Consumed by the Crib

Hello everyone! This was a peice that I wrote for my writing class, topic 'obsessions'....as it is timely I thought I would also post it here. Enjoy my silliness!

Consumed by the Crib

I have a thing for cribs right now. This is perhaps not surprising as I am 8 and a half months pregnant: a crib will likely come in handy once the baby comes. But to be perfectly honest, the way I’m feeling about the crib is only partly to do with practicality. Rather, it’s emotional. It’s obsessive. Like the dress for the wedding day, or the first piece of grown up furniture, this crib is bearing an importance beyond its simple function.

I’ve gotten like this before. For example, it took me 3 years to choose a new couch. Three years. It was a big purchase and an expensive one, so anyone would take it pretty seriously, but I went beyond the pale. To be fair, there were practical considerations: there was a budget that was larger than any I had had before but still, a budget. We had a small house, so space had to be considered. My husband is big and I am not, so scale and comfort were also a factor. And then there was aesthetics: did I want a modern and edgy look, or traditional? So many choices, so many decisions…I shopped around, talked to designers, hemmed and hawed for years before settling on a chocolate brown leather piece that is comfortable and attractive. I’ve never regretted that purchase, nor the time it took to make it. It has given me (and my derriere) years of pleasure.

It’s the same for the crib. We live in a small apartment, so the baby must share our sleeping space, a common situation in Europe. As we’ll be living here for the next 3-5 years, the crib must also grow with the child, meaning we need a convertible crib (which the French more romantically call a ‘lit evolutif’) which are less available and more expensive. For the same reason, it also must be sturdy and of good quality, hence MDF is out. And then there is the all important aesthetics: after all, it’s also gotta look good! In Canada, a crib that ticks all the boxes can be had for about $200…..I was aghast to find that a similar crib in Paris is closer to 700 euros! And so, the quest has been on.

This quest has so far spanned 3 countries (Canada, France and England) involved countless friends (who either listened or offered to ship the damn thing to me, probably just to shut me up), countless baby furniture stores (where I must communicate in French, always an extra hurdle), one very patient girlfriend (who has joined me on my Parisian quest) and a completely fed up husband who DOES NOT want to talk about the crib anymore!!!

It appears I am not alone in being obsessional (is this a word?) in regards to baby stuff. A friend who is also pregnant is similarly consumed with the purchase of a buggy…I recognize the hysteria in her eye. Another friend admitted to complete germaphobia when her baby was small, and insisted that anyone entering the house must wash their hands before they could set them on her precious. This lasted until the baby was old enough to stick everything into her mouth, at which point my friend realized her obsession with cleanliness was probably a complete waste of time. Another friend burst into tears over hand me down furniture that didn’t match (and which her long suffering husband calmly painted white) and another was so besotted with minimalism that she eschewed most items that parents feel they must have, including a crib (she opted for co-sleeping instead, which is starting to have its appeal for me!). However in her case her obsession worked in her favor, and she continues to be grateful for all she did not buy.

Although I envy my minimalist friend her Zen (not to mention feeling somewhat silly and materialistic compared to her) she forces me to consider this point: what is it about the ‘stuff’ that makes new parents crazy? Babies have been born for generations, and most thrived quite well without a Exersaucer or jiggly chair. Most folks would blame consumerism for this trend; step into any Babies R Us and you would see that they mean. However, as a long time obsessionist (again, is this a word?) I think it is not as simple as this. After all, I am a sane (normally) reasonable girl who has never been a slave to trends nor swooned at the sight of the latest gadget. My previous obsessions were not about the ‘stuff’ but something else. I think back to things that previously consumed me: wedding shoes? It was really about wanting to feel like a princess on my wedding day. Leather couch? It was about the feeling of comfort that I wanted for our home. And, so the crib? Maybe, just maybe, it’s about wanting certain things for my child. About wanting to show him that life is not about instant gratification but that good things are worth waiting for; or about wanting him to be able to bounce off his bed in the morning without worrying that it will fall apart; wanting us to be able to cuddle in it together for story time and be sure that it will bear the weight of the two of us snuggled down. Sure I still want the crib to look good (after all, I will be forced to look at it every morning for a long time!) but that look is the back drop for the life I envision us having together. As I see it, my current crib consumption is a way of getting ready for my son, for thinking about him, for having dreams for him.

And so, the search continues………

Babymoon!

We've just returned home from our babymoon, otherwise known as a last twosome trip before baby. Some may think this is silly as Greg and I have spent the last 15 years alone together, but I never miss a chance to reconnect with my hubby and indulge in a little romance.

Our original plan was to go on an all inclusive holiday to Morocco or similar...this was until too much flying around Canada landed me in hospital. So, flying was out. My brilliant husband then suggested a romantic Mediterranean cruise, an idea we were both really excited about until I got kicked off the boat even before I got on it....no sailing after 6 months, no exceptions! So, what to do? I polled my European girlfriends (who are all avid travellers) and we came up with a weekend in London for shows and excitement, and a week in the Cotswolds for R&R. Plus if the baby came early I would be in an English speaking country: perfect!

So, off we went on the Eurostar train which I thought would be posh but was actually not as nice as the TGV's. However we arrived in London in just over 2 hours (just like driving to Parksville from Victoria, but way cooler!) got to our hotel then headed into town.

Now, this may not seem romantic to you, but if you have been following the crib saga you will know I have been very unhappy with my crib choices in Paris....so what does a good shopper do but try looking in a different city! I spent several hours happily checking our cribs at John Lewis Dept store, while Greg (with great relief) visited some Beatles haunts that he has been keen to see. He walked the famous zebra crossing which he says for the record it looks a lot smaller than on that iconic album cover!. We hit a pub for dinner (beer! chips!) then hit the sheets.

The next day, after a run around getting our rental car (how exactly does one arrange for a pick up at a train station as huge as St. Pancras?) we headed to Cotswold country. And it did not let us down: gradually city congestion gave way to rolling hills, stone fences and lovely stone cottages, the view around each corner more charming than the last. Greg loved driving on the left again (he lived in Plymouth for 6 months in his Navy days) and the challenge of keeping up with local traffic on what amounts to little more than a one way street! He did very well and we arrived at our hotel intact.

Our hotel was exceptional: it is a converted manor house, and boasts a spa and first class restaraunt, all nestled in 100 acres of seclusion. We had a huge suite with King sized bed, and pregnant lady sized bathtub....pure bliss. Breakfast each morning was excellent, and the staff so friendly and accomadating. One of our favorite features was the free DVD's we could borrow from the front desk; since the weather was rainy and cold, and Greg was once again down with stomach flu (not the beer I swear) we spent the first few days holed up in our nest, perfectly content.

