Heading Home

Sorry once again for the extended hiatus from the blog -- I've been absent for obvious reasons, I guess, but also mainly because I've been in Noirmoutier for the past 10 days or so and we're only heading back home tomorrow... I've mostly been away from any kind of Internet access, and I honestly just haven't had the chance to log onto a computer much less check into my e-mail, etc., in ages.

Vacation has been more of just a break away from the city and things back home, but I've been spending all my time with baby Emma and adjusting to our new life together. It's so much of what everyone says: wonderful, stimulating, exciting, exhausting, and overwhelming... There is so much I love about it, but I'm also trying my hardest to try to be more zen, to not be so anxious about everything. But it's SO hard to change one's nature! And I'm definitely an anxious person (yeah, no kidding, right?!).

I'll be sure to update things around here and try to share more about my birth and delivery, as well as Emma's progress and changes, once I get back home and settle back into my routine there. Again, there is so much to share and put down for posterity, so I hope to find a few moments to write about my thoughts and feelings, as well as post more photos.

Hope everyone has been having a wonderful summer -- weather around here on the Atlantic Coast has been variable, changeant and mitigé most of the time, although we had one gorgeous day of warmth and sunshine yesterday. It didn't really make a whole lot of difference for me this year, though, as I spent most of my time inside with Emma anyway!

A très bientôt...

On the Road Again

Tuesday evening I was chatting away with Jenn on the phone when she mentioned that she would be making a little road trip to visit dear Doc of 10, rue de la Charme on May 1st, France's own Labor Day. She wondered if I would be up for joining her on the road for a little adventure and lots of laughter... The clincher to the deal, of course, was that my boyfriend would have the opportunity to knock himself out playing tennis with her husband, while I could goof away the day guilt-free with my pal Jenn. So everyone would come out happy!

And what a day -- full of more silliness and tummy-clutching laughter than I ever could have imagined -- and I'm tellin' ya, I think the baby got a little exercise in there as a result! Armed with what we thought would be a fistful of fun music to keep us company (which fell short as for some reason the car's CD player was on the fritz... Mr. C?!), as well as lots of bottled water, we hit the road fairly bright and early, chattering away for the first half of the trip. I thought the car would put me to sleep, as it tends to do more and more these days, but for some reason I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed yesterday morning, in spite of the lack of caffeine beforehand. My mood really varies from one day to the next!

After locating Doc, the three of us piled into the local brasserie/restaurant, pretty much the only place open on that hallowed workers' day off, and wound up spending the next three hours laughing until tears rolled down our cheeks. I seriously thought the baby might wonder what the heck was going on, because just the day before I had been falling asleep with exhaustion after returning home from work, and here I was guffawing while downing enormous garlic-infused shrimp and glass after glass of -- yes, that's right, water! [What did you think? That I was downing WINE while pregnant? I'm not THAT French, my friends...]

One of the highlights of the afternoon came in the form of the following exchange, which I have faithfully reproduced for your entertainment. Now, just imagine the scene: seated around an ordinary café table are us three gals from North America, drawing all kinds of stares from the local village Frenchies because of our raucous laughter and more than likely the ENGLISH we were speaking... We've just finished our main dishes and, while trying to disguise the hilarity our burping older neighbor is causing us (seriously, you'd think he was having a competition back there, all by his lonesome!), are contemplating the dessert menu. These days dessert pretty much consists of one word for me: C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E, so I was leaning towards a chocolat liegeois, as ice cream was a definite requirement as well. When Doc said she was going to order another particular ice cream speciality of the house, I took a closer look at the menu and realized I might be missing out...

Doc: Yeah, I'm gonna go with the *****.

Me: The *****? Hmm, what's in that? [Looking down I see that not only is there chocolate in that concoction, but coconut as well...] Oooo, I'm going to have to have one of those too!

Jenn: That'll make it three.

Me: Trois *****!! Wait -- who's going to order that?!

[We fall all over ourselves once again as we realize the awkwardness of the order and how pathetically hilarious it sounds... Trust me, at this point it didn't take much to send us into fits of laughter -- we're seriously lucky they didn't kick us out for rowdiness!]

Doc: Seriously, you do the honors!

Me: No way! I couldn't even get that out if I tried!

Jenn: [between gasps] Come on, you know you want to!

Just then, the waitress came over to take our dessert order.

Waitress: Et qu'est-ce qui vous ferait plaisir, mesdames ?

[Ah, the choice of phrasing -- of course! We all looked at each other, completely incapable of holding back the laughter -- I swallowed hard and knew I couldn't get it out without making a complete fool out of myself...]

[....]

(The waitress continued to stare down at us patiently yet uncomprehendingly.)

Doc: Trois africaines, s'il vous plaît. [Through gritted teeth -- and then turning to me.] Wimp!!

[Cue laughter once again...]

We gobbled those babies up in mere seconds, and even now I'm regretting not getting a photo of those bowls of perfection...

* Disclaimer: No offense was intended by this exchange! I know it's not exactly PC, but you have to admit it would be funny for ANYONE to have to make such an order in a restaurant!*

Are We There Yet?

As I get older, I realize that I am somehow reverting back to my childhood in one way or another. Most recently I've become more and more intolerant of long car rides, and I try to avoid them at all costs. I just don't like being in the car! To be honest, I never really have, ever since I was a little girl, but I have vivid memories of the dreaded two-hour (!!) drive to the countryside where we would go camping with my grandparents. Today, of course, a two-hour trip seems like nothing, but it certainly creeped by in the backseat of that beastly hot car, my thighs clinging to the burning material of the seats (not leather, but not plastic -- pleather?!). Even when I drove my own car in Washington, DC, I didn't really enjoy it -- the only part I liked was turning up my favorite music and singing along. But most of the time I was just in a big hurry to get to where I was going, from point A to point B. Which I guess explains the fact that I've never had any particular affinity for cars of any kind, and that I could honestly care less if I never drove again. Unfortunately, I imagine I'm probably not going to be able to get around the need to drive at some point, especially if we end up leaving la région parisienne... A possibility, but not yet a certainty.

