you are a foreigner

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Palace of the Windsthe past, blasting

Wait, aren’t we in France? Shouldn’t we be wearing berets, pounding croissants, and randomly going on strike? What’s up with the sudden appearance of earth tones and sunshine in that picture above? Why does it look like we’re living inside a giant brain? And, most importantly, what’s up with the whole family suddenly wearing pajamas in public?

More people should try wearing pajamas in public, frankly. Not only are they extremely comfortable, it’s also hard to get mad at someone cutting you off in traffic when you’re wearing jammies with feet. Road rage would plummet, comfort would soar, and best of all, we’d all be somewhat flame-retardant. Hmm. I’m pretty sure this paragraph has officially passed  into tangenthood. Let’s move on.

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look, my monkey can do rude gestures!

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Temple of BoomThe Extreme Family Heaton is no stranger to road trips – we’ll saddle up the ole Partner Tepee and ride her for six hours at a stretch if need be, no questions asked, stopping only for rapid-fire bathroom breaks at dodgy French rest stops, more diesel, and perhaps the occasional top-off to our crucial chocolate/meat snack reserves (the car runs on diesel; the Heatons run on chocolate and meat snacks – don’t get these things confused or it’s a long wait for AAA and/or the French medical system depending on which direction you erred).

So, at this point, we’ve driven from the Alps to Paris more times than Napoleon – we know the warning signs that signal trouble with the troops. Diarrhea, dysentery, trench foot – everyone knows to keep an eye out for those (and who can forget the time Kristanne nailed down a typhus outbreak using only a handful of meat snacks and some Handi-Wipes? The woman’s a miracle-worker). But the real red flag? Delirium. That’s why we knew it was time to perhaps consider a break from today’s road trip to the lovely Roman town of Vienne when Quinn piped up loudly from the back seat, “Look! My monkey can do rude gestures!”

I'm sure they're just discussing books.

I’m sure they’re just discussing books.

And, sure enough, he could, too. It’s a long story and I don’t want to get into questions of blame (Kristanne’s fault) or guilt (all her – I’m pure like the driven snow), but somehow the kids were privy to a full-blown French Flip Off in traffic a couple weeks ago. The offending digit was not Kristanne’s, mine, or the monkey’s, but rather that of an otherwise unassuming young woman who was nearly plowed in the crosswalk with the light in her favor by someone committing the near-felony of Driving While French (that’s a topic for another day). So, rather than let the kids think that that’s just the way French women use crosswalks – screaming in anger while brandishing their middle fingers at the sky – Kristanne went ahead and, uh, annotated the scene for the kids, explaining that this was a rude gesture conveying extreme displeasure, not to be used in polite company. Which, of course, explains why Quinn was having a merry old time having his stuffed monkey toy make the same gesture for our driving pleasure.

How Much Is That Family At the Temple?

How Much Is That Family At the Temple?

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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)

burgundy blitz

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burg_fishSure, it sounds like some sort of wacky drinking game played by students at East Coast colleges in the 1950s, but in this case, “Burgundy Blitz” translates rather simply to the Family Heaton’s surgical touristic assault on a beautiful little corner of France – the Bourgogne. Quinn’s baseball club – the formidable Grenoble Grizzlys – had a tournament in the area on Saturday, so we decided to make a weekend of it and see some sights in the area on Sunday.

Wait…baseball in france?

Yup, sure enough. When we first arrived in Grenoble some six months ago, we were more than a little surprised to find a full-on baseball club competing year-round against other q-pitchteams around the Rhone-Alpes region. Right now, we’re in the middle of the indoors season, which is a dang good thing what with it being freezing outside and often covered in snow. Also, this gives me some time to address the involuntary shudder I still have every time I see their uniforms spelled out “Grizzlys” instead of, well, you know. So far, Kristanne has forcibly restrained me every time I’ve attempted to broach this subject with the Grizzly brain trust, but one come a day, she’s not going to be there, and that’s the day I’m probably going to get beat up by French people who don’t care about spelling the same way I do, man.

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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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