, then laughed.  It was a guard sitting in a corner, and he started laughing HARD when he heard Tess's outburst.  The little kids were relieved to see that the catacombs contained piles upon piles of neatly stacked bones interspersed with old gravestones, but no intact skeletons.  All the bones had been disinterred and moved to the catacombs in the 18th and 19th centuries, so they are nothing like the catacombs outside Rome.  But they had a coolness all their own. 

Once we were aboveground, we found a little restaurant that had room for the nine of us outside and had a quick saucisse frites et Fanta (Fanta is much less sweet in Europe--delicious).   Then we went home and hung out with Carmen.  The delightful thing about staying in France for almost three full weeks was that we had the luxury of doing just one or two things each day; we felt no pressure to pack things in and exhaust ourselves. 

Sunday, we went to church in Paris.  After church, we headed toward Père Lachaise Cemetery, one of Christian's requests, since Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde are buried there.  On the way, we stopped at Chez Papa, a terrific little restaurant featuring dishes from the southwest area of France.  We all gobbled down scrumptious entrées followed by more amazing French ice cream.  How do they make it so much better?  I must know!

Père LaChaise was a treat.  I was envisioning typical grassy lawns dotted with headstones.  Oh, no: this cemetery is instead chock-a-block with little above-ground tombs along the lines of what I've seen in photos of New Orleans, so it looks like a city in miniature. 

The architecture was very diverse and always gorgeous; we happily wandered the sycamore- and chestnut-shaded pathways there for hours.  We found both Oscar and Jim, as well as many other luminaries (we got a map at the guardhouse).  It was the perfect stroll for a hot Sunday afternoon.  The only bummer was that we had opted for the stroller instead of the baby backpack that day, and the cobblestones were so bumpy that Anne protested.  She was fine being carried, though, so we traded her around as we walked.  After our time there, we headed home for another fun evening with La Fabulous.

The next morning, Carmen had to make an early train so that she could get to work in London, so Patrick drove her to the station while I got us packed for our two-day trip to Normandy.  This was to be our only long-distance adventure, as we had planned; we didn't want to spend money on hotels when we had the house at our disposal.  Once Patrick got home (stopping at the boulangerie on his way), we set off for Mont Saint-Michel.

I've wanted to go there all my life, and after the 3.5-hour car ride, we saw the glory of it in the distance.  We immediately started singing "The Holy Grail" trumpet fanfare (something we repeated throughout the day).  Traffic was congested; Mont Saint-Michel is THE most visited site in all of Normandy.   We didn't care, though.  We parked in the vast parking lot and made our way to the town gate.  Once inside, it was like being in a rock concert: a solid wall of flesh packed the narrow, precipitous streets.  We took a few shortcuts through museums, though, and found a little lawn where we ate our picnic lunch. 

After lunch, we got in line to go into the abbey.  Apparently only one third of the visitors to Mont Saint-Michel go all the way up to the abbey, which boggles my mind.  But fine: it was much less crowded once we got inside.  The abbey is gorgeous, huge, and has views that are to die for.  The little kids trotted around "playing castle" as we toured.  We were there for hours exploring all the turrets and crypts.  When we descended, the crowds had mostly cleared out.  We bought fresh, hot, sugar-dusted gaufres for the walk back to the car, then drove an hour to Bayeux, where our hotel was.

We were tired once we got there, and I inexplicably hadn't done any food research, so we ended up eating dinner at the hotel restaurant.  This was our only disappointing meal of the entire trip.  The food was disgusting and insanely expensive.  What can you do?  We gambled and lost.  The rooms were comfortable, though.  The Big Three had their own room, while Daniel, Tess, and Anne slept in with us. 

The next day, we went straight to the museum housing the Bayeux Tapestry.  I was in full medievophile nirvana.  Here is a cool animated version of part of it.

There was a little audioguide that accompanied our walk down the entire 230 feet of the cloth.  The kids once again amazed me by being completely absorbed.  "They cut off his head!"  Daniel crowed at one point.  I realized then that the tapestry really is like a cartoon or a comic book.  

Bayeux Cathedral is very near the tapestry museum.  I was worried that the kids would balk at yet another church (why I didn't have more faith in them, I'm not sure), but they adored Bayeux.  It is a splendid one.  "Yessss!"  James cried as we walked up to it.  "Flamboyant Gothic is my favorite!  It's so much cooler than Romanesque."

From the cathedral, we walked to a bakery where we bought croissants for breakfast and pre-made sandwiches for lunch.  Then we piled into the car and headed to Caen.