Saturday my boyfriend and I took a train from Paris to Le Havre to meet his father, and thankfully we spent the night at his house before hitting the road at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning. We drove with his father down to Besançon, where my boy's younger sister and her little family lives. I slept for the first few hours, but had a heck of a time getting into a comfortable position in the backseat. Again, memories from childhood... I know I was lucky to not have to take the wheel, to be honest, because I don't even think I could have handled it. I still haven't prepared for the permis de conduire here, and I know it's something that will eventually be unavoidable. But in the meantime, I just try to be patient when the drive is long and sleep the time away... When lunchtime hit, my boyfriend and his father were both inspired: they decided to make a detour to Vézélay, a village in the Burgundy region with a stunning basilica at the top of a steep hill. I had already been there once before, but was more than happy to visit again -- after a stop for lunch, of course! We were lucky enough to fall on a really nice local bistrot-restaurant called Le Voutenay on the small départémental leading to Vézélay, in a tiny town called Voutenay-sur-Cure. After a brief mix-up in which we managed to find ourselves seated at the gastronomic side of the restaurant, we glanced at the menu, realized our mistake -- and quickly rectified it!

After settling into our seats in a small, simple room on the other side of the restaurant (the "bistrot" side, as they called it), we chose our dishes and were chatting quietly when we noticed that one of the women at the table next to ours had gotten up to open up the curtains in order to allow some sun into the room, which was admittedly a bit dark. Apparently the waitress forewarned her to be careful, but alas -- a bit too late! As the curtain rod tumbled to the floor, the woman quickly jumped out of the way. My boyfriend's father jumped up to give her a hand, and the scene soon became comedic: as the lady climbed up onto a chair to put the curtain rod back in place, Jacques held onto the chair for her to stabilize it. The curtain rod started falling again, and just as it looked like the woman might fall herself, Jacques took hold of her around the waist and helped her lift the rod back into place... My boyfriend and I glanced at each other, our mouths open, a bit speechless at Jacques' bravado and spontaneity. My boyfriend couldn't imagine doing the same thing if he had been in his father's position, and he attributed it to the fact that his father was a doctor and wasn't uncomfortable about grabbing a perfect stranger like that, even if he thought it was to give her a hand (mind you, I don't think she would have fallen -- she wasn't really in danger, but Jacques just did what he thought was right in the moment). But there there was definitely an impetuous element to his gesture. And we all tried to laugh off the moment of discomfort... (It seriously felt like a scene from a sitcom.)

Of course, the woman's husband had been absent during the early part of the incident, as he must have gone off to the bathroom. And he showed up right at the critical moment, when Jacques was giving his wife a hand -- so to speak! He didn't look too pleased, but his wife kept joking about it, brushing things off and saying she felt "flattered" by Jacques' attention and assistance... And ironically, she was American! My boyfriend leaned over and told me to chat with her (something he often does in situations like this) and I felt a bit awkward, particularly after the curtain rod incident. So he asked her where she was from, and we did end up talking for a few minutes about our origins, how long we had been living in France, etc... But I didn't want to drag on the conversation and figured it was best to allow everyone to enjoy their meal. The funny thing is, the subject kept coming back up while we were eating, and my boyfriend and his father persisted in talking about it, while I kept trying to change the subject. "What are you planning on getting for dessert?" I must have asked at least a half a dozen times... The woman's husband then decided he wanted to make an example of me, kind of the "ignorant American just arriving in France," I guess, and he proceeded to ask me if I knew what he was eating... I guess he was trying to be funny, or friendly, or something, but I don't really like those kinds of things, particularly coming from a complete stranger. I would have thought he would have known better, after being married to an American fo 40 years! He went on to say that it was "tête de veau" and implied, with his tone of voice, that it was something he knew an American would never eat. I just brushed it off, said I had chosen duck myself, and told him to enjoy his meal. But underneath I was boiling...

Well, after that déjeuner mouvementé, we drove on to Vézélay, walked up the hill to visit the basilica, and then walked back down to the car. We didn't linger for very long, as it was pretty chilly outside (to say the least!) and we were all anxious to arrive in Besançon. I thought the second half of the trip would be much shorter, but unfortunately I didn't end up sleeping much at all, and we didn't make it to his sister's house until nearly 8:00. I didn't realize they lived right across the street from the village church, which was a nice touch -- I love hearing church bells chime throughout the day!

We've been having a nice, quiet Christmas together, and I've taken a few photos, which I hope to eventually post here on the blog (I've also baked a ton of cookies!). But the next few days are going to be hectic, as my boyfriend and I are taking a train back up to Paris tomorrow morning, and then I will be flying to the U.S. on Thursday to visit my family for New Year's. So I may be "out of commission", so to speak, for a few weeks... Then again, I just realized that this is my first post in almost three weeks anyway, so I guess that's nothing new! I'm going to do my best to become a more consistent blogger in 2008 -- we'll see how long I stick to that resolution.

And on that note, I shall leave you, all my dear friends throughout the blogosphere, and wish you a very Merry Christmas (If you celebrate, of course! Happy holidays to everyone in any case!)... See you in the New Year!

To Lille or Not to Lille?

There is nothing more frustrating than a change in weekend plans at the last minute. Don't get me wrong: I appreciate spontaneity and improvisation as much as the next gal. But the constant guessing game, the impossibility of making any fixed plans, is just exhausting. That's why I've gotten into the habit of adding "limiting adverbs", so to speak, to my own descriptions of what my upcoming weekend will include. I find myself peppering my weekend-speak with words like "normally" or "if all goes well..." or perhaps even "well, we might be..." And you fill in the blanks from there. The unsurity is sometimes maddening, and I hate playing a constant guessing game, knowing full well that our plans will, in the end, more than likely change.

In a way I've gotten used to my boyfriend changing his mind or committing himself to more than he can really do in one weekend. It's as if he thrives on spreading himself too thin, as if he thinks he can tear himself into three or four different men, and it doesn't seem to sink in that he simply can't do everything -- and besides, perhaps his girlfriend may not have the same ideas in mind...

This weekend's plan, at least as I originally understood it, was to drive up to his sister's place outside of Lille and to spend some quality time there, relaxing and getting away from the city for a breath of fresh air. I was actually looking forward to being in their big house again, and perhaps even bicycling around the area, like we did once a few months ago. I had a feeling that we wouldn't head out on Friday evening, as he originally projected, because I know how exhausted he can be at the end of a long week. So I wasn't surprised when he told me Thursday evening that we wouldn't leave until Saturday morning...