We eventually poked our noses out of our room and went to explore the local villages. Their names trip off the tongue like Harry Potter characters: Stowe-on-the Wold, Bourton-on-the-Water, Chipping Camden, the Slaughters. In Broadway we climbed Broadway Tower, built as a folly but since home to farmers, friends of William Morris and the military at different times in its history. The views were stupendous, and we were touched by a memorial to British and Canadian ariman who died in a training accident very near the Tower. In Bourton we feasted on cream tea, and enjoyed country walks in Lower Slaughter and around the hotel. We checked out Gloucester Cathedral, where parts of the Harry Potter films were made, and ogled the fan vaulting of the cloisters, which inspired similar architecture in the Rideau Chapel, now located in the National Art Gallery in Ottawa. Each night we picked a different little pub to try out, and enjoyed the kindness and vivacity of the local people. We treated ourselves to massages: what indulgence! We even attended the local Remembrance Day ceremonies in Stowe, complete with a piper and children's choir.

Feeling rested and restored by country living, the return to London was a bit of a shock. We found London even busier than Paris, if that's possible. For our last night we took in the stage production of Billy Elliot with Meg's Auntie Linda (who offered to drive the crib over to Paris...what a doll!) and were amazed by the talent of the young dancers.

I would definately recommend a babymoon (or a 'whatevermoon') to anyone. Any chance to focus on one another, and spend lots of cuddle time, should be taken. However, this trip was not the same as others we have taken because the baby has already changed us. The way we travel is different (I'm a lot slower, and can carry way less luggage!) as is the way we relate. We talk about the baby and what it will be like to have him so much that he is already a part of our couple: our twosome is becoming a threesome. I miss the old 'us' in some ways, but the new 'us' is so much more: fuller, richer, happier, and more scared. Trepidation and elation are both present, and there is no-one that I want to experience this with more than Greg. The real journey was not our babymoon -great as that was- but our journey towards parenthood, together.

Little Luxembourg and Tiny Trier

November 1st is a long weekend in France, and my husband is not one to 'waste' a long weekend....in order to add another country to his life list (he's up to 29) he cooked up the idea of a driving weekend, to Luxembourg. But a colleague had told him that Luxembourg was actually pretty boring, and suggested we stay a mere half hour away in the German town of Trier. And so, "Ka" rented (the car was honestly called a Ford Ka) off we went.

We like driving holidays. Its nice to be your own man (woman), hit the road, go where the spirit takes you. Especially since we are no longer Ka owners (Ok I will stop) its a treat to drive. Despite drizzly weather, we were thrilled to see beautiful fall foliage to rival the Gatineaus back home. The colors of the leaves, hills and countryside were truly stupendous, and reminded us how good it is to get out of the city.

And we believe small is beautiful. Take Luxembourg, for example. We arrived quite late (I admit I spent a good part of the day shopping at Ikea...but you have to take full advantage when you've got a car!) so we simply parked and headed out for a stroll. The air was evening crisp, and the sun was just going down. Spread below us like a lovely carpert was a deep gully that had been made into a park. Stone walls rose up from this, watched over by the city itself. At night this gorge was equally stunning due to atmospheric lighting. We explored the local church (burnt, bombed and rebuilt many times) and had dinner in a more than passable Mexican restaurant (these are rare in Paris, so we took a chance...and it was very good! No translations needed on the menu!) Luxembourg has spent much of its history being occupied (by France, Germany and Belgium) and stripped of its lands (same countries) but remains a fiercly independent little duchy. Greg's buddy was partly right-there isn't much to 'see' per se- and yet Luxembourg is a lovely little place to visit for a short stint.

We went on to Trier that same night, checking into our hotel quite late. The only room left had been smoked in (despite the non smoking policy) which really doesn't work for pregnant asthmatics, so the kindly proprietor found us another room.....in a handicapped suite! This room was rather dorm like, and there was a seat in the shower (which was actually quite handy for me) as well as power lift beds (woohoo!) ...however the full on German breakfast the next morning more than made up for the oddness of the accomadations.

As the seat of the Roman Empire for several years, Trier has an amazing amount of history for such a small place. We looked at Ponto Negra, the largest Roman city gate in the world; the oldest building in Germany (oddly painted in a Moroccan style which was fashionable at the time) and Emperor Constantine's Throne Room (the only intact room in the world from Roman times, and still in use today as a church). There was lots of charming traditional architecture, and a delicious lunch spot for German sausage and spatzle for lunch. Greg went to look at Karl Marx's birthplace while Meg shopped a bit, and then we hopped in the Ka for the drive home, appreciating again how good things come in small towns.

P.S. Greg wants me to mention specifically that we drive through 4 countires in one day: France, Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany......this is a pretty neat thing for people from Canada, where you can barely cover one province in a day!

Pregnant in Paris

I always have an idea about how things will go in my life. I've been around long enough to know that the way you think it will go is probably not the way it will go, but I still do it: think ahead, envision an event, plan it all out. For example, if I was to ever get pregnant 'some day' I would bring the baby back to the Brookfield Bungalow to sleep in the Blue Room; copious family would be around to get underfoot and to help out; my neighbor Maria would be on hand for mothering advice or a delicious Portugese meal when I was just too darn tired to cook. I would work hand in hand in hand with my dear doctor who has become a friend. I would shop for maternity wear with my girls, and be able to buy all the gear at my local Babies R Us.

Well, like John says, life happened while I was making other plans. We had been settled in our new apartment for about a month when I found out I was pregnant. I first suspected when we were down in the South of France, sampling wine. It made me sick -really sick- and my tolerance is normally stupendous!! I got home, and before making a trip to the pharmacist had to look up the French word for 'pregnancy', which is 'grossesse'....not pretty.

And the grossesse adventure has just continued from there. Having no idea what is available, I have relied utterly and completely on my new GP to guide me though the French medical system. Which turns out is pretty good, although the French think it is going to hell in a handbasket! Imagine of they had to wait 6 months for surgery like in Canada......Generally speaking I get a real, live DOCTOR doing my medical tests, which is wonderful as they diagnose as they go along. None of this 'wait for the results' nonesense. My ultrasounds have been done in English (bonus!) but all my bloodwork and other tests in French, which means I tote the dictionary with me to the clinic (they think this is cute).

And speaking of vocabulary, shopping for baby furniture is a whole new world. As our apartment is so small, we want a crib that turns into a toddler bed; the French call this a 'lit evolutif' which I think has a lyrical ring to it. Lyrical it may be, but it is also expensive!! I can get a lovely solid wood lit evolutif in Ottawa for about $250; here in Paris the average price is 700 euros, and it is MDF. Grrrrr!!! Then there are berceaux (bassinettes) sometimes called couffins (a term that makes me nervous), pousettes (strollers), commodes (dressers) and hautes-chaises (OK, this one I could work out without the dictionary!). I'm scared to even get into diapers, bottles, bibs......

However it has not been all bad: the maternity wear is lovely; I get to use all sorts of toilets not normally open to the public; I get seats on the Metro. And people are very kind, always wanting to know my 'date d'accouchement'. Of course, by French standards I look about ready to pop now......you should see their eyes pop when I tell them I still have a few months to go! What can I say, we make 'em big in Canada.

