tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42871349601477112832024-03-14T11:10:11.913+01:00Le Mot JusteI’ve lived in France officially since 2001, but unofficially since 1999, when I first stepped onto French soil and immediately understood that mere tourism was not in my cards. Four jobs, four apartments, one business degree, one marriage, one baby, and one joyful leap to self-employment later, and I’m still crazy (about France)! Laugh with—or just at—me and my colorful Franco-American life right here at Le Mot Juste.Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-73112678182291091732023-08-29T11:56:00.017+02:002023-08-30T16:29:50.146+02:00Summer bliss<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s that time of the year again, when those of us fortunate enough to live in France get to go on vacation. Now, depending on your definition of “vacation,” this may or may not be a good thing, for there are some who insist that vacation with children is no vacation at all. And for the record, those people are correct. That has never stopped us, though—nor did it this year when it came time to choose where to go. “Croatia!” we decided. “By car!” we decided. Who’s crazy enough to travel from France to Croatia (≈1,000 miles) by car? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">WE ARE.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXdqStbmcTU8XOMgVRlx_8GgbqqIQK9y-4epLYCGbWz7ztxLZpYXwlYV_cRfdNaS-Dcz1r2TWO9oc1rie4Mi3Hj-n2dgOu6QdqIJsAMuV88aMrd5H-IrqtHzNyk4vwlfulalru91Rgzv672BW3xEg-UOzlOhv25N-AldFUfzAneKXO8KkxtYCiEG10cnx/s640/DSC07536%20(1).jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="640" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRXdqStbmcTU8XOMgVRlx_8GgbqqIQK9y-4epLYCGbWz7ztxLZpYXwlYV_cRfdNaS-Dcz1r2TWO9oc1rie4Mi3Hj-n2dgOu6QdqIJsAMuV88aMrd5H-IrqtHzNyk4vwlfulalru91Rgzv672BW3xEg-UOzlOhv25N-AldFUfzAneKXO8KkxtYCiEG10cnx/w400-h296/DSC07536%20(1).jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YAY!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">But first, we stopped in Italy—Padua, to be exact. Its Arena Chapel is home to some of Giotto’s most important frescoes, which I had been hankering to visit ever since my blithely innocent days as an art history undergrad back in whenever that was. In any case, the frescoes were awesome. The kids’ behavior, on the other hand, was grotesque. Do you think that stopped us? NOOOO. After over a decade of parenting, potential embarrassment is no longer a deterrent to engaging in full-blown public displays of dysfunction. Did I chase my son around a Renaissance-era marble fountain, threatening to grab the city map that he had turned into a giant paper airplane out of his hands and rip it into 1,000 shreds while fellow tourists looked on, silently thanking God that <i>they</i> had sent <i>their</i> children to stay with grandma and grandpa for the summer? Maybe.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidT2en5Ehp069clqP0YvemZFtRiGjCWL9J6zWYFYOMQ3oJYIAJxE84VyustNQ4thm2LV1XWVArnmHhqyrH5j7A4eGvd1pj3QLM7FQ3u-xWNOM8yXkkzb2pjwWdnFlHFG8HY1MLk0Q1P5KD6OLWQffE0jqd_uz4Yyb-hW16TuTokpeS6CoOAQeim6ecIDRT/s640/DSC07289.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidT2en5Ehp069clqP0YvemZFtRiGjCWL9J6zWYFYOMQ3oJYIAJxE84VyustNQ4thm2LV1XWVArnmHhqyrH5j7A4eGvd1pj3QLM7FQ3u-xWNOM8yXkkzb2pjwWdnFlHFG8HY1MLk0Q1P5KD6OLWQffE0jqd_uz4Yyb-hW16TuTokpeS6CoOAQeim6ecIDRT/w268-h400/DSC07289.jpeg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy traveller.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Padua on the whole was cool. And by cool I mean hot (mid-90s). But no matter! I stuffed my backpack with water, sunglasses, sun hats, sunscreen, and a USB-rechargeable mini fan, and off we went. We stayed at a <a href="https://www.hotelpatavium.it/en/home" target="_blank">really cute boutique hotel</a>, which I heartily recommend to anyone planning to visit Padua anytime soon. Their breakfast in a flowery outdoor courtyard was lovely, plus I have noticed on multiple occasions over the years that Italians are truly tolerant of child antics, which is a BIG BONUS in my book. Actually, can I just say how much I love Italy, full stop? I love it. I love its food (obviously—everyone loves its food). But that’s not all. I love its art and architecture. I love its aesthetics. I love its Aperol