But then the frustrating element kicked in late Friday night, after we went to see The Bourne Ultimatum together, when he just happened to slip in (comme si rien n'était), ever so nonchalantly, that we would be making a "pit stop" on the way to Lille, so he could play in a tennis tournament, the "final one of the season". Mind you, the last three tournaments have somehow transformed, each time, into the "the last tournament of the season"... But I'm just saying.

Trust me, I have nothing against my boyfriend playing tennis! On the contrary, I know it is one of the things that makes him really happy. It's one of his favorite pastimes, along with swimming. I also know that it's both a physical and a mental release for him, a way of getting out all of that pent-up stress men are so famous for keeping inside themselves, whereas girls like me just can't seem to get enough of releasing it simply by TALKING ABOUT IT. So of course it's a healthy thing for him to be doing, for the most part. But I guess I sometimes feel like our plans together come after his tennis-playing plans, or fall completely by the wayside. We don't actually have that many weekends together, and when we do, the time is precious to me -- it's like an oasis in the middle of the desert of our work-run-rest lifestyle at the moment.

So this interruption in this weekend's plans, for a brief trip away from home, just seemed unjustified and a wee bit selfish in my personal opinion... I don't know; I felt like our time together just wasn't important enough, valuable enough, to merit an entire weekend devoted to it. As a result, when I told him how I felt this time around (something I don't always do, because I don't want to upset the applecart or cause any unnecessary conflicts -- the truth of the matter is that I often bend to his will; I want so much for him to be happy) he got all up-in-arms and defensive, saying that the stop didn't change anything in our plans, that it wasn't really a detour at all, that it was on our way, that I was making a big fuss out of nothing. It just didn't seem that way to me, of course.

We really don't disagree like this all that often, and I honestly don't like to complain -- I mean, I try really hard not to complain about his own activities, because I think it's important that we spend time separately doing the things that we love -- that's what makes us happier when we spend time together, after all! But you have to draw the line somewhere when you have so little time together, n'est-ce pas ?

Needless to say, we didn't end up going to Lille... Our Friday-night discussion didn't reach any kind of truce until Saturday afternoon. We were at a bit of a standstill. To complicate things all the more, he just decided to cancel all the weekend plans, in his opinion because I was making things too complicated. In the end, though, apparently his sister must not have been expecting us anyways, because as it turns out she was going to see their father in Le Havre. Maybe she figured her brother would change his plans at the last minute or something... as usual. Hmph.

Oh, and he did still go play tennis. :sigh:

And then we ended up going to Le Havre too.

Life on Pause

Le Moulin à Barbâtre, à la nuit tombante

I apologize once again for my unexplained absence, but this time around, I do have a good excuse: I was on vacation, and I simply didn't manage to squeeze in a moment to explain that directly here on my blog before departing. Although I figured the message was pretty clear with my previous "Vacation Reading" post... (Read between the lines?)

I left for Noirmoutier, an island off the Atlantic Coast of France, in the Vendée region, three weeks ago today. I actually returned to the office on Monday, but I've been digging my way through personal and professional e-mails, as well as countless blog postings on my Bloglines account -- I sincerely doubt I will ever catch up with all of those! -- since fumbling into the office a bit dazed and still stuck in my vacation haze. Blogging friends, please forgive my dilatory attitude... Three weeks away will certainly transform your approach to things, make it all seem less important, less urgent and perhaps near-unnecessary. My brother even sent me a few reproachful messages, wondering when I was ever going to return to my regular ol' daily existence and resume the grind that we are all used to plugging through year-round. (He lives in America, after all, and isn't used to any extended absences from the office -- I honestly don't know what I would do without these breaks from time to time at this point in my life.) I had told him about my blog months ago, though, and strangely enough he hadn't popped in to visit for a while, so he could hardly scold me!

I plan on resuming my "regular" blogging habits from here on out, although you could hardly call me the most consistent blogger -- I'm well aware of that. But I've made progress from time to time; it just has yet to become consistent progress.

All that time away, of course, was calming and relaxing -- I can't remember the last time I turned off my "thought process", my anxiety-ridden brain, for such an extended period -- and I obviously didn't have access to a computer or to an Internet connection. At first I wondered if this would bother me, but then I realized that I had always survived just fine without it before, and that in fact before the early 21st century, I was far from a fan of anything computer-related. It took me at least a few years to get the knack of things and to even acquire any fair interest in the virtual world. There are still a lot of things out there that baffle me, and how I wish I could improve my own graphic skills so I could jazz up this here blog of mine, but that will simply have to wait until the moment propice.

But there is definitely something to be said for escapism, running off to a fairly secluded place and spending an extended amount of time in completely different surroundings. Even though the weather was not all that great for, um, I would have to say about 13 of my 18 days away, I was still able to immerse myself in a whole new life and pretend like my life back "home" didn't exist -- put it all in parentheses, if you will. I did read quite a bit, but not nearly as much as I had hoped, and I have to admit that I was more than ambitious in my hope to complete seven entire novels while away. Of course, I guess I didn't take into account the fact that there would be three small boys running around me for a good part of my vacation, and also that we would be spending many meals with extended family members... Which I thoroughly enjoyed, because for the most part I love all of my boy's family. (Um, was that a contradiction of sorts? Let's just say I'm being politically correct here...) But family meals always lead to family memories and family quibbles -- and you get where I'm going with this, so I think I'll stop right there.

My choices of reading in the end were a bit arbitrary and depended on my mood, which should come as no surprise, but I did at least require myself to alternate between French and English. I can highly recommend Muriel Barbery's L'élégance du hérisson, of course, although I had a hard time getting into the first 10 pages or so (a bit heavy and dense from the get-go, but then it settles into a certain sublime style, and it's irresistible). Once you're into it, though, you're in it for good. It's a beauty, and I believe it's a novel that will stay with me for some time. I stretched out the last 20 pages or so because I didn't want it to end...

I'm actually working on Sarah Waters right now, but again, I haven't quite gotten into the story yet. Granted, I've hardly finished the first chapter, so I know I may need to be a bit patient. But I won't neglect my reading list, trust me: it will just take me a bit longer than expected to make it through the pile...