So being pregnant here in many ways has made the whole process so much more difficult. I am trying to adjust not only to being a new Mom, but to my new city. Some days I feel such despair: if I can't even figure out how to buy blinds for the baby's room, how on earth can I look after the baby? But then I stop and remember that being here has given me the rare gift of time: time to not be working, time to really enjoy being pregnant, time to contemplate motherhood. Greg and I have had to rely on just each other, and are already honing our own instincts for parenthood.

Besides, our little one can always say he was born in Paris!

Enjoying Edinburgh

When my friend Donna from work invited me to join her in Edinburgh, I jumped at the chance (well, did a little skip. I don't think its possible to be airborne at 6.5 months pregnant!) My grandfather had been born in Scotland and its lore looomed large in my mind. And unlike some places that I come to with high expectations, Edinburgh did not dissapoint.

I will admit that weather has a huge impact on my ability to appreciate a place, and surprisingly for Scotland, our weather was perfect: crisp fall days with orange leaves dancing against a blue, blue sky. It did rain just enough to give me a feel for it, and while the city was certainly greyer, I found it no less charming. I noted that the stone used throughout Edinburgh's building is grey compared to teh creamy hue favored in Paris (or perhaps it just needed a good wash?) but overall the city reminded me of its emblem, the thistle: a beautiful, approachable centre set amongst thorny crags.

It certainly is different travelling with a girlfriend than my husband. While I adore travelling with Greg, I certainly get to shop more with a friend! Donna indulged my desire for comfy Clark's boots, and we hit most of the other big name stores as well. Tea at Debenham's and a pedicure at Jenner's rounded out a thoroughly hedonistic day! We did get a bit of culture in by visiting an Impressionist Garden exhibit on at the Royal Gallery, which was very good. Funny that I went to Edinburgh to see artists from Paris..... I also must mention specially that pedicure, which was done quite differently than in Canada. My esthetician a sweet young thing named Jessica, explained that usually they do a pedicure lying down (how??) but since I was pregnant she put me in a chair (good call). However they had no equipment to allow her to work on my feet this way, so she sat on the floor, bless her heart! Normally, they are not permitted to trim toenails, but she took pity on the state of my feet (which I can no longer reach) and did them anyhow.

After a filling Scottish venison stew for dinner, we went back to our lovely B&B to watch English TV, woohoo!

The next morning, I tried porridge and haggis for breakfast. I actually like haggis: its quite rich, but verra tasty, and the oatmeal mixed in with the ground meat gives it nice texture. As I had gotten to do all the things on my list the day before, this day was for Donna, and she likes taking pictures! It was a rainy morning, but undaunted, we and our umbrellas headed to Edinburgh castle for a dose of history. I learned that the 'crag' where the castle is situated has been inhabited since prehistoric times, and is the place from which poor Mary Stuart began her demise. I saw the room where James the 7th (to become James 1st of England and Scotland) was born as well as the chapel that Queen Margaret prayed in (she later was canonized a saint). Since Mary's time, the castle has been primarily used for military purposes so there was a great deal of military history as well. There is even a tiny graveyard for all the regiment mascots who have died over the years!

We then walked the Royal Mile and bought cashmere for everyone back home (oh Ok, some for me too:) I then needed a nap, and Donna carried on taking more pictures (by this point I had dropped my camera, so its a good thing she did take lots!) That night we took in the movie Eat, Pray, Love, a suitably 'chicky' way to end the day.

Our last half day was another bright clear one, so I took the chance to climb nearby Collton Hill which sits opposite the Castle. It was a slow climb for one pregnant lady, and one lady with bum knees, but we made it and the view was totally worth it. We could see to the ocean on one side, and admire Edinburgh Castle and the city's other landmarks from the other. It was a fitting end to a wonderful weekend, which left me, yet again, saying 'when can I come back?'.

There's no Place Like Home

In August, Greg and I made our first sojourn back to Canada after moving to Paris. We were so excited to see friends, family and our beloved cottage again!

Our first stop was Ottawa, where we launched our visits with a party with Greg's family "the Moore's". It was delight to see them all again, and share our 'surprise!' baby news, but jetlag caught up with us both; we went to bed and the party continued without us! We fared better the next evening when we went to a BBQ with our Brookfield family (former neighbors) who were also ecstatic about Baby Lamarre.....note to self for next visit, book no evening events until jetlag wears off!

After catching up with our parents, and doing some much needed retail therapy at 'my' mall (Billings Bridge) we headed up to our cottage in Henry Ford, our aging pickup that we have bequeathed to friends. I'd held the cottage in my minds eye so many times since leaving it that I wondered if reality would dissapoint....but it did not. The pine tree still frames the view of the cottage as it hugs the lake, and the grass and garden were in pristine condition thanks to our wonderful caretakers. However our cottage life has changed already with the loss of both our lovely neighbors to cancer; both cottages had been sold, but our new neighbors seem to be 'kindred spirits' and we look forward to getting to know them better when we return.

My brother Mark and his wife Judy arrived shortly thereafter bringing our new nephew Kyle to meet us. Kyle is 3 now, and cute as a bug. He immediately took to his Uncle "Gwaic" who took him kayaking and played cars with him for hours; Auntie Meg was merely the carrier of "Gwaic's baby"...chopped liver indeed! Mark and Judy had little holiday from caring for Kyle and working on Mark's budding business (he's a marriage and family therapist) but we managed to catch up on naps, make a few trips into Westport and play speed scrabble!

Greg needed to head back to Europe to attend a wedding in Russia, and get back to work. I took full advantage of being a lady of leisure and stayed another week at the cottage (spending time with Tracey, Jen and Avery and Ethel) before flying out to Victoria to visit my family.

It is always wonderful to go back to the sea: the salty-sweet winds tickle my nostrils on landing and let me know immediately that I am near the ocean once again. My Dad and stepmum took me under their wings as soon as I arrived, but I was getting overtired....and ended up in ER as a result with lots of abdominal pressure. Baby turned out to be fine, but it was a warning to slow down....which I was immediately forced to do by coming down with a nasty cold. This delayed my drive up to Powell River to see Grandma, but the R&R was needed.

Once recovered I hopped in my little rental car and hit the road; was it ever fun to drive again! I hit all my favorite up Island haunts and views, and even a few kids consignment stores. I love the ferry ride to PR: the blues of the water blur into the deeper blues of the mountains, and the smoke stack from the paper mill rises up like a salutation. In Powell River, Grandma and I swam in the ocean (cold!) got a pedicure and made the required trip to Cranberry Pottery. I also visited with my oldest friend (we've known each other since kindergarten).