spritzes. I love its reasonable prices. I love its language, even if my Italian vocabulary is pretty much limited to menu items and, thanks to a few weeks of Duolingo, observations concerning people’s age groups and genders (as un-woke as such observations may be these days). I love its HISTORY, especially its Roman and early Christian history. That’s my intellectual sweet spot. Oh, and its vegetation. Olive trees, vineyards, umbrella pines! Is there anything better? No—no there is not. I even love that you get to eat cookies for breakfast in Italy. Cookies! For breakfast! France remains my true love, but Italy is a close second. Had I participated in SMU-in-Rome instead of SMU-in-Paris back in 1999, who knows what could have happened?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWau9VdC_woUhJkJl9kAnTwc7gLVNqfW-zCnD1d17GeR-hPhrkHwwgshWmCssAwuCUj4RVTTtp_e9Lw5AZz0NbxpXT0YTAUXWIIO9RoE6rQgcZYeODFHUsq0O-hlgZc-edEHWvIgWjS5K4w3HFX0aA2uQrHt_H63iZ5OKjV573_ruOnKdeCpUEBFGb_fQ_/s640/20230813_225607%20(1).jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="640" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWau9VdC_woUhJkJl9kAnTwc7gLVNqfW-zCnD1d17GeR-hPhrkHwwgshWmCssAwuCUj4RVTTtp_e9Lw5AZz0NbxpXT0YTAUXWIIO9RoE6rQgcZYeODFHUsq0O-hlgZc-edEHWvIgWjS5K4w3HFX0aA2uQrHt_H63iZ5OKjV573_ruOnKdeCpUEBFGb_fQ_/w400-h329/20230813_225607%20(1).jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I mean <i>come on.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">After several days of taking photos of bricks, stones, and umbrella pines, we piled back into the car and drove many, many hours through the Fréjus tunnel (50 euros, folks) and on into Slovenia. Do many Americans go to Slovenia? No. Do many Americans know where Slovenia is? No. And I would count myself among them, so no offense. We stopped for lunch in Piran. It was really nice! It had a big beautiful church on a big beautiful hill. Did we march the kids up there? You bet we did.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgM-22E-OFooB9dPUkiPJ090nX99bSMTfiIRoiVx8Qfum2ntLoqbbGMibORurD-1h8ApCUOaNWdKtM4FLbqUAt7rMQ4QtyGSzw-RHYS98oPWN6NA346H9GCdg2v7aKg2qo95B-QqM_ar4plJfEHOjrHF3brTnfbSdDYLaLxARKPI7HKDflNsJLbA0mgPr3/s640/DSC07362.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="427" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgM-22E-OFooB9dPUkiPJ090nX99bSMTfiIRoiVx8Qfum2ntLoqbbGMibORurD-1h8ApCUOaNWdKtM4FLbqUAt7rMQ4QtyGSzw-RHYS98oPWN6NA346H9GCdg2v7aKg2qo95B-QqM_ar4plJfEHOjrHF3brTnfbSdDYLaLxARKPI7HKDflNsJLbA0mgPr3/w268-h400/DSC07362.jpeg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You<span style="text-align: start;">’</span>ll thank me one day, kids.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, on to our first destination in Croatia—Rovinj. Gorgeous! We swam in the Adriatic; we visited more old churches; we climbed more stone stairs; we drank more spritzes; we continued to engage in the merciless cat-herding that is parenting while on vacation. I found a dress and belt ensemble that makes me look like I just stepped out of a Greek myth—THAT’S A WIN. Also, our digs were awesome. There was an amazing central garden space with turtles just wandering around amid the grass. Yes, turtles.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiNT7VvmrpesX2iALj85coTgnGnpWipmU6AoLGl7Hf2T_vRsmfBWSixETe_NKce_BZxomxIEmTVXi-ENVZ16yVGr3JaKLMxMsdUI4aFcvfWKEudOvKtbuv56Zd8_HvXOQvgtL-xiqH7wasQigdpwpD0XcpnvI_jEnOztM2EnOSnJxHAM1KqyPfGhINEf4/s4032/20230802_184225.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsiNT7VvmrpesX2iALj85coTgnGnpWipmU6AoLGl7Hf2T_vRsmfBWSixETe_NKce_BZxomxIEmTVXi-ENVZ16yVGr3JaKLMxMsdUI4aFcvfWKEudOvKtbuv56Zd8_HvXOQvgtL-xiqH7wasQigdpwpD0XcpnvI_jEnOztM2EnOSnJxHAM1KqyPfGhINEf4/w400-h300/20230802_184225.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gardens: the one thing we can all agree on.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">After a week or so, off we went to our second destination in Croatia—Trogir. Again, gorgeous! Swimming in turquoise waters (what’s a sea urchin or two?); visiting ancient Roman cities; <i>drinking more spritzes.</i> Also, dragging our children multiple times out of this insane rubber duck store, which for some reason I cannot fathom is not a local quirk at all but a full-on CHAIN. A chain! Devoted to rubber ducks in costume! And people say we aren’t in the End Times (I’m pretty sure the Book of Revelation includes something about rubber ducks).