In the meantime, I leave you with some of my images of Noirmoutier, personal shots that are the furthest thing from touristic -- because in fact I didn't end up doing very much tourism. We stayed close to the "vacation" home and only ventured out to the beach when the weather was fine, which wasn't all that often. I was fascinated with the moulin, as you can see in the number of photos where the windmill stands as the sole subject, as well as the lavender branches near the house. It was all very sauvage and rustique, and I loved every minute of it.

P.S. You'll note the distinct absence of any photos of myself -- that's what happens, I guess, when you keep the camera under wraps and only whip it out when inspiration strikes. There were times when I realized, when it was clearly too late, that "Wow, maybe I should have taken a photo of that?!" (And in any case, anything else I left at arm's length was grabbed by 3-year-old hands and abused, so I believe I may have for once used good judgment with regard to burying my personal effects...)

Weekend Wedding Away

Oh, thank goodness for our brief weekend away to attend a friend's wedding! I seriously didn't think I would ever get myself out of the doldrums, and if it weren't for this little trip, I may have spent the better part of the weekend in the apartment AGAIN, feeling sorry for myself... *Ahem* And thank goodness that the weather gods finally decided to cooperate and grace us with some sunshine -- I have a feeling that les mariés were pretty relieved about that too! ('Course, some other "famous" weddings most likely benefited from this gracious interlude of heavenly weather as well...)

We actually left la région parisienne on Friday evening, after having a quick dinner at home and throwing our things together in a couple of overnight bags. We hit the road kinda late, though, and didn't arrive in Argenton-sur-Creuse until almost 2:00 in the morning, believe it or not. (I originally thought the wedding was closer to Paris, but it was actually about a 3 1/2 hour drive, in the Centre region of France, in the département called Indre, as seen in the map to the right.) My boy likes to take his time on the road (which is a rarity and a blessing in this country, trust me!) which I definitely don't mind, especially in the dark. But as I've mentioned before, I have a heck of a time keeping my eyes open, so after we arrived at the hotel, called Le Cheval noir, I groggily tumbled out of the car and up the stairs to our tiny but very practical room.

After giving my boy a hard time about throwing together the weekend details at the last minute, I now have to give him credit for pulling it together marvelously. He got us a room for 2 nights, miraculously, when I was convinced there might not be anything available at such a late date. And Friday evening, before leaving, we also both put our heads together and chose a nice gift at a Culinarion shop near my work: a lovely wine carafe and a set of expresso cups. His friend has actually been married before, so we knew that the couple wasn't going to need a lot of basic essentials, but we figured that these gifts would pretty much make anyone happy. His friend Bernard is quite the wine afficionado (of course, what Frenchman isn't, you might ask?!) and he also likes a good café serré -- so we thought this would work well. We were at a bit of a loss, both of us, because we haven't been to any weddings in quite some time, and as they didn't have a liste de mariage, we didn't know where to begin. Turns out we weren't the only ones who found this to be a challenge: the marié's other témoin didn't know what to get either and actually ended up writing them a check. Money is always acceptable, apparently!

We woke up fairly early Saturday morning, after a short night's sleep, had breakfast at the hotel and rushed down the road to Orsennes, where the wedding was to take place. Or shall I say that my boy rushed me down the road?! We left with what seemed like plenty of time, but for some reason he was convinced we were going to be late, so he was furious at me for not being ready exactly when he wanted to leave, at 10:15. But the wedding was at 11:30, and he had told me the night before that the town was only about 20 minutes away from our hotel... If he wanted me to be ready sooner, why didn't he fib about the delay or the amount of time it would take? I figured allowing for an hour was plenty of time, but on this point we wholeheartedly disagreed. So I was a bit befuddled, to say the least. Granted, there was some traffic with the Saturday morning markets, but once we hit the backroads outside of Argenton, we were fine. We made it to Orsennes in just under a half an hour, at 11:00, with a half hour to spare. Of course, if catastrophe had struck and we had found ourselves stuck in traffic, there would have been hell to pay -- and I would have never heard the end of it! But thank goodness that wasn't the case...

He was in such a hurry that morning that I don't even think he shaved. Luckily for my boy, you can't really tell! That's the German blood in him, I think... As we climbed out of the car in Orsennes, I wondered if I shouldn't talk him into slipping into a nearby salle de bains to do a quick shave. But then I came to my senses. Heureusement. We didn't need any more quibbling. Details, details. When will I learn?

The typical French civil ceremony was brief but quite nice, nothing in particular to note. As my boy was a témoin, he played a central role in the process. And I don't think he's done this in a long time -- if ever -- so that was probably one of the reasons he was so nervous. But all went well, and the mariés came outside in a tiny shower of rice. We took our cars down the road to a picturesque point where everyone took photos overlooking the river Creuse. Afterwards we headed to a local hotel-restaurant where the reception was to be held, and the next few hours were spent gorging ourselves on wonderful food, wine and champagne. The restaurant overlooked La Creuse, and with the fabulous weather things just couldn't get any better. After a lovely salad with goat's cheese as our entrée, we savored our beef filet and then dug into an incredible dessert, a pavé au chocolat avec coulis à l'orange, as you can see above. This was incredible -- probably one of the best chocolate desserts I've had in a long time. And I can be pretty picky! If a fondant is too rich, or the texture isn't right, I'm often disappointed. But the texture of this delicacy was smooth, onctueux, chocolatey without being too rich. The perfect ending to the meal.

We lingered a bit and enjoyed the moment, the sunlight washing through the windows, and then rushed out to the waiting boat to take a tour of La Creuse... A really nice way to wrap up the festivities! Most of us were ready for a nap by then, so I dozed quite a bit while we made our way down the river, with fortifications on the banks, some rocky cliffs, and riverside campsites where families were settling in for their summer vacations. We saw a few boats, but not a whole lot -- maybe the bad weather of the previous weeks had scared people away. Either that or summer just hasn't fully set in yet.

But I spoke too soon with regard to the end of festivities -- in fact after the hour-and-a-half promenade, we got into our cars once again and drove around the area, briefly stopping to take in some local sites, including this castle, called the Château de Breuil-Yvain, as I later found out.

I took some exterior photos around the site; apparently the castle is privately owned, and people actually live there, so we couldn't visit the interior. We saw a young gal driving an impressive lawnmower around the grounds, and although I thought she might shoo us off the property, she didn't say anything. When we returned to Orsennes for the cocktail hour around 7:00, I noticed a poster in one of the local cafés and realized that it was indeed the same castle -- apparently they have plays, spectacles and other forms of entertainment there throughout the year. I wonder if they rent it out? Perhaps one can still attempt to rival the Parker-Longoria nuptials at Vaux-le-Vicomte...