I had a few more days, and more visits, in both Victoria and Ottawa (so many dear people) but I was begining to tire of visiting and wanted my own routine again. I had been warned by friends in Paris that I would probably not feel that I belonged at home anymore (and yet you didn't belong in Paris either, leaving you feeling a bit driftless); but I slipped right back into my old life like I had never left. It was such an exquisite relief to be able to communicate easily once again, to know where to shop for things, to regain my autonomy and direction, rather than feeling hesitant and strange. And yet my husband, my apartment, and my baby's birth were all awaiting me in Paris. While I was not longing to go back, I realized that I wasn't dreading it either. Visiting all my homes-Ottawa, Victoria and Powell River-made me realize that leaving each of them in turn had been hard, and it had taken me time to adjust to the new place (clearly I do not transplant well!). And yet, I had adjusted. Each place, over time, had become important, had become home. And while Paris is not home now, maybe one day it will be, or at least not feel quite so strange.

Nice IS nice!

In late July, Greg and I were invited to join Canadian friends on their holiday in Nice. Jonathan served in the military with Greg, and our families have known each other since Victoria.

We took the train down to Nice -a quick 4 hours by TGV- and as we travelled the terrain became more tropical, and the air more humid: true Med weather! Christina, Jonathan and their 2 sons met us at the train station and escorted us to their rented abode nearby. They were aplogetic about the tight quarters, but we found it charming; we are already accustomed to the tiny scale of living in Europe!

We walked around town for a 'recon' (with military friends comes military lingo) and admired the ornate architecture, palm trees and relaxed pace of life along the Med. Our impression was one of faded elegance, of a moneyed place that had seen better days. And yet the air was balmy and moist, and smelled of the sea...we could see the appeal for those who return again and again (spending the month of August on the Mediterranean is the traditional summer vacation for most Parisians). This favorable impression only deepened when we took our first dip in the ocean: pure bliss! It was like returning to the warm, salty waters of the womb. We would comfortably float and be cradled by the waves for hours at a time.

We noted Nice came alive at night as we wandered the narrow streets of Old Nice looking for a good dinner place. Eating with Jonathan is a delight: among other talents, he is a prodigious gourmet, always seeking new recipes and delighting in local flavours. He had diligently researched good places to eat before we arrived, but the final decision was always one of instinct: we stood before several establishments, noses quivering, observing the place's atmosphere and style before settling on a charming Italian restaraunt. We finished the night with a stroll and managed to fit a delicious local ice cream into our bulging bellies before heading home.

The next day we took a bus to nearby Monaco. The bus was an experience in itself: we arrived in plenty of time to find the quai already stacked with sunseekers. Queuing in France is a frustrating experience for anyone of the Anglo Saxon persuasion: there are no orderly lines, only a chaotic melee that presses forward with little regard for small children, pregnant bellies, or even the need to breathe! In this press, Jonathan reached for his wallet to pay the fare only to find it gone! We immediately backed away from the crowd, scanning for anyone suspicious. Jonathan approached two men loitering around the crowd (you have to ask yourself why) who denied seeing anything, but cannily suggested we check the garbages, and around the benches 'in case it got dropped'. Sure enough, Christina spotted the wallet wedged under a bench; coincidence? We thought not, but were only happy that calamity had been averted.

And so, on to Monaco. The city lies like a beautiful woman between two natural harbours. Surveying the scenery from the top of the Rock of Monaco (where the palace is located), we could smell the money. None of us had seen a cleaner or prettier city. We visited St. Nicholas Cathedral, where Princess Grace was married and buried, and then on to the Aquarium housed on a stunning fin de siecle building perched on a cliff looking out to sea. We all agreed it was the most stupendous location for a museum we'd ever seen (and the kids liked the fish!). Greg was keen to see Casino Monte Carlo, and so we walked around the huge harbour (stopping to let the kids enjoy a few rides at the pint sized fair), hauled our weary carcasses up the hill only to find....we weren't allowed in wearing shorts! I did manage to get in (wearing a sundress) to use the washroom, which was very elegant, but not the full experience we had in mind (let's face it, we probably couldn't afford to gamble there anyhow!!). As a finale to the day, we missed the last bus, but were able to get home by train, and put our satiated selves to bed.

On our last day, I was keen to see the Musee Matisse. I am not really a fan of his style, but I always find it edifying to reconsider an artist in context; I always come away with a greater appreciation ,if not a true passion, for the art. The Musee Matisse met my expectations in this way, and I enjoyed learning more about Matisse's relationship with his muse and model Lydia (but he never slept with her...ya, right!). The visit was enlivened when Jonathan and Christina's 3 year old son set off an alarm while playing around an art peice-whoops! We finished the day exploring the lovely Jardin Botanique de la Ville de Nice, and smelling the roses. Isn't that what les vacances is all about?

Fabulous Frisbourg

On the first sunny weekend of summer, Greg and I had the pleasure of travelling to Frisbourg, Switzerland to visit our fellow Canadian friends Andrew and Carey, along their two lovely girls. Andrew and Greg served in the military together, and Greg has known Carey for oh, way too long....yes there are a lot of stories there! Andrew is now a prof at UVic, and has taken a year's sabbatical in Frisbourg, providing us the perfect excuse for a visit.

We took the three hour trip to Frisbourg by train, a trip that was a visual treat. The terrain gradually became more hilly with goats appeared in the hills and the houses transforming from the traditional low-slung French farmhouses to Swiss style gingerbreaded homes. For some reason the Swiss tend to build two storey homes, which makes them look like children stretching on tippy toe to peek over the mountain tops.

Andrew picked us up at the station and we were able to walk the 10 minutes to his place. We all agreed we love the European lifestyle of being able to walk everywhere! Their home is located in the old part of town in a deep valley; we were delighted by the view of orange roofs, church steeples, abbeys and the river: it was right out of a picture book.

It was an idyllic country weekend, a perfect antidote to the press of Paris. We took long walks, played with the kids, went swimming and ate delicious meals both at home and out. The most notable meal was taken at the swimming pool canteen where Meg, Greg and Carey dined on entrecote du cheval....yup, horse steak! (it's a lot like beef). Greg and Carey climbed 300 plus stairs for a stunning view from the Cathedral's spire while Meg admired the stained glass from terra firma. Later we walked by the river for a peek over the fence at an ages old, but still functional abbey. Then the two engineers investigated the hydro dam which you'll be pleased to know it is in fine working condition:)

Too soon, it was time to come home, but we are already planning our return to Switzerland. And best of luck to the Nicker-Rowe's on their return home!

Our Eire Experience

The 3rd weekend in May found Meg and I in beautiful old Dublin. A fabulous place filled with kind, inviting people very happy to show you a jolly time. While Greg immersed himself in Irish revolutionary history, Meg partook of the literary sightseeing opportunities and walked in the footsteps of Joyce, Wilde and Yates. The weather was beautiful and warm and the locals noted on many occasions that this was a once in a season type of happening - just for the lucky Canucks we supposed. Greg wasted little time getting into his first pint of local brewed Guinness and didn't stop sampling until it was time to leave. We both very much enjoyed the hearty Irish fare after many months of croissants, cheese and other French classics (poor us indeed).