I had read that the WWII museum in Caen was amazing.  I had also read that they had FREE, unlimited daycare for kids up to age 10.  I was hopeful, but basically thought that all this was too good to be true.

NOT.  Not only is the museum fantastic in every regard of its exhibits--including an extensive pictorial psychoanalysis of the world events that led from WWI to WWII and a very cool film of the events of D-Day, with the screen split so that you see footage of Allied preparations on the left and Axis preparations on the right--THERE IS FREE CHILDCARE.  Given by a lovely, cheerful, and capable staff in a bright, open, clean, and well-stocked nursery.  Anne promptly took a nap in a little crib in the darkened nap room.  Daniel and Tess played happily for HOURS with a lot of other European children while the rest of us took our sweet time.  Without this option, not only would we have had to drastically curtail our visit there, but also a lot of the material was simply unsuitable for the smaller kids.  The childcare was heaven-sent.

After Caen, we headed to Omaha Beach.  So.  Cool.  So.  Non-American.  Because if this site were in the States, the bunkers would be fenced off and have warning signs posted everywhere.  But it's France, so the kids got to wander through and clamber on top of the emplacements (though I was a bit nervous at how unsafe it all was).  We found a Corporal Wendell B. Perkins on the Memorial Obelisk there; it turns out he was from Binghamton, NY, enlisted in the Big Red One in 1942, and was awarded both the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star (we looked him up when we got home).  He died on 17 June 1944 from wounds he incurred storming the beach on D-Day.

The kids eventually got their fill of the beach.  Our next stop was the American Cemetery.  How gorgeous it was: golf-green-like lawns with rows upon rows of white marble crosses and stars of David.  It was late afternoon by now, so we stayed until closing time.  The lowering sun gilded the air as the crystal-clear tones of a bugle playing "Taps" rang out.  We all got a bit choked up.

I'd read that any visit to Normandy must include a meal of oysters in Courseulles (Juno Beach), so that was our last stop.  It was about 6:30, early for dinner by French standards, so La Chaumière, the charming restaurant we found, was nearly empty when we arrived.  We sat outside and watched a swan glide around the inlet near our table (the restaurant was right on the beach).  I'll remember this meal all my life.  The sunset looked like something from a Renaissance painting.  Both the oysters and our entrée of steamed mussels were the best I've ever had, followed by more indescribable cheese and ice cream.

Only one event marred the beauty of our idyllic evening.  Between the main course and the cheese, Anne got a bit restless, so Christian offered to take her for a walk.  Unbeknownst to us, while on the beach, he got caught in quicksand.  While holding the baby.  He spent a good amount of time trying to get himself out (without calling for help--he was behind the restaurant and we couldn't see him), and finally had to set Baby Anne on a rock (which made her mad) so that he could lever himself out with both hands.  He was in up to his knees by that point and was pretty traumatized.  He got out, comforted the screaming baby, and headed back up the hill.  I had gone looking for him to spell him, so I met him on the path.  Patrick took him down to the water so that he could try to rinse off as best he could; it was pretty stinky mud.  We put his shoes in the car and he put on flip flops for the remainder of the evening.  Poor kid!  He shook it off pretty well, though, and ice cream did much to restore his spirits.

After our lovely, three-hour meal, we got in the car and drove back to our house in Neauphle.  I taught the kids some rounds; we sang a lot of the way home.  It was only a two-hour drive, so we got in at about 11:00 and crashed after putting Christian's shoes in a bucket to soak.

The next day, we all slept in to our heart's content.  We did extra laundry, then spent the afternoon in Montfort, which I've already told you about out of turn--that was the day of the bathing suit drama and the visit to the castle ruins. 

This was a longggggg installment.  Stay tuned for part quatre!

The Great French Saga, Part II

Our fourth day, we went to Parc Astérix.  This is a Six-Flags/Lagoon-style amusement park based on the famous French cartoon character and his gang of Gallic upstarts.  P knew all the books by heart as a child, and our kids love both those and the hilarious (though highly politically incorrect) Tintin series.  The Parc was crowded and very pricey, but worth it.  We chatted as we stood in long lines, and the rides were so fun that we kept going back for more.  We stayed until closing time; we wanted to get our money's worth. 

Every day in the car on the way home, I'd hand out Prince cookies.  These are gaufrette wafers with thick chocolate cream sandwiched between.  By day three, this was an inviolable tradition, and after that, I made sure we always had a packet of them in the glove box. 

The French family had left their keys with a friend who lives in the village.  When we arrived our first day, we called her; she came over, let us in, and showed us around.  She then invited us (all eight of us, mind you) over for dinner for Thursday night (day four).  We demurred, but eventually said yes after she insisted.  So after Parc Astérix, we showered and got ready to go to dinner at the neighbors' house.  We were nervous: these were total strangers.