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8NF6GHGKyfb22VYplMUroq_s5ky-Alq6b7vzvWmQuaaFmTsCnjRqX693ZjNS957G-ib6szGW1JWUT60qB7_XedS6GonK2rqKmk-NfyDx_Vn-vzOyezN4OaMLU-ANGwkM7I5yr47y4VPLOG6voUML26rWoAUapdtmOuUa68_gcLW4YxxsYyZQRIhN3yPn/s640/DSC07467.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD8NF6GHGKyfb22VYplMUroq_s5ky-Alq6b7vzvWmQuaaFmTsCnjRqX693ZjNS957G-ib6szGW1JWUT60qB7_XedS6GonK2rqKmk-NfyDx_Vn-vzOyezN4OaMLU-ANGwkM7I5yr47y4VPLOG6voUML26rWoAUapdtmOuUa68_gcLW4YxxsYyZQRIhN3yPn/w400-h268/DSC07467.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just, w<i>hy?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Our rental in Trogir was a little stone apartment tucked away amid ambling pathways, a pleasant 10-minute stroll from a pristine beach. Very cute. There was just one problem though…</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='424' height='351' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwpI6INsGt4aht0HLPWXewPMfLDiqVGeL7xS-rR_D1j2b1Vz8d7sDqtImqYwVTTNjJY0JGPyZ0NWo_h_z1f5A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’d like to congratulate the local city planners for building an international airport three miles outside of town. I mean how hard did they think about this? Regular bombing runs notwithstanding, we had a wonderful stay. And an all-too-short week later, it was time to head home. Naively assuming we could simply drive back into Italy, we tried to do it in one shot. Little did we know that the rest of civilization had chosen that very same day to do that very same thing. Thus, what should have taken us 7 hours in fact took us 11, so by the time we reached our next stop—fair Verona—we were fried. And here I would like to add a slight caveat to my Italian ode above: roads. Roads in Italy need work. More specifically, they seem to have been designed for only the narrowest modes of transportation, e.g. horses. Thin horses. Why are there so many Vespas in Italy? This probably has something to do with it. Getting our car through a mini-tunnel and into its allotted parking space without sacrificing both side mirrors was not really a challenge we were thrilled to face upon pulling up to our rental at 10:00 p.m., but such is life. What’s a battle scar or two (or way more than two)?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjX7bX7TuVB1YIPO-VzQAuEFQnFMW7BcsnugZED7lXncABRX0jG_hL5iI5XrtlJvd_40em0aUtrHDEXoo0ZZC8KQgRT-drFj1Pk2IaQrFl-MMg2dtX09kerLHRuJwBMIJ5FR8yVFXclBnZ9fhygHV2CZ_hvYACOtaZlV34z7-MThoplQjzXtXfXhzGbO3/s640/20230813_111147.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLjX7bX7TuVB1YIPO-VzQAuEFQnFMW7BcsnugZED7lXncABRX0jG_hL5iI5XrtlJvd_40em0aUtrHDEXoo0ZZC8KQgRT-drFj1Pk2IaQrFl-MMg2dtX09kerLHRuJwBMIJ5FR8yVFXclBnZ9fhygHV2CZ_hvYACOtaZlV34z7-MThoplQjzXtXfXhzGbO3/w400-h300/20230813_111147.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Totally worth it.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;">As for the city of Verona, <i>ahhhhh</i>—positively enchanting. Italy in all its glory (and by that I mean ancient ruins, umbrella pines, and spritzes, in that order). Plus, after over two weeks on the road, our kids were finally starting to behave. </span><span style="text-align: justify;">Alas, it was soon time to leave. But nary you fret, Italy. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i style="text-align: justify;">Torneremo presto!</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKs2_g_KeCo8v-qzY5Y63Fyw4vewZurjrfI0VAKDWwTppRDxMkqRkQmOjB67HNUIUGU-AGBNfEms0oEi_qCuSXllolOW4gueFXuPO9-uDJ1DMOWzKmi6wUA4WMdSqh3ABXwjkJSsMIelT_76u2DXapeIEfFkfXdEEuqUOdQRKiEp6Ar4YIHgEabP_YO-L/s640/DSC07547.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvKs2_g_KeCo8v-qzY5Y63Fyw4vewZurjrfI0VAKDWwTppRDxMkqRkQmOjB67HNUIUGU-AGBNfEms0oEi_qCuSXllolOW4gueFXuPO9-uDJ1DMOWzKmi6wUA4WMdSqh3ABXwjkJSsMIelT_76u2DXapeIEfFkfXdEEuqUOdQRKiEp6Ar4YIHgEabP_YO-L/w400-h268/DSC07547.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">A Roman road! Even my feet are smiling.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-48070256433084297642023-06-09T17:23:00.020+02:002023-06-10T00:19:42.718+02:00 The bullet-proof vest<div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Any of y’all ever read <i><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/en/book/show/48812" target="_blank">Abba’s Child</a>?