We toured Trinity College and heard many tipbits of quirky fact from the tour guide, a student at the university. His comment about the "insufferable nature" of those that proudly hold to their overly patriotic protection of the Gaellic language gave us both a chuckle. Greg's other favourite was the military history museum and the Gaol while Meg preferred the natural history museum and the excellent shopping. We were both very drawn to the music, played by many musicians young and old, using various unique instruments on almost every street corner and inside every pub.

All in all, a wonderful albeit too short weekend that will go down in the anals of fantastic get-aways.

The Sun Shines From Her Eyes

Guest Blogger: Angela

I have had the pleasure over the last couple of weeks of being able to spend some time with Megan and Greg. Megan has not lost her delegation skills and has requested that I be a 'guest' blogger. I am wise enough to know never to say no to Megan.

We have managed to hit a variety of sites and share some wonderful moments that will be warm memories for a long time. Time was spent in awe at Rodin's sculptures, marveling at many wonderful paintings, and taking in a string ensemble at Sainte Chapelle (incredible!).

We also managed to relax grand style. Which included sleeping in on a daily basis, eating pastries, dinner at the park, biking to Giverny to absorb the beauty of Monet's garden and watching matinee movies at a theatre on the Champs Elysee with tea after at La Duree.

What struck me most about the visit was how incredibly responsive people are to Megan. Her warm nature and beauty shines through and she is able to strike up incredible conversations with artists and waiters. She makes people on the Metro feel at ease with her reasuring smile and comments. This is no small feat in a city like Paris. My favorite moment of all was the garbage man telling us that he could not be sad when the sun shone from her eyes like it was as we left a restaurant one day. Her radiance and incredible personality will leave their mark on Paris and will make Parisians appreciate this Canadian beauty. I miss her and Greg already and I will be back.

I Left my Heart in.....Provence

At the end of April, Greg had his first business trip since joining the OECD. I was delighted to learn that it was to be in Aix-en-Provence as seeing Provence has always been a long held wish of mine. I quickly invited myself along:).

We travelled by TGV which I was intrigued to try. We found it was a lot like Via, but faster which isn't necessarily a good thing as the blurry landscape inspires naseau! However, a top speed of over 300 km/hour it got us down south in only 3 hours.

The hotel, booked by Greg's work was fairly nondescript, but with an excellent downtown location. Greg headed off to work and I headed off to tour. As Aix centre ville is quite compact, I decided to eschew maps and itineraries and simply follow my nose....it turned out to be a delightful way to look around. I ended up on a tour of the Saint Sauveur cloisters, all in French. I had a smilar experience in the Tapestry Museum were a kindly gaurd asked me if I knew much about tapestries, then proceeded with a lengthy and delightful discourse on French history, language, travels etc....again all in French! I found the people of Aix to be undeterred by English speakers-they must figure we'll catch up with them eventually. The weather was hot and sunny and my favorite part of the day was sitting in a busy square eating lunch and people watching in the sun.....a few glasses of local wine and my contentment was complete!

That evening Greg and I went to a venerable old cafe frequented by Cezanne and friends, and then for an evening stroll. Aix comes alive at night, with cafes spilling onto the sidewalks and people on their evening walks clogging the narrow streets. It was a wonderful party atmosphere.

The next day, with work duties complete, we drove to nearby Avignon, the capitol of the Provence area. At first it appeared like any other city with the highway littered with shopping malls and billboards; however as we drove along the Rhone we suddenly saw the magestic Palais du Papes and fabled Pont d'Avignon in the distance. It felt as if we were driving into a fairy tale.

Our B&B turned out to be equally delightful. It is an old provencale farmhouse located on the Ile de Barthelasse, an island in the Rhone. Despite being a mere hop, skip and jump from Avignon, the Ile retains a rural charm so refreshing after the big city hustle of Paris. The hosts (fellow refugees from Paris) had completely renovated the house, and were thrilled but amazed that Greg used the pool (it was about 20 degrees C, warm for Canucks!!). The other guests were equally friendly and we spent a wonderful evening drinking champagne and discussing life them.

The next day we hopped in the car and headed to the Chateauneuf-du-Papes wine region. We learned that the wine is so expensive because the entire region is only about 50 hectares big; several grape varieties are grown, and most wines are a blend of these. We did an informative tasting in a cave that had been owned by the same family since the 1500's (!!!) and picked up a special (read pricey) bottle for our anniversary.

We next drove the prettiest 10 km's I have ever seen to the village of Orange. The scenery featured charming villas, olive trees, vineyards and poppies blowing in the wind. Orange had been an important Roman city, and boasts several ruins including an intact theatre that is still in use today. We toured the theatre, and ate lunch at a restaurant laid out beside its ancient wall.

The next morning we borrowed our hosts bikes to go on a wonderful ride around Ile de Barthelasse. It was literally a breathe of fresh air for this city mouse. Were we ever to move to Avignon, I would live on the Ile (although I hear it is prone to flooding!) We said goodbye to all our new friends, and finished out our time with a tour -and a dance- on the Pont d'Avignon. We learned that the origin of the song is from the guingettes, or dance halls, that used to line the Rhone.

'Sur le pont d'Avignon, on y danser, on y danser!'

Beautiful Belgium

For the Easter weekend this year we travelled to Belgium; Greg's Dad and his girlfriend (Dad's, not Greg's!) were visiting, so the four of us piled into a rental car and headed out.

The first adventure was actually renting the car. Greg had booked online, and so we assumed the pick up would be a breeze....blithely forgetting all about French bureaucracy! To get the car we needed drivers liscences, of course; we also needed our carte de sejour (residency) cards. As the address on the carte de sejour ws not our residence address the clerk wanted a bill or similar with our address on it. As we didn't have this with us, we needed to also show our passports. If we had a firstborn, no doubt they would've wanted that too! Finally (with a line up growing behind us) the clerk agreed to give us the car, warning that it was "tres exceptionelle".

Then the adventure of driving in Paris began! We found that it is definately a two person job, one to watch the GPS and figure out which crooked little road it wants you to take, and the other to keep a 360 degree look out for cars, bikes, scooters and pedestrians!

However, once out of Paris, the drive became idyllic with vistas of rolling green hills and tiny villages. We stoped for lunch (coq au vin, yum!) and then at the Vimy Ridge Memorial.

Vimy Ridge was all we had hoped it would be. At the same time imposing and serene, it lays like an exclamation point on the windswept lanscape. It is incredibly moving. The faces of the allegorical figures manage to conjure greif and hope together, perfectly capturing the spirit of the nation at the end of the Great War. The guides, young students from Canada, were friendly and knowledgeable. We also took a tour of the tunnel system, a true feat of engineering. Greg found the pocked lanscape particularly evocative, left as it was after the war to grow over.