We had the time of our lives.  The neighbors have three kids who are basically the same age as James, Hope, and Tess (and the same age as our house exchange family's kids).  The kids surmounted the language barrier by playing an extended and enthusiastic game of Cache-Cache (Hide and Seek) in the gardens.  They played for HOURS, resuming the game between each course of dinner.

Dinner was magnificent after we got over the social hurdle of refusing champagne.  Elizabeth and Jean-Michel made us juice cocktails instead (which were delicious).  We also had fresh melon (have you ever had a French cantaloupe?  They make ours taste like pablum).  Next came fresh foie gras, which, as you know, is about my favorite food of all time.  The main course was duck breast, potatoes, and sautéed apples.  The cheeses were fabulous, and then we had ice cream topped with fresh peaches from their garden.  They also had a plum tree loaded down with almost-ripe fruit; they told us that they were leaving for Turkey for three weeks that weekend and begged us to come pick plums while they were away.  More on that later.

We stayed for hours; Anne fell asleep early on, so we put her on a cushion on the grass (we were eating on their terrace), covered her with a blanket, and let her lie while we talked and ate and laughed.  It was a magical evening, and we marveled at the miracle of it as we walked home through the dark village streets at midnight.  That's right: we spent four hours with people we've never met before; we now consider them friends.

Day Five = Chartres of the glowing, jewel-like windows.  The city of Chartres is built in a bowl-like valley.  This means that as you approach the city on the autoroute, only the cathedral (built on the highest hill within the valley) is visible in the distance as you look out over the farms and fields.  It looks completely isolated until you get right into town.  It's astonishing. 

We went on a Friday, because on Fridays they clear the cathedral floor so that people can walk the stone labyrinth.  We went there early in our trip because we wanted to hear Malcolm Miller lecture.  Mr. Miller is an Englishman who moved to Chartres as a young man fresh out of Cambridge.  He taught English at a French high school, but almost immediately began giving lectures in English to tourists on the history and symbology of Chartres Cathedral.  He's just completed his 50th year lecturing there, and he's still going strong.  Patrick heard him there when he was on Study Abroad in 1986; the two of us heard him when we went there 16 years ago.  Before we left, I emailed Mr. Miller to find out whether a) he was still alive; and b) he was still lecturing.  Sure enough, he is, but was leaving for vacation after our first week in France.  We adjusted our schedule accordingly.

As we met him in the nave, I was a bit nervous.  Would the kids be bored and make a scene?  My fears were soon laid to rest; Mr. Miller's lectures (he boasts that he's never given the same one twice) are so riveting that the children sat through the entire 75 minutes transfixed.  He taught his audience how to read a stained glass window and talked a lot about the symbols, which the kids loved.  ("Why are Melchizedek and Peter holding keys?" Mr. Miller asked, I'm sure not really expecting an answer.  Yet four young hands shot up immediately.)  Our time with him was fabulous.

We walked the labyrinth and climbed to the top of the bell tower (oy, the stairs).  All the kids basically wanted to move in, and their enthusiasm for religious edifices miraculously held throughout the entire trip.  They positively lit up any time we were inside a church or cathedral.  Even now, if Daniel sees a photo of a cathedral, he starts jumping up and down with joy.

I haven't mentioned many food specifics yet.  Here's what we did almost every day for breakfast and lunch.  Patrick would get up early and go to the boulangerie.  He'd get croissants, brioche, or pains au chocolat for breakfast and baguettes for our lunch.  Our breakfasts were invariably: plain yogurt with turbinado sugar mixed in; a boulangerie treat; and juice (they had all kinds of exciting juice mixes in the supermarkets).  Our lunches were almost always bottled water and sandwiches made from baguettes, fresh Normandy butter, some sort of ham or roast beef, and some sort of delectable cheese.  I packed a picnic lunch almost every day, no matter where we were going; we never got tired of this routine. 

For dinner, I'd make something simple (chicken or grilled sausage or roast beef) with lots of vegetables.  We followed this with a large salad, then a course of cheeses.  Ahh, the French cheeses that are completely unavailable here due to import restrictions: all the tommes (from the Pyrenées, Auvergne, or l'Ile de France); the double- and triple-crèmes; the little goat crottins; and my favorite new discovery, the curé nantais.  The kids' favorite was hands down the morbier, a firm cows' milk cheese that has a distinctive layer of ash in the middle.  After the cheeses, we'd each have a pot de crème for dessert: either chocolate, caramel, or vanilla.  I bought these pre-made: mouthwateringly delicious.