</i> I did, in 2020, and it was nothing less than transformative. However, there was one bit that I couldn’t really resonate with, which just so happened to be the book’s most celebrated chapter: <i>The Impostor.</i> I remember reading it and thinking, <i>What impostor? I don’t have an impostor.</i></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Except that yes, actually, I absolutely do have an impostor, i.e. a false self … one that is so near to me that I’ve stopped even noticing it: it’s the role I step into every day in order to exist in France; it’s who I become when I’m interacting with the world using French. I wear my French self like a piece of clothing. When I speak in French, I’m no longer me; I’m effectively somebody else. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For those who learn a second language relatively late in life, their mother tongue will always be their love language, and by love language I mean the language that speaks from and to the heart. It’s the one you think with. For me, that’s English. My French skills after over 20 years of life in France, built upon an earlier decade of learning French in school, are excellent—but that doesn’t change the fact that French will forever be my second tongue.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What this means is that when I speak French, I don a new persona. I can’t help it; language as I see it isn’t a ball cap that you can put on and take off; language is a full-body costume that dresses you up as someone else. Moreover, that someone evolves over time. In the beginning, when I could barely string two French sentences together, “French me” appeared to be foolish and naive, as opposed to the real me, who is neither of those things. As time went by, and my language skills improved, French me ceased being an embarrassment and took on a life of her own, branching off in new directions that the real me barely knew. French me took risks, got an office job, went on dates—while the real me avoided risks, loathed office work, and was petrified by the very thought of dating. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">More time went by, and the chasm between the two “me’s” widened. I realized that the French language allowed me to say things I would never dare say in English. Why? Because as a native English speaker, there is no filter for me between a word in that language and its true meaning. In English, I understand every word I use and hear; I feel its significance and my heart acknowledges its emotional weight. But in French, words have a kind of protective coating on them. They’re not so much vehicles of sentiment as they are exotic playthings to be collected, tried out, and shown off—with little care for their full meaning. Thus, I can say things in French (hear things, too) and grant those words only a fraction of the emotional power of their equivalent in English. “I hate you” or “I love you” in English does not have the same meaning as <i>“Je te haïs”</i> or <i>“Je t’aime”</i> in French, despite being direct translations. The words may technically mean the same thing, but they don’t actually mean the same thing. French to me is like code language, and all code language is by definition artificial.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That might sound somewhat liberating—and for a highly sensitive introvert like me, it often is. But over time, after navigating through high emotional seas and seasons of heavy conflict, quarrels with bosses, bureaucrats, friends, and later, a husband and children, that “costume” gradually hardened into something more akin to a bullet-proof vest. It’s one I still put on every day. It allows me to shrug off snide remarks, rationalize criticism, swear colorfully, and not lose a wink of sleep over any of it. But let’s be honest—it’s not me; it’s an impostor. And over the long run, the weight of that false self has grown heavy. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Perhaps more worryingly, I wonder whether those who know me only in French sense that they don’t *actually* know me. That may partially explain my craving for solitude. Left to myself, there’s no need for any artifice, no self-imposed burden to bear. But then, this dichotomy doesn’t make me particularly exceptional; on the contrary, if Brennan Manning’s chapter <i>The Impostor</i> is so well-known, it is precisely because it resonates far and wide. We all put on false selves that allow us to survive, false selves that shield our tender hearts. The roles we play, the masks we wear, they’re all coping mechanisms—and all of us have them. Mine is French; yours may be the disguise of the Business Leader or the Super Parent or the Social Butterfly. But in the end, have not all of these false selves overstayed their welcome? Have they not proven to be more burdensome than beneficial? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What do you suppose would happen if we were to lay down the impostor at last? Would the world recoil in horror? Would we be mocked and rejected? Or would our souls breathe a sigh of relief and wonder what took us so long to realize that we never truly needed any disguise to begin with?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqtYRJu6OrHkUsHAATfO-HfNPwrMBv0g21PrvcLXPaLOjwNaUkcFbKBLrI6Kk1LXlur_F7ojxkwsfPm9oCBoVOlj56vVyCw0wHRkqPNaJAdBjrNq9w0eQE2ONehT8lMiHrYIiDLYADENnXrucS_N5cH2vCP0ND0RitxuQ686oPdwU1KdbagPLp-wkOg/s1920/false%20self_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBqtYRJu6OrHkUsHAATfO-HfNPwrMBv0g21PrvcLXPaLOjwNaUkcFbKBLrI6Kk1LXlur_F7ojxkwsfPm9oCBoVOlj56vVyCw0wHRkqPNaJAdBjrNq9w0eQE2ONehT8lMiHrYIiDLYADENnXrucS_N5cH2vCP0ND0RitxuQ686oPdwU1KdbagPLp-wkOg/w320-h213/false%20self_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-49879405571804776752022-08-25T13:01:00.026+02:002022-08-25T18:11:21.031+02:00Ah, les vacances<div><br /></div>French people get way too much vacation.<br /><br /><div><div style="text-align: justify;">You who are reading this, and who may not have taken more than 2.5 days of sick leave in the past 18 months, may think that I’m crazy to say such a thing, so perhaps I should be more specific:</div><br />French <i>children</i> get way too much vacation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why might I say that? Read on.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ke59EP9140npHzEq2WJ_KF6wqBBaW3KgYbFVNnhD5Bm2cYGfucwOgx2fD92beisXsKj3BNpxKn2DOTHNQyYdZJYDFoqMrV3JW8cq_LAVZWbFW-6aQysOtxbcjS3papRlLALN0RNJPTUCoi_lvRESKQ6BzjNfZj2WkPt2BcZ5Pkcg9JjH32qLax0hyw/s1280/DSC06770.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Ke59EP9140npHzEq2WJ_KF6wqBBaW3KgYbFVNnhD5Bm2cYGfucwOgx2fD92beisXsKj3BNpxKn2DOTHNQyYdZJYDFoqMrV3JW8cq_LAVZWbFW-6aQysOtxbcjS3papRlLALN0RNJPTUCoi_lvRESKQ6BzjNfZj2WkPt2BcZ5Pkcg9JjH32qLax0hyw/w268-h400/DSC06770.jpeg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just another World Heritage site (we<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>re over it, Mom, seriously). </td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="text-align: justify;">My parents had the dubious honor of flying out from California to visit us for a romp through southern France this summer, even though it was technically our turn to go to them. But seeing as how I’m still recovering from our <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2022/01/heres-to-your-health.html" target="_blank">Christmas trip</a>, plus the fact that my brother is tying the knot in Florida this coming March, we figured this was a good compromise.</span><br /><br />Where to begin? Let’s start with transportation:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">First of all, there are six of us when my parents are here and our car only seats five. But my father-in-law has an old Peugeot equipped with a sixth seat and a rooftop storage unit, so hey.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, that sixth seat feels a lot like the proverbial back of the bus, i.e. hot and bumpy with zero leg room, but WHO’S COMPLAINING?</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqjYQkGj2eUkNgLi4qYJJ_Bw3xdKt7i_klwqZ1LNljTQvNWFEFku7zjI28fBRwbsl5nuDw3J0wGG55SsCp7u2zsgOX5uft5gKZGq0ZBbv-SEilvJ9NJcUcRDm1j8SrZ_qPs66U7vRE7UCI_AtmQtgNX049DPxcF6TznvmdKenKkLPZ-wt0ep4P0rvYg/s640/IMG_3057.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDqjYQkGj2eUkNgLi4qYJJ_Bw3xdKt7i_klwqZ1LNljTQvNWFEFku7zjI28fBRwbsl5nuDw3J0wGG55SsCp7u2zsgOX5uft5gKZGq0ZBbv-SEilvJ9NJcUcRDm1j8SrZ_qPs66U7vRE7UCI_AtmQtgNX049DPxcF6TznvmdKenKkLPZ-wt0ep4P0rvYg/w263-h400