The weather turned chilly and wet, so we returned to the car and on to Belgium. On the advice of a Belge co-worker of Greg's we went to Ghent which is considered a more authentic village then the picture perfect Bruges (but there is quite a rivalry between the two). We settled in at our eclectic B&B, run by a lovely Belge couple who are a jewellry designer and gallery owner respectively, and then struck out to explore. During the Middle Ages, Ghent was one of the largest cities in Europe due to the importance of the cloth trade. Today, the town remains accesible by foot, and we enjoyed the ancient Medieval buildings (built in the unique Flemish style) and canal like river systems. There is an unmistakable air of creativity about the place, with lots of funky shops, galleries and artisans studios to see. We also ate very well, with Meg trying the local speciality of waterzooi. Sadly, Greg had the stomach flu, so was unable to properly appreciate the many beers Belgium is famous for.

The next day we attended Mass (in Belge) at the beautiful St. Baavo cathedral, and travelled on to Bruges. We found it to also be very pretty, if a little more 'done up' than Ghent. Meg and Heather took a canal tour by boat, but had some difficulty understanding the guide who spoke Belge, German, French and English all with a song-songy drawl! We took a few moments to look in on the statue of the Virgin and Child by Michaelangelo at St. Michelskirch, then headed home.

Portugal

In March of this year, Greg and I were thrilled to go back to Portugal (we had been there for several week in 2003 or 2004....we can't remember which).
The timing was pretty tight as we were leaving a mere week after moving into our apartment; with company expected on the return week, it was frantic times! So R&R in the Algarve's mellow setting was perfect.
I have rarely had the privilege of returning somewhere that I had been before, and it was really nice to see someplace foreign as familiar. We had not misremembered Portugal's charms: stimulating it is not, but the gentle pace of life there is enchanting. In March, the weather was warm, but not too hot; the people were friendly; the food plentiful and healthy (lots of fresh fish!).
We went for long walks along the red cliffs, commenting on the strange vegetation and undulating rock formations. We enjoyed returning to one of the many secret beaches that appear once the tide goes out; while there we felt like the only 2 people in the world.
We took a day trip into Gibralter, which has long been on our list to see. It took a 10 hour bus ride there and back to have only 5 hours on the Rock itself, but it was very interesting both from a geograhical and historical perspective. We took a cable car up, then hiked the length of the Rock seeing St. Michael's cave ( which was thought by the ancients to be the mouth of Hades), the Moorish castle, the WWII caves and lots of resident monkeys lolling in the sun. Unfortunately, with all the unpacking/walking/hiking/sitting on an uncomfortable bus I threw out my back, but was then entitled to complete R&R for the remainder of the trip!
On the other days we went pottery shopping and for a drive to see 'the end of the earth'. On this drive we stoped in for lunch at Salema where we had spent 3 wonderful days on our previous trip. It was just as charming as we remembered, and we vowed to come back for another holiday.

Why are the French so Slim?

I have been tasked by a source who will remain nameless to find out (and I quote) "How the hell do those French women stay so skinny?!".
In pursuit of the answer to this question, we have heard some interesting theories. One individual -who shall also remain nameless- thinks that Darwinism is at play. His theory runs something like this: all the burly Frenchmen have been sent off to war. You pick the war, there have been lots of them. All the burly French guys are killed, leaving behind their scrawny counterpoints to procreate. It is true that all French people do appear fine boned and petite, so there may be something to this. A theory that is interesting or insane, you decide!
At first, I assumed the national slimness could be put down to diet. It must be all the mineral water, and red wine, and healthy fats. You only have to be here a few days to realize that the French eat ALOT, and mostly what North Americans would consider 'bad stuff'. South Beach diets would die a quick death here in the land of bread; mashed potatoes or fries accompany most meals, and it can be a challenge to get vegetables in a restaurant. And I've waxed eloquent before about the wine: cheap, plantiful and delicious it is the drink of choice with very meal save breakfast, and often in between. And then there are pastries, eaten daily and in quantity. Croissants (with all the lovely butter and white flour) are most people's breakfast of choice.
Then I thought, perhaps it is portions? Again not so. A typical lunch in Paris consists of a mound (and I do mean a mound) of mashed potatoes accompanied by some kind of succulent meat and a sauce. Veggies optional! I've watched fascinated as teensy 95 lb women (you know the kind you hate as they fit effortlessly into their size zero jeans.....you want to tell them 'zero is not a size!!!") tuck into these huge lunches with gusto; there is rarely anything wasted. (I'm told dinners are usually smaller....this I cannot corroborate yet).
So, as far as I can tell, it comes down to lifestyle. Like Greg and I, most Parisians do not own a vehicle. So they take the Metro, necessitating a walk on each end and climbing A LOT of stairs. Anything bought must be lugged home in a similar fashion, which becomes 'weighted walking' according to work out fiends. A friend of mine who moved here a year ago has lost a stone -nearly 14 lbs-from this regime (and reduced snacking). And she didn't need to lose weight. I think I hate her too:)
So, here's hoping that I encounter the same fate.......

Stylin'

French people are known internationally as harbingers of style; and from observation I have to say the stereotype is true. What is it that gives the French their flair, thier sense of style? I decide to observe.
First off, they ALWAYS have nice shoes. There are no Birkenstocks. There are no Crocs (thank God). There are no runners (unless they are running). The shoes worn may be casual, but always stylish (witness the 'Euro runner') but are more likely leather, high and pointy. And this makes for one heck of a put together look.
Second, nice coats. Choices are usually wool, leather or suede, usually black, but not exclusively. Denim is rarely seen (but would be OK paired with a floaty skirt). During winter, poufy parkas were around, but they were slimmer and less bulky than their Canadian counterparts. Men especially look chic in their classic black dress coats. Ooh la la!
And then there are the scarves. If I had to pick one fashion item to define the French it would be the scarf. It is worn casually, twisted and wrapped effortlessly about the neck. Its almost always of a fine material, or alernatively is worn a funky counterpoint to a conservative ensemble. There are wooly winter scarves, floaty summer scarves, skinny statement scarves. They are everywhere.
Of course, anything worn looks better on an attractive wearer, especially someone slim. And the French are uniformly thin. Not slim, not svelte, thin! Which brings me to my next topic.........

PS-no one wear berets. That stereotype is not true!

YSL

Today I went to see a Yves Saint Laurent retrospective exhibition at the Petit Palais. YSL was Armenian by birth, but adopted Paris as his home during his early years, remaining loyal to it until his death in 2008. He originally worked for Christian Lacroix, but took the fashion world by storm with his avant garde designs that liberated the female form.

To my surprise, I was impressed and moved by this man. I have never been a haute couture fashionista; lets face it I can't afford it, and as those who know me will attest to the fact that I would much rather spend my money on a painting! Actually YSL himself did not consider fashion an art form-note the small A. He is quoted in the exhibition as saying that fashion is not art, but does require an artist to bring it about. Having now seen his work, I may have to agree....