The cocktail hour extended into a full-fledged dinner, to our surprise... Two wedding meals? Well, why not? We knew we were staying the night in the region, but this was still unexpected... More champagne, and then some of my favorite wine, an ice-cold Riesling -- I even asked Bernard if he had me in mind when he chose it! He knows full well how much I enjoy Alsacian whites. He winked and said bien sûr -- anything to make me happy! And what goes better with a dry Alsacian white but a stunning plateau de fruits de mer...? I focused on the shrimp at first, but then soon realized I had lost time and only managed to sneak in one langoustine, before devouring a few raw oysters (which my boy cracked open with a knife; I kept expecting oyster to splatter across the table) -- something I never enjoyed before living in France. The only disappointment I find in seafood platters here are those horrendous tourteaux -- what's the point? They look huge, but then when you break open the shell there's practically no "meat" inside... I don't know how those poor crabs carry around all that shell weight! Give me a Chesapeake Bay crab any day. I guess I really am a Maryland girl at heart.

Something that I really loved about the café-restaurant where we had dinner was the unique artwork on the walls, all pieces most likely donated by local artists. There were also murals on the walls themselves, and some great quotes, scribbled in large handwriting. It was a tiny, intimate, convivial setting, and if you ask me, there's no better way to enjoy a wedding meal and to share the moment with friends and family.** The quote above is from Paul Eluard, a late 19th-century, early 20th-century French poet, in his "Capitale de la douleur". Roughly translated: "The curve of your eyes embraces my heart..."

La Honte in Le Havre

Picture this, my dear readers, blogging friends: a darkened room where only my boyfriend, his father and I sit staring intently at the television screen (OK, check that, apparently the boy was dozing off...), watching Trois Couleurs : Rouge (I'm on a Kieslowski kick, I know), lounging on red leather chairs that look like they've launched directly off the Star Trek Enterprise. We're nearing the end of the film, it's after midnight, and I'm getting pretty tired. We spent the day walking around "central" Le Havre, where my boy's father lives, visiting the local bookshop La Galerne, which I love (and of course purchasing two books while there; I'm incapable of leaving a bookshop without a new acquisition...), as well as making a short drive over to Honfleur for a brief visit. We had greasy Domino's pizza for dinner earlier in the evening, believe it or not (yep, that's right, here in France) -- none of those fancy meals for us; we were simply too lazy this time around, and I didn't have the necessary ingredients (or recipes for that matter) to throw anything culinarily appetizing together. And, under most circumstances, his father is pretty laid-back and cool about that kind of thing. He's not too exigeant. And, well, a little pizza every once in a while never hurt anyone, right? Um, yeah, right.

That is, unless you're ME. Wendy-dear, you ain't seen nothing yet! I think I've got you beat, I'm afraid. At least for recent hilarity. On an embarrassment scale of 1 to 10, 10 being I'm-going-to-crawl-in-a-hole-and-never climb-back-out-I-swear-I'm-so-humiliated, this is a swinging 11. When it comes to embarrassing experiences -- really humiliating ones -- I think I must be the queen! And what is it about this sort of thing happening when you least expect it? And what is it about our bodies being completely out of our own control -- betraying us at the most inopportune of moments?

Yes, that's right, somehow my body betrayed me in front of my boyfriend's father. Late at night, in front of an intense, psychological film. I honestly thought I was fine; I didn't even see it coming... But when do we ever in circumstances like this? All right, what I'm getting at, if you can't read between the lines -- and because you're going to MAKE me write it here, aren't you? As if I haven't humiliated myself ENOUGH?! -- is that I passed gas. And unfortunately was not able to disguise it by blaming it on my boyfriend or the dog. My boy's father doesn't have any household pets. To my chagrin.

Needless to say, after that most horrible of faux-pas on Saturday night, my own eyes bulging out of my head while I stared at the television screen for the remaining 15 minutes of Rouge, not daring to glance right or left or to take in any reactions, I swallowed my pride and slunk up to our room on the top floor and fell into bed. I won't say that I cried, necessarily, but I didn't have the most restful of nights. OK, OK -- I know you're going to tell me it's no big deal. But just keep in mind that up until now my boy's father has, in most cases, made it clear that he quite likes me, aside for my over-sensitive streak which flares up from time to time. I enjoy spending time with my boy and his father, and in spite of the blistering, painful pangs that resonate in his mother's absence since her passing, we usually get along really well and even have pretty stimulating conversations. He's always really lovely with me, he never makes me feel ill at ease, and he even gives my boy a hard time when he's not helpful or complimentary with regard to my cuisine -- or my attire. In a word, he's a sweetheart. And I seriously do not want him to think less of me or to wonder about how I was raised...

So this -- I mean, really! WHY in God's NAME did this have to happen?! Of course, we're all human, and I kept telling myself that over and over again in my head Saturday night into Sunday morning. And maybe, in a sense, it should put me more at ease, right? Like, now we can all just be ourselves, naturally. (Ha ha -- yeah, right!) Again, ironically enough, my boy didn't even hear this happen, he was so dead-to-the-world, so when I managed to recount the incident to him after waking up the next morning, he was of course falling all over himself laughing. And he couldn't help but comment: "I think I might have sort of heard you, but then I thought to myself that you couldn't have done that."

Alrighty then. Way to help me recover myself and my composure.

Going down to breakfast on Sunday was no easy task -- but he did try to put me at ease, and here's hoping that all's *ahem* nearly forgotten.

Since the weekend, we had my boy's father over for dinner at our place, and I tried to make up for my lack of poise and elegance by throwing together one of his family's favorite dishes, une pintade aux pommes et lardons, with strawberries for dessert. As daunting as it may sound, it's actually really easy to make -- you just cook the sliced apples over the stove in a large pan with some butter and cinnamon, rub some olive oil, salt and spices onto the pintade, then put the bird in a Dutch-oven type casserole (I actually use a Römertopf, in terra cotta -- a wonderful gift from my boy's mother) with the shallots and a wee bit of water at the bottom... I left it for about an hour at 200° Celsius, but it may need a wee bit longer; the bird didn't seem fully cooked, so I put it in for another 10 minutes or so. After it's finished cooking, you can sauté up the lardons in a pan, add these to the cooked apples, and serve. See, easy as (apple) pie! And a perfect balance of sucré-salé.

