Category Archives: french life

everyday life in france

getting plus beaux in lyon

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Big Square, Big FunWelcome back to the Odyssey, where the weather’s unseasonably warm, the kids are wrapping up their second week of winter vacation, and the loaner cat is his usual mixture of crusty and cranky (“crustanky”?).

The kids have been on vacation since back when I could still tolerate hearing “Gangnam Style” without screwing up my eyes, clamping my hands onto my ears, and running screaming from the room while making obnoxious “la la la la la” sounds. Oddly enough, the kids’ tolerance shows no such signs of waning, and mechanized Korean rapping is still popping up at ever-more-regular intervals in what I’ll malapropically declare to be our ever-more-smaller apartment. Who knew that Kristanne could rap in Korean?

The Light That Is ShellfishOne of the nice things about the kids being on vacation is that the weekends have been mercifully free from the usual overwhelming crush of French athletics. Between Kinsey’s basketball, Quinn’s baseball and fencing, and my deepening jorkyball addiction, Saturdays and Sunday can fill rapidly. But, in usual French “All Together Now” fashion, when the kids are on vacation, everyone’s on vacation, including sports teams, French language class instructors, and the precisely dressed old people in our neighborhood who seem to do nothing but walk their dogs 12 times a day with jauntily deployed baguettes under their arms. Apparently, they’re on the payroll, too.

happiness is a plate of shellfish

happiness is a plate of shellfish

So, with the blank canvas of an open weekend spreading itself before us, the Heaton Family Painters set out for the fair city of Lyon to craft their masterpiece (Kristanne), leave their graffiti spray (the kids), or dribble their nonsensical Rorschachian ink blots (yours truly). The main thing was to get out there in the world and paint. And, yes, tortured metaphors are indeed a hobby. Trust me, you’ll be looking back at this paragraph fondly in about 2,000 words when I eventually switch to Korean rapping.

 

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les vacances d’hiver sont arrivé!

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le collet d'allevardLiving in a foreign country, it can take some time to discern the patterns and rhythms governing everyday life. When are the banks open? When do the grocery stores close? What time does the baker gently chide me for my careless pronunciation, lack of vocabulary, and diminished sense of fashion?

The answer to that last question is “every time I order a baguette”, though my prickly boulangere has eased up some on the couture tips since I started casually draping the new scarf Kristanne got me for Valentine’s day before essaying my daily visit. For the other schedule questions, France eases difficulties by using the same one for the entire country. Everyone starts school on the same day. They all take the same two weeks for fall break and the same days for Christmas break. It’s a little bit like living on the world’s largest college campus, right down to the abundance of righteous political causes, emphasis on constant intellectual and physical activity, and the incredible proliferation of bicycles. There’s a charming “all together now” aspect to this, actually. You feel like you’re part of something larger…like a big team with cool accents and nifty scarves.

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let us now praise french ski resorts

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A Postcard from Chamrousse

Charming, Dashing, Slightly ImpairedLet’s get this out of the way – I’m a terrible skier. I have balance issues, don’t negotiate sliding sensations with panache, elan, or any other French words, and my elephantine head gives my body the overall appearance of a titanic lightbulb once it’s been encased in the helmet that I rarely venture outdoors without, let alone onto ski slopes. Couple this with the day-glo orange jacket I’m possibly legally obligated to wear during all ski-related activities for the safety of others, and you know I’m cutting quite the dashing Alpine figure when I ascend le tapis roulant (ok, it’s the dang Magic Carpet) with the other five year olds. Ladies – swoon early, swoon often.

If you’re wondering why I appear to have sprouted a second head coming out of my left shoulder in that picture there, well, that’s something that just happens naturally somewhere around 10-15 years of marriage – you grow an “Extra Spouse Head.” Most people are able to disguise them better than me through a variety of clever wardrobe effects, but it turns out that Kristanne’s head is surprisingly persistent. Unfortunately for me, where most husbands seem to get the “Guardian Angel” variety of Extra Spouse Head, consistently advising caution and reminding their loved one that discretion is the better part of valor, I seem to have acquired the “Go Fast, Take Chances!” model. “Go off that jump!” it urges. “What’s the worst that could possibly happen?” The advice, I don’t mind so much; what I could do without, though, are the inevitable little “Bawk, bawk, bawk!” taunting chicken sounds that start to make themselves known somewhere around my 10th trip down the bunny slope of the day. What if I just really, really like the Magic Carpet, man?