Stay tuned for Part III: the catacombs and cemeteries of Paris, Mont Saint-Michel, and Normandy!

The Great French Saga, Part I

This week I'll present my journal of our adventures in France in five parts.  It won't be linear and it won't be exhaustive, but I hope it will be somewhat entertaining.

France, how do I love thee?  Let me count the ways.

I love thy cheeses and thy gorgeous fruits and breads, not to mention the genius that is the pain au chocolat and the oranais pastry.  Thine art is a feast for mine eyes; thy language falls so sweetly upon mine ears.  I love thy tiny, vibrant villages filled with cranky old men and nearly nude octagenarian sunbathers.  I love just about everything....

We found lodgings through HomeLink.org, and I highly recommend the house exchange system.  We had a very positive experience all the way around.  The house itself was great: 300 years old, right on a main road in the village of Neauphle-le-Chateau, which is about 20 minutes outside of Versailles.  The husband of our exchange family is an architect, so the inside of the house was interesting and comfortable (though not the most babyproof place--their youngest child is seven). 

The house had a tiny backyard completely enclosed by a 10-foot stone wall that had ivy, grapevines, and espaliered pears clinging to it.  There was a little wooden swingset, a hammock, lots of bee-covered lavender and rose bushes, and enough chairs so that we could all eat outside while watching the golden French twilight fall and listening to the carillion of the village church....

Only drawbacks: lilliputian washer/dryer.  And we took only three days' worth of clothes each, so we did 2-3 loads of laundry per day.  No matter; it was like regular life.  I just hope the our exchange family didn't have a collective heart attack when their electric bill arrived.  Oh, also: lilliputian kitchen sink.  So arty; so useless for actually washing dishes.  But the kids were on KP most nights, so it was fine.

Only 20 minutes away from Neauphle (in the other direction from Versailles) was Montfort-l'Amaury, birthplace of my ancestor Simon de Montfort.  We visited the ruins of the castle (which was destroyed in the Hundred Years' War) and the gorgeous little church with lovely intact 16th century windows.

We also went to the public pool in Montfort, whereupon we found out that males MUST wear "les slips de bain."  Or, in other words (you guessed it): Speedos.  C'est beaucoup plus hygienique, n'est-ce pas?  Christian balked initially, but all four Perkins males ended up getting new swimwear out of the vending machine conveniently located in the poolhouse's lobby.  Though it took them a while to not be embarrassed, the boys actually looked great, and P looked hotter than July, what with the suit and the gorgeous vandyke beard he grew while on our trip.

Giverny: even more gorgeous that you would imagine.  Monet's house is to die for; the kitchen is bright yellow with delft blue tiles everywhere and an enormous range (even bigger than mine).  All the rooms are painted the most beautiful pastel shades--the original colors Monet devised for the house, about a century before anyone else was coming up with these color combinations.  The gardens were at their peak and TO DIE FOR.  No picture or essay could possibly do them justice.  They are as sublime as his paintings.  The Japanese garden is idyllic, and standing on the little arched bridge Monet painted so many times, looking at the water lilies--you feel as if you yourself are art.  Transporting.  My version of heaven looks an awful lot like Giverny. 

Our first day in Paris, we took a Batobus from the Eiffel Tower to the Botanical Gardens and back.  We wanted to orient the kids using the river Seine; there's so much to see from the water, and you get a great sense of the city's center that way.  We got off the boat at the Louvre and walked across town to the Opera quarter, where we went to a multimedia presentation called Paris Story.

It was cheesy and unutterably French: the history of Paris told in dialogue between an actor playing Victor Hugo and an actress who represented the spirit of Paris.  The best part of it was that in the lobby of the theater, there was a large, 3D map of Paris with a list of landmarks at the bottom.  You could press a button next to the landmark's name and the site on the map would light up.  The kids played with that for a long time, and they really did get a sense of where things were in the city.  After Paris Story, we strolled through the streets to the Tuileries Gardens, where we had ice cream.  Heaven!

Coming soon in Part II: a French amusement park, a gorgeous cathedral, and the best backyard dinner ever.

Race & Chase

Today, faced with relative oceans of free time for writing, I pondered.  Now that I have the luxury to do so, to what, exactly, should I turn my attention?  I browsed through my files and made a list.  I have:

• Two finished-but-unpublished novels that need significant revision. 
• Two more barely begun novels and about 10 short stories-in-progress, all of which still hold my interest. 
• An idea journal so full of seeds and kernels of books that I could write every day for the next twenty years and not explore them all. 
• And there's Unsubscribe, another unfinished novel, the first three chapters of which I sent to an editor at a major publishing house back in July as part of a query package, assuring him that I planned to finish it soon. 