We cracked open the one bottle of Rioja wine we had brought back from Spain last March (we would have brought back more if it weren't for those damn new European liquid-on-plane regulations) and it was gone in no time, which made it clear that we had made a good choice, but definitely hadn't bought enough.

I think beau-père was suitably pleased. But as to recovering my dignity, the jury's still out on that one.

* Photo of Le Havre's Port de plaisance courtesy of Photos-de-villes.com.

Paris-Lille, 24 Heures Chrono

Because my boy had some business to attend to (so to speak) near Lille this weekend, and as his one sister lives right nearby, we decided to make a speedy trip up for the day on Saturday night, staying until Sunday evening. The original plan was to head back out late Sunday, after all the Parisians had settled into their homes and cleared up the highways, but I knew from the get-go that it was a dubious plan, especially since my boy has been particularly exhausted in recent times, and that the prospect of him making that two-hour drive back was going to be tough for both of us -- since car rides always either make me feel nauseous, even at my ripe ol' age, or fall asleep. And I don't know which is the lesser of two evils, when I'm meant to be keeping my boy company and preventing him from falling asleep at the wheel himself. And we certainly aren't helped by the fact that his car radio-CD player went on the fritz recently, due to some electrical problems, and he still hasn't had the opportunity to get that taken care of so we can have some tunes to keep us company on the road. Something I literally live for when making any kind of long car ride.

And this is where my lack of a French driver's license kicks in and makes me guilty, as usual. My boy has never made a big issue out of it in the past, because to be honest, up until now I haven't really needed one, what with us living in the Paris 'burbs and using public transportation on a daily basis. The only time I do honestly regret it is in moments like this: when fatigue or sheer exhaustion hit my boy and I know I could be taking the wheel if I simply had the legal paperwork allowing me to do so. I rarely miss driving, though, to be honest; I did have a car of my own in the States, a slate-blue Honda Civic that I bought on my own, and paid off over a four-year period -- the only major purchase I've ever made as a responsible adult! I was quite proud of that fact for the longest time, that no one had to co-sign or help me out and that I used a downpayment I had saved on my own. If only I'd kept up those good habits of saving now... (I'm trying to mend my ways, but it's slow going...) I sold that car and got the Blue-Book value just before moving to France, so it's in the distant past now. But I sometimes get nostalgic for it... Even if in the end I didn't even drive it all that often. I would walk to the office or take the bus in most cases.

I did kinda like cranking up my favorite music and singing along as I trekked back and forth between my place in D.C. and my parents' up in Northern Maryland (and is it just me, or did longer distances just somehow seem shorter over there -- in spite of the fact that we have to go slower on the highways?! I would just get in the car and go, without a moment's hesitation...), but that was really the only part of driving I enjoyed -- the music. Which, as I've mentioned before, seems to be the case for many things in my life, so it's become a recurring pattern. The music was the only thing that made the longer trips seem shorter and kept me occupied on the road. Because of that, I'm sure I never could have done a lot of traveling by car for a job or the like... And the fact that my boy's car now cannot play any music puts more than just a small wrench in the mechanism for me. There's no lyrics to sing along to, no funny voices to imitate, no rhythms to tap out on the dashboard. And my voice certainly isn't entertaining enough to make up for it! We chat about all sorts of things, of course, but talking only seems to go so far. And it's impossible for me to read in the car.

But he's been badgering me about it a bit more often recently, and it doesn't help that one of his closest friends has been haranguing me as well, repeatedly emphasizing how astonished he is that I haven't gotten my French permis de conduire so that I can drive if I so desire, or if the need arises. I guess I'm realizing with time that I probably eventually will need it, especially since we may move further away from the city in the long term. So this of course begs the next question: do I start studying for le Code? Just the possibility, the very idea of having to do so is daunting to me... I've heard so much about the difficulty, the stress -- some of my colleagues have told me time and again that they would hate to have to go through with it again, so I already dread it, and I don't even know all that it entails. And then there's Sam's recounting of her experience, which has put the fear of God in me as well... Of course, she just recently passed le Code, which is an amazing feat in and of itself. So I guess that's proof that it is possible. And I do have other expat friends who have managed to attain the coveted Code and subsequently the permis. But my anxious nature often plays hijinks on me, and I just have a sneaking suspicion that it's going to take a heck of a lot of work on my part to succeed. Especially the driving part. Namely because I don't know how to drive a stick shift. (*Cue raucous laughter*)

Our trip up to Lille and back, in practically 24 hours' time, was basically a wake-up call to me... I knew in advance that my boy was never going to be able to muster up enough strength to drive back to Paris on Sunday night, especially after a long day and an early rising on Sunday morning. I briefly considered taking the TGV back on Monday morning and heading straight to work, but there were no reserved seats left on the train, and at that price I' m not about to spend the trip standing. The whole point of taking the train is to relieve the stress of driving and to be able to relax, at least in my book, so it seemed pointless to pay a fortune and not be able to sit down. So we woke up at 5:00 a.m. on Monday and hit the road a little after 6:00. I did make it to work only two minutes late, but the drive wasn't easy, for either one of us. It would obviously help things if we could take turns on the road. I tried to talk my boy out of even making the trip in the first place, because I wondered how reasonable it was, but any opportunity he has to spend with his family is precious to him, and I understand how he feels.

So there's another task to add to my growing to-do list these days... We'll see how productive I manage to be in the coming months!

Balmy Days, Sweet Sangria

I'm not quite sure what took me so long in getting my thoughts together enough in order to write this post about Spain and our Andalusian adventure last month. Maybe I just needed to reflect on it for a while, let some things simmer in my mind, before arriving at a time when I'm actually reminiscing about the whole experience.

But I finally realized that too much time has now gone by, and I want to be reminded once again of those warm, sun-filled days -- which I think we can't expect to have here in Paris, at least for the long term, for some time yet. Real spring days, not these fake, teasing, pull-the-wool-over-your-eyes days we've had recently, enough to get us all sick (well, me anyway).