YSL was a man who was able to transform his inspirations into something wearable. Witness his collections based on foreign cultures: African, Chinese, Spanish and Russian (he himself considered his Russian collection, inspired by the Ballets Russes, to be is best work). The influence of other cultures on clothing design is somewhat blasee today, but he is the originator of this concept: if you will, the original United Benetton. But, more astoundingly, he was also able to witness art- painting, sculpture, verse, whatever-and transform it into a fabric fanstasy. For example, his Mondrian dress mimics that artist's colorful squares; his Monet jacket is a symphony of watercolors, all done in beadwork. As a tribute to poets, he wrote their verses in sparkly, cursive words on the back of a swing coat. I find this transformation of art fascinating. How can someone look at one art form and then dream up a way to apply it to another art form, making it equally beautiful and arresting? Assuming I agree that fashion is art, could I transform the colors and beauty of line of the YSL collections into words? Into song? Isn't that an interesting idea?

I also loved a quote of his (this is an approximate version): "The most beautiful thing a woman can wear is the arms of the man she loves".

Now THAT is haute couture!

Alice au des Pays Merveilles

A friend and I went to see "Alice au des Pays Merveilles" earlier this week (Alice in Wonderland to us anglophones). Wonderland indeed! Besides very much enjoying the pure escapism of the movie, I also found it an excellent analogy for my life right now:
I've fallen (like Alice, somewhat deliberately) into this new world that is strange and wonderful. I eat things (like croissants) that make me grow big; for most of the movie Alice is tiny, and I too feel diminished and puny in this big city at times. Some things (like new friends and fantastical scenery) are wonderful, and other things (like feeling lost) are not.
The most poignant line of the movie to me was when the Mad Hatter says to Alice "You are not as much yourself as you were before; you have lost some of your muchness". I too, have lost my muchness. I'm the same being, the same 'body that I was at home, but here I am different. Identity is context. Its strange and scary how much of oneself is defined by context, by the place one lives and the people one knows. And while my current context is often delightful it is, like Wonderland, a bit confusing, scary and strange.
I'll go and eat some croissants now, and have a look around for my muchness. I'll let you know what I find!

My Life by Metro

Metro is the way to go in Paris. The first line was put in at the turn of the Century, and Parisians have never looked back. In general the system is clean, fast and extremely efficient. Having driven in Paris a few times (actually Greg drove, I was driven) we really appreciate the excellence of this public transport. And it also provides wonderful opportunities to people watch!

In general, Parisians are not chatty in public, including on the Metro. This is a function of extreme politeness and an effort to maintain some privacy in one of the busiest cities in the world. However, this rule seems to relax a bit on the Metro. People will exchange a small smile or eye roll when something annoying happens, and there are inevitable 'pardons' when trying to get out or when you accidentally trod on someone's toe. But the other unusual thing that happens on the Metro is that you may find yourself subjected to 'The Stare'. You'll feel yourself being watched and look up to find someone staring fixedly at you. They don't blink. They don't look away. Its like they are trying to memorize your features for a later quiz show. The only solution is to give them a quick smile and look away....or stare back!

Since Metros are the primary mode of transport for almost everyone, we've also seen some funny stuff being transported on them. Baby carriages and shopping carts are normale, as are various purchases from the local department stores. This vision is so commonplace that few people gave me a second look when I and a friend lugged two floor lamps on board, tied together and carried coffin style!

Using this mode of transport makes us realize anew how badly Ottawa needs to put in light rail! Its shameful for a city of the size and importance of Ottawa to have such poor and inefficient transportation. Besides, think of all the missed opportunities to give and get 'The Stare'!

Getting Straight

And so, after a fair bit of moving around we are finally settling into our new apartment. I'll try and describe it for you:
It is located in the 15eme arrondissement close to Montparnasse. The building is old-sadly not cute old, but sad seventies old-but the apartment itself is great: huge, bright rooms with a fantastic view from the 11th floor. We both had to adjust to living at this height; at first, Greg would only skirt the edge of the balconey, and I was having nightmares about falling off the building during an earthquake!
We have a complete bathroom (unusual in Paris-most toilets are separate from the shower) with pretty pink and grey tile. The kitchen is a long galley style which gives me lots of exercise while I make dinner; but the landlord installed all brand new appliances before we moved in, which is a real bonus as we expected to have to buy our own. In fact, it would not have been unusual for us to have had to actually install kitchen cabinetry as most people take their cabinets with them when they move. Why you ask? We have no idea. Its just one of those many mysteries of life in a different country. (Our kitchen came with cabinets:)
We also have a cozy separate bedroom for guests, with a comfy Queen sized bed (yes, we want you to come and visit:)
Best of all, we can lay in our own comfy Queen sized bed and watch the Eiffel Tower sparkle at night...it's really something.
Of course, there are a few drawbacks as with any home. There is only one closet-a good sized closet, but still, only one. There is a mysterious drip under the kitchen sink, and the wiring is too delicate for us to install proper light fixtures (instead we have student-like paper shades over all the naked lightbulbs!). We're finding that we are a good distance from our social club in the 16eme arrondissement....its a good 45 mins away by Metro. However, when we are laying back in bed looking at the Eiffel Tower, its all worth it!
The neighborhood is really nice. As a friend who used to live in Paris told me 'it's where the real people live' (Phew! what a relief to be real! Puts me in mind of the Toy Horse from 'The Velveteen Rabbit"). There is a daycare in the lower floor of our building where darling babies wave from the window; there is also an elementary school directly below the apartment, so I hear the children play during the day. These children also do a geat deal of chanting, so I've labelled them 'the Little Revolutionaries" who are possibly in training for the next big public uprising! There is also a very modern looking church nearby, and we love listening to the bell toll. We're getting to know our local shopkeepers who are very patient with my stumbling French. Once I can speak a little better I want to do my daily shopping at the market held on nearby rue Convention twice per week. There we can buy rugs and clothes and seafood (oh my!) to name just a few of the available items.
And so, as my British friend says we are 'getting straight' ie. settling in, getting organized (not getting off drugs as I originally thought when I heard this expression:) It's good to be home.

Poo on my Shoe

When you first come to Paris, you look up (say it with me: "Wayyyyyy up!"). The Tour Eiffel, Notre Dame, La Concorde, the Haussmanian apartments and various other beautiful buildings draw your attention up....but looking down is just as important, as you soon realize.

For some reason, in what is otherwise a glorious city, poop n' scooping is not de rigeur. Garbage is picked up bi-weekly; streets are cleaned daily but poop is simply left by the doggy owners for the uninitated to step in. And there are lots of little doggies: the image of a Frenchman (or woman) carrying a baguette and keeping a frou frou dog is vraiment-too true. But cleaning up after said dogs is simply not done (I saw it done only once in the 3 weeks I have been here). Why is this? The French are supposedly very proud of their city, and rightly so, in every respect but this (I feel a bit like Rick Mercer on a rant here!). Those in the know say it is coming, that a crack down on the offenders - 4 legged and 2- is bound to come, and I can only offer a fervent 'I hope so!', while wiping off my feet.

In the meantime, should you come to Paris (and we hope you do) enjoy looking up....but check down once in awhile too!