The answer is probably obvious to you. As I contemplated this morning, it was to me as well.  But I still equivocated.  It's gray and rainy out; wouldn't it suit my mood better today to work on a dark and otherworldly fantasy story instead of experimental (though still quite dark) chick lit?  Hmmm.

As she always does, Brillig set me straight in a heartbeat.  "Work on Unsubscribe," she advised.  "It's definitely your high-priority project." (I'm paraphrasing her slightly.)

As we discussed both my hesitations and her current work-in-lack-of-progress, I suddenly had an idea.

"What about a race?" I suggested. 

(You may not have noticed this, but Brillig and I are both a touch competitive.) 

"YES!" she answered. 

So: as of two hours ago, Brillig and I are racing to finish first drafts of our respective projects.  I've written 12,836 words and estimate that I have 57,164 to go before I'm done.  I don't know what Brillig's current word count is, but I know her goal is 45,000 (her novel is YA). 

That might seem like an unfair race, but I have more time to write right now than she does, so I think things are pretty even.  We're both going to post our word counts on our blogs so that y'all can keep track of how we do.  (My next task is to figure out how to do that.)

When will we finish?  We'll see.  What's the prize?  Pretty much all it takes to motivate me are bragging rights, so that's how we've set it up.  And maybe a badge; badges are cool.  Anyone care to set up a pool?

Ready?  Set.  Go!

And There Was Much Rejoicing

Re-entry: what can I say?  It has been…interesting. 

It’s good to be home, though, and we're now in the routine of a new school year.  It is awfully quiet at the Perkins Corral once 8:15 rolls around each morning.  By then, Patrick has gone to his office and five of the six kids are a half-mile away at our tiny but fabulous school.  Here’s a quick status report on the older five:

• Daniel loves all things kindergarten.  
• Tess likes her third grade teacher, who is new to the school but seems like a keeper so far.
• Hope is navigating the treacherous waters of fifth grade as serenely as a French swan.
• James is savoring being at the top of the middle school heap, knowing well that next year’s high school debut is not that far off.  
• Christian is a Junior (pardon me as I shudder with the faint horror that word still evokes in me) and is coping well with A/P classes and the idea that dating and driving privileges are only weeks away (pardon me as I shudder again, much more profoundly this time).

And Anne and I?  We’re adjusting to the lonnnnnng stretches of quiet time.  Since school started, Anne’s naps have been nearly twice as long as usual; if this continues, I may well have three or four solid hours of alone time each and every day, unprecedented riches that I plan to spend writing, writing, writing.  

But enough about us.  You, my faithful and patient readers, are waiting for the results of the August contests.  Without further ado:

Je Mange France! #1, for which contestants submitted their favorite made-up words.  Let me just say here that I am so glad that I passed the judging buck to others, since there’s no way I could have chosen just one.  I loved many of your submissions and have already started using them in regular conversation.  My illustrious panel has come through, though, and the winner is:

“Failtastic,” submitted by Charrette!

Je Mange France! #2, the “speed dating” challenge, as Whitney so aptly put it.  I numbered the entries, then went to random.org and generated a random number.  The winner is:

Eowyn!

Je Mange France! #3, in which contestants wrote 50-word stories inspired by a photo of young Christian dressed up like Jack Sparrow.  My illustrious panel loved all the stories and had a difficult time settling on their favorite, but finally I can announce that the winner is:

“Black Bart” by TC!

Honorable mentions go to, well, everyone, but I must say that Tyler’s spectacular (but disqualified-due-to-length) poem is pretty swoonworthy.

Thank you to ALL commenters in the month of August.  It was very cheering to read your words once we got home.  And huge thanks to my darling Brillig, who posted the contests each Monday.

I’m contemplating posting a summary of our trip to France in a few installments.  Are you at all interested?   I can't imagine that you would be.  But maybe I'm wrong.  Let me know.

Finally, here’s a piece of news that has caused me much rejoicing in the past few days: I sold my short story “Fugue” to an anthology! How satisfying it is to find a home for that story after so many rejections.  The bonus is that will appear in print; my short stories have so far been published only on the web.  "Fugue," a dark fantasy story about a the supernatural misadventures of a young piano teacher, will appear in the third volume of Candlelight, edited by Jonathan Schlosser.  I’ll post publication details as soon as I get them, since I know you'll all want your very own copy. :D

That’s it for now, folks.  TC and Eowyn, please email me your addresses and I’ll send you your prizes (Charrette, I still have your address).  Hearty congratulations to all!