So I'm now going to wander back down those winding Seville paths... Our sunny séjour started out with practically a whole afternoon spent in what could only be considered the ideal garden, in this case the Alcazar Gardens.

I think we probably could have spent our whole week there, and we both would have been pretty happy campers. We must have spent a good two or three hours there in any case...

Oh, and if I'm not mistaken, there's a Royal Palace on the premises (according to the Guide du Routard), but I don't have very many photos to prove it -- I seem to have spent all of my time outside. But can you blame me when you've got surroundings like these?

This is Mercury's Pool, or Fountain (I can't remember which exactly, and I can't be bothered to look it up in the guidebook again; sorry 'bout that)... There were fish swimming around in that water, and something about the whole setting was so peaceful, in spite of the tourists. I think we didn't have to fight too many crowds this time around anyway, as it was still the middle of the week in early March.

I made a little friend while we were in the garden...

He kept me company while my boy took a nap in the sunshine on one of the numerous benches. I couldn't resist taking the gratuitous duck shots! This is one of my favorites; love those sunning ducks! They've got the right idea...

I did manage to get a few courtyard photos, and some of the famed patios, of course. I was transfixed by the architecture all week as well, which should come as no surprise.

Oh, and looking back through the photos, I managed to find a few taken inside -- but oddly enough, not of the interior architecture. Seems there was a collection of all sorts of éventails in the royal palace, including French, Spanish and Japanese...

Of course, one of the best parts about Spain is the saveurs... Wouldn't you agree? Quite different from those in France, and a completely different approach to cuisine in general, at least from what I saw (and tasted!) in the short time I was there. I knew our trip was starting off on a nice culinary note when we enjoyed bull's tail, Spanish ham (jamon iberico) and a scrumptious dessert of lemon cheesecake with cinnamon dusted on top our first evening in Seville... I later learned (pretty much the night before we left, in ice cream form) that these are the flavors in what is better known as crème de Seville -- and I think I could get used to that flavor combination myself! [Sorry, I'm not very adept at the Spanish language, so unfortunately most of my references here will be either in English or French, as it would take me forever to figure things out in Spanish! That was one of my handicaps while there, of course -- and the little I did know, I couldn't seem to get out as I would freeze up anytime someone spoke to me in Spanish! I've pretty much decided to stick to French...]

A few of our other food favorites on this trip included the wonderful, well-known tapas, in endless varieties. The ones that topped my list were the garlic-infused mushrooms, the spinach with pine nuts, the many types of ham (of course!), and basically anything with cheese. Although I have to admit that after 6 days of eating all that ham, I was no longer in a charcuterie mood, if you catch my drift!

We actually had this set of tapas in a great place right near the Mezquita in Cordoba. From top to bottom that's of course a slice of Spanish omelette, or tortilla, some creamed tomatoes, the wonderful garlicky mushrooms, some sort of meat dish (I'm blanking out on this one -- probably veal) with potato slices, and the spinach. I had an excellent glass of rioja with this meal, so good that we decided to bring a bottle back with us. It was reasonably priced, and if it weren't for those airline restrictions with regard to liquids on the plane, I probably would have brought back a few more bottles. But I couldn't see us trying to stash a half a dozen in our suitcases without all the bottles broken into bits on our arrival in Paris.

I think we must have had paella a few times as well, and I got to taste some gaspacho once. I wish I had had a few more bowls of this ice-cold tomato soup, because it's one of my favorites. But it just wasn't on that many of the menus. The one time it was on the menu in Grenada, the waiter told us it wasn't available that day. Oh well!

Of course, a discussion of Spanish cuisine wouldn't be complete without mentioning the beverages... Now, we didn't actually imbibe all that much on this trip, given my boy has a pretty low tolerance (I'm the one with the reputation of having a bonne descente around here), but we did manage to taste a few versions of sangria, of course, as well as the aforementioned rioja. But the one drink that became our constant companion on this trip was the fresh-squeezed orange juice -- and I guess it goes without saying that it was fabulous! I still regret not having just a few glasses more before leaving... Given that you've got orange trees on every street corner, and hundreds of them on the squares and in the patios, I guess it makes sense that it becomes the drink of choice!

We had a wonderful afternoon in Cordoba as well, although we split up at one point because I wanted to wander through the back streets and take shots of the Spanish patios hidden down back alleyways, further off the beaten path. Although granted many of them were closer to the cathedral itself...

I have so many shots of the interior of the Mezquita, but only a few of them turned out really well. The lighting inside was obviously not easy to capture, particularly for a photography novice like me, and then there were so many people it was tough to get a shot that wasn't overloaded with other tourists taking shots of their own. And one thing that frustrated me throughout the trip was my hesitancy to ask others to take our photo -- I don't know what my hang-up was, but I never wanted to bother people long enough to get a few photos of us together. And of course that's the least of my boy's concerns, so he's not going to push for it either. As a result, I have more shots of him on his own, and very few of the two of us. Oh well, we'll always have our memories...

We spent almost two days in Grenada, but I have to admit that aside from the Alhambra, I didn't enjoy the city as much as Seville. I guess in all honesty we didn't have enough time to soak up the ambiance there. The view from the hills above the Alhambra was breathtaking, of course, and it felt incredible just to be there, in that moment. I was really glad at that point to have bought my new digital camera.

And of course the Alhambra is the one place where I took the most pictures -- in spite of the fact that, disappointingly, the Cour des Lions was missing the main attraction: the lions! They had been removed for restoration, so no beautiful shots were taken in that courtyard. I did manage to capture some amazing lighting inside of the palace, as well as a few in the gardens. I'm quite pleased with these... And it's tough to choose only a few to include here.

I also ran into one of our animal friends inside the palace, and I thought it was adorable how they had little bowls with water in them throughout the site -- especially for the cats!

I love the fact that he's right in front of a gorgeous wall of Alhambra azulejos...

I'm so glad we got to the Alhambra early enough to take in the whole experience in less than a full day; we headed back to Seville afterwards for our final night, and wrapped up the end of our trip with one last great breakfast in a typical Spanish cafe, topped up with some of that fine fresh orange juice and some joint postcard-writing; my boy gave me a helping hand as we wrote out messages to our friends and families... It was funny how my notes were a bit typical, conventional and nothing out of the ordinary, but his were quirky, cute and a reflection of his good sense of humor.