When in Doubt, Dance

And so, apartment found, Kate left for Russia and Greg left for work, leaving me to my new full time job of tourist. I gave it a pretty good go in my first few weeks seeing Montmartre, Shakespeare and Co, the Opera House, the d'Orsay, as well as Galleries Layfayette and Les Printemps, amongst other things.

A highlight was on our second weekend, when my Aunt and her beloved came to visit. Linda moved to London a few years ago and was coming with Phillipe to Paris for a Valentine's weekend. It was so lovely to see familiar faces....and to speak English! (I'd been challenging myself to go out daily and complete an everyday task -bank, grocery store, post office- in French). Phillipe took us outside of Paris to Champtigny where a Valentines dinner dance was being held. He explained that these places evolved when poor country people could not afford to go into Paris for weekend entertainment; instead they entertained themselves with their friends, cheap food and drink, rowing and dancing along the river on lazy weekends. Traditionally, music was supplied by an accordion and we were not dissapointed in this regard (although we avoided the rowing due to the -7 C temperature!). The room was decorated with colored lights, the tables with checked clothes; the food was plentiful and the crowd lively. I've never seen such enthusiastic dancing, without regard for who was watching, or how one looked. Everything was enjoyed: the bonhomie emanating from the room warmed the cold night. Linda and Phillipe performed the java, a complicated traditional dance and we just tried to keep up! It was a lovely, warm introduction to French life.

Getting Settled

The first order of business was to find a place to live...and this is no small task in Paris. With a vacancy rate of less than 1%, and rents that make you reconsider the need to eat, finding an apartment is no small task. The standard suggestion for expats is to hire a relocation specialist, someone who knows the ins and outs of the market and can help you narrow down what it is you want (Old/new? City/country?Stairs/elevator?) However, they cost 700-1600 Euros to hire, in addition to the 1600 or so Euros you need to pay a rental agent (just like a realtor) and the first months rent etc.....mucho deneros.

Our Greg was not paying that if he could help it and thank God he did the legwork to avoid it: we saved so much. Greg found a website for "prochaine a prochaine" meaning renter to rentee, no agents, everyone saves. He lined up 4 apartments for the first weekend: one in the 16eme, our desired neighborhood, 2 in Boulange-Billancourt near his work and a one-off in the 15th. Mumsy came with us, excited to see 'real' Parisian apartments.

The first one, in the 16eme, was in a delightful neighborhood: old Haussmanian style with its typical elegance, hardwood floors, big bright windows and French doors, surprisingly nice bathroom, dismal kitchen. The next one, in Boulange, new, modern and clean (the 2nd in Boulange not worth mentioning!). And finally, the one-off in the 15eme that none of us thought would work but turned out to be large and bright with a walk in closet, full bath and view of the Eiffel Tower....oooh, suddenly we had a competition!

After a sleepless night (do we go for the neighborhood we want or a great apartment? New or old?) we (mostly I) picked the big apartment in the 15th. I loved the layout and could see how we would live, where things would go. And who can resist looking at the Eiffel Tower every day? We made sure Greg could get to work each day without too much hassle and we were in: the 15th it was! Our new landlord, M. Boffa, was delighted to have 'two nice young Canadians' coming to live in his apartment. A week later, we signed the lease and got the keys; to bad our furniture won't arrive until mid March! Oh well, another temporary place it will be....the gypsy life continues for now.

Getting there....

I'm so lucky. Katie/Mom (Greg's Mom) had (finangled?) a business trip to Paris the same week I was flying out. So I had a friend on the farewell flight. Even better, Mom got us upgraded to business class!

I sat in the business lounge, wine glass in hand, and reflected how, even in the loss of so much, I felt liberated. All of a sudden I had nothing to care for, no-one who needed a call back, no garbage to put out nor garden to weed......how many people get an opportunity to put 'real' life on hold and go to Paris for 3 years? It would just be me, G, and Paris.

The flight over was great: the seats laid right back-not that I slept but watched almost 3 movies! (Bright Star, Whip It and An Education). I had one of the best beef tenderloins ever (yes, airplane food can be good! Who knew?) and all the wine I could drink (which is a bit as you all know!). We caught a cab in to the city from Charles de Gaulle (known only as Roissy to locals-same place, don't be fooled) and between Mom and I, I knew the most French, so I got to give directions to the apartment. It gave me a lift of confidence: maybe I will be able to communicate here! And then we arrived at our wee abode with its blue door and red couch, and my sweet husband's face, so happy to see us both.

Let the adventure begin....after a nap!!!

Moving

Is there a worse word in the English language than moving????
Thankfully the house sold fast, and Greg didn't have to report to the NEA until mid Jan 2010. We enjoyed Christmas, then Greg worked like a Trojan to organize the move (cancelling utilities, adjusting insurance, dealing with CRA etc etc etc) until he had to go, leaving me at the helm (I worked until he left).
Nothing prepared me for an international move. Military moves have nothing on an international move, especially since the military gives you a great deal of structure. We had to interview and book our own moving company, arrange for a place for Greg to stay in France until we could look for an apartment, figure out what to do with our vehicles and cottage, go through each and every article in the house and decide if it was for shipping or storing (or Sally Anne!), and say good bye to so many precious people. The night before the packers came to the house, I did not go to bed....at all! It was exhausting, heart-breaking and completely overwhelming.
But we had wonderful people helping out, putting me up, taking stuff to VV Boutique, making me meals, helping to pack, sort, carry away.....thank you all, we cold not have done it without you!
So, even though I didn't want to leave, compared to the stress of the move I was looking forward to Paris! And seeing my beloved Greg again.

In the beginning......

Well, you see, we were a little bored.......we'd each finished a degree, then renovated the house, bought a cottage, had great friends and family, secured the good government jobs. A pretty great life, all tolled, but as my Dad aptly observed, maybe we'd peaked early?
So when Greg came home one day and said there were two international positions up for competition, and should he apply, I said sure! What were the chances of him actually getting the job? It was a fictitious situation, the impossible dream.
I underestimated my husband's complete awesomeness. He charmed the pants off the group from the National Energy Agency in France, a subsidary of the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development; of course he got the job!
OMG! When faced with the reality of saying goodbye to our fabulous house, fabulous family and friends (that's a lotta f's), fabulous cottage and fabulous (?) job could I really do it?
As it turns out you just don't say no to Paris.
So, we sold the fabulous house, rented the fabulous cottage, put the fabulous job on hold and the fabulous freinds on Facebook....and departed for France!
Oh F%^&!!

First Post!

Hello fun seekers! Welcome to our new blog, all about life in Paris. We (well, lets face it, its mostly going to be "I") promise to tell you the unvarnished truth about our experiences, but bear in mind the the perspective is one of two die hard optimists bent on adventure!
I fly out of Ottawa on Feb 3rd......first class thanks to Katie. So I'll get back to you shortly to fill in the back story.
Love to all
Meg