I mention my relative Alpine naïf-hood by way of adding a few judicious grains of salt to what follows. Despite having rarely lived further than 45 minutes from good skiing, I do not boast the comprehensive array of schussing experiences that would allow me to form a carefully considered opinion on French skiing and how it fits into the larger realm of winter sports the world over.

To that, I say, “Screw it – it’s a blog.” Go hunt up Warren Miller and Jon Krakauer for the other stuff – I’m mainly going to crack a few jokes at the expense of French people and possibly myself. You’re welcome.

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all that jazz…

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Well, fresh from the “never thought that would happen” files, I seem to now be the new drummer for a French jazz combo! I had my first rehearsal with them last night and, aside from the novelty of counting off songs with “un, deux, trois, quatre”, it seems like music doesn’t need much in the way of translation.

The group is part of an “Open Doors” continuing education program at the Ecole municipale de musique, one of the many popular social programs made available to the community in France. It’s led by a kindly old cat (yep, I’m talking “jazz” here) of maybe 65 years, or so – a real sharp dresser with an artfully draped scarf, a wee, pointy goatee, and, yes, the requisite beret. He had a great way of alternately chiding and encouraging the players on their shortcomings and successes. Most of this was in French, though after one memorable dressing down of the two clarinetists, he paused long enough to glance at me and remark with a perfectly dismissive air, “I tell them they play like goats! Hahaha! Like goats!”

I love my new French jazz combo.

Can’t post without a picture, so here’s a lovely Kristanne enjoying the slopes up at Chamrousse. Yes, this has nothing to do with my new jazz combo, but you have to admit that it’s a refreshing break in the day.

A Postcard from Chamrousse

A Postcard from Chamrousse (Photo: Mark the Shark)

baby, you can drive our car

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“Sid,” people often remark to me casually, “You seem like a together guy, full of chutzpah, tsuris, and other Yiddish words. What’s a guy like you driving on a trip like yours?”

tepee

Who’s your partner? Who’s your tepee?

Well, up until today, the answer was that sweet, full-on diesel-powered Partner Tepee you see at right. Brought to you by Peugeot, the Tepee boasts plenty of interior space, but without all that powerful engine that just gets in the way in some other cars. Who needs it?

We leased that bad boy with the friendly assistance of our good friends at Peugeot Open Europe. We met them on the Internet, so we’re pretty sure they have our best interests at heart.

French people are endearingly loyal to their domestic cars — most of the wheels rolling on French roads were made by Peugeot, Renault, and Citroen, brands that have long since disappeared from the US scene (ah, but who can forget the triumphant Le Car from Renault…pretty much everyone, actually). Purchased new, these cars carry a healthy VAT tax bite for French citizens.  Since the only thing French people love more than charging one another high taxes is skirting those very same taxes, all of the major French car manufacturers have a long-term lease program aimed straight at tourists. The idea is that you get a brand new car, completely insured and licensed for anywhere from three weeks on up to the maximum of 171 days. When you return your leased car, the manufacturer simply delouses it tidies it up and then turns around and sells it domestically without having to charge the VAT. Et voilà – a sweet little French tax dodge in action.

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Your Mother’s Maiden Name in France

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It almost goes without saying, but one of the best things about traveling to new places is the opportunity to identify and experience the small differences in everyday life, the things that make a place uniquely its own. Communications technologies and media are clearly having an unfortunate leveling effect on these differences, gradually erasing many of the quirks that bestow charm on a place. So, it’s always pleasant to stumble on subtle reminders of what makes France so, well, French.

Today, I created an account on our gas company’s website so I can keep tabs on exactly how much it costs to heat an apartment in the Alps (the answer is “un soupçon” when viewed by someone who payed PG&E bills in California during the Enron years and now wants to use French words he can’t really pronounce — for the rest of you, it’s “not much”). The standard web forms proceeded, one after the other, with prompts for account numbers, usernames, and passwords. Finally, when you get to the obligatory secret question they’ll use to help you recover a lost password, you’re presented with a series of options, the first of which is, “What was the first meal you cooked?”

Forget about my high school mascot and place of birth — I’m going with Top Ramen and Tuna Fish. Perhaps not the most French answer to a very French question, but to thine ownself be true as ole Billy the Shakes sez.. Continue reading →