All in all, a really nice trip. 'Nuff said. I'll leave you here with one last shot -- some of the ceramics through a Spanish window...

Vacation Withdrawal

I'm back from my holiday in Spain, and instead of feeling jolly and cheery and rejoicing at the unexpectedly lovely weather here in Paris (surprise, surprise!) I'm exhausted...

I can't quite figure out whether it's because we didn't actually rest all that much on this trip, given we were walking quite a lot and visiting all sorts of interesting sites, whether it's just the dread of heading back to work and dragging myself through the day, or whether it's to do with my time of the month (I know, TMI, sorry about that)... Maybe it's a bit of all three, wrapped up together in one big shiny package. But I can't seem to keep my eyes open here in front of my PC at work, and I still have another three long hours to make it through this afternoon. Granted, I don't actually have a lot of work to do, it's quite quiet around here... But sometimes it's these moments that are the hardest, when the greatest temptation is to ease back in my chair, close my eyes, and forget the world around me. To be honest with you, I have seen some people around my office do that before, believe it or not -- I was shocked the first couple of times, but apparently it's not entirely frowned upon. I guess given the business lunches these guys partake in on a regular basis, with the red wine flowing and rich sauces abounding, it's no surprise... But still, in my position, I wouldn't dare.

But do you know those kind of people who come back from vacation and are just grinning from ear to ear, raving about their time in the sun, the wonderful things they saw, how utterly fabulous everything was, how happy they are, and how much of a great mood they're in as a result of their time away, which was exactly what they needed to restart their engines and attack their work refreshed and renewed? OK, don't kill me here -- but those kind of people make me sick! I just can't imagine coming back and going on and on and on about my holidays... Sure, I know the point of vacation is to boost your morale and put a new perspective on things, to come back rejuvenated and positive about your "clean slate," so to speak, but somehow I always come back wondering where all the time went, how it could have gone that fast, and when it will start all over again. Am I alone in this? And sure, I want to share some pictures and stories, but I also don't want to bore people to death nor rub their noses in the fact that I actually did go away for a week or so and escape from the humdrum routine of daily life here in the city.

In any case, I will do my best to share some lovely stories about my adventures in Andalusia, but bear with me -- I'm going to need some time to adjust...

Spanish Inquisitive

So next Wednesday we're off to Andalusia for a week, and I have to admit that I'm a bit at a loss as to what sites we absolutely MUST see, which museums we MUST visit, where we MUST savor the best Spanish cuisine... And I don't want to miss out on some of the best things the south of Spain has to offer! You know how it is when you head off somewhere, a little unprepared, and after spending a fairly lovely week there, you come back home and find out from some of your closest friends that you didn't visit such-and-such, and how could you have missed out on this-and-that? And you grate your teeth, wondering why these things weren't so obvious at the time... And why no one mentioned them to you before leaving!

I am, unfortunately, one of those lesser-prepared-type traveling individuals: I do usually bring a guide or two, and I try to make an effort to learn a few phrases in the language, but this is coming from someone who is used to living in France and speaking French, so for some reason all the other countries seem intimidating somehow. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that's just the way I am. And since this trip is particularly unexpected (given the fact that we booked our plane tickets on Wednesday and reserved our hotel room in Seville this morning), I have a feeling that we may overlook some essential aspects of the Spanish experience.

The funny thing is that when I was a student, back in the good ol' 1990s, I was so wrapped up in the French way of life -- culture, language, civilization, literature, etc. -- that all the other European countries seemed to fade into the background, or let's just say I wasn't in a big hurry to see them. I figured I should focus on visiting as much of France as I could while I was there, rather than run around Europe and try to see as many other countries as possible, as quickly as possible. That's just not my way of doing things. I tend to arrive in a country and make my way around bit by bit, improvising most of my decisions and visiting what feels right at the time (I'm a vibes kind of gal). This approach has led me to make the most of many a trip, although in some cases I did miss out on some sites that I probably should have seen at the time. But I've found that some of those "must-see" spots are sometimes so overhyped, and so overly swamped by tourists, that the visit itself ends up being spoiled by the stifling crush of people and the exaggerated gestures of locals desperately selling their wares to said tourists -- right up next to the unbelievable monuments.

Case in point: when my boyfriend and I had the wonderful opportunity to spend a long weekend in Rome two years ago, after running around the city for two days trying to squeeze in all the most crucial monuments, and experiencing a particularly hellish afternoon in the massive crunch of tourists at the Sistine Chapel, we ended up renting bicycles on our last day and trekking around the Villa Borghese... We spent the afternoon off the beaten path, and visited the National Gallery of Modern Art -- which is essentially the last place people would (expect to) want to see in the ancient city of Rome. But this is exactly where we had the best time! A lovely lunch in the museum restaurant, a leisurely walk around the gallery, and afterwards the perfect opportunity to see some of the churches in the nearby neighborhood in the warmth of the late afternoon sun (and I unfortunately have not retained the names of these churches, although their images remain engraved in my memory; Italian is not my strong point, although I love the language!). I even discovered what has become one of my all-time favorite portraits in the National Gallery of Modern Art, a painting by a lesser-known Italian artist, Vittorio Matteo Corcos, which stays with me even today and which I later re-discovered on the cover of an excellent coffeetable book (quickly purchased and put on display in my living room): Les femmes qui lisent sont dangereuses. [A book which deserves an entire blog post devoted to it, but this will have to wait until I can do it justice... You can see examples of more images from its pages right here.]

Of course I'm not saying that one should avoid every tourist attraction -- that would be ridiculous, because after all we are all tourists at one point or another, and that's sort of the whole point of traveling to another country. But like Jenn has pointed out over at NPLI, tourists can be so unbearable sometimes, and I think I'm a bit sensitive to this -- so I try to avoid displaying the same kind of behavior when I'm abroad.

I think our plan will most likely be to improvise a good portion of the week... I will page through the guide on the flight down and probably mark up some inspiring spots. And I know that Spanish is quite close to French language-wise, but I have never studied it myself; thank goodness my boyfriend speaks a bit.

And all of this of course leads me to my first official Internet Blogger Request: given that I have a few days left before our departure, I thought I would ask YOU out there if you have any great recommendations of hidden corners or off-the-beaten-path wonders that made your visit to Andalusia unforgettable... Any suggestions for me? Inquiring minds and all... And I will be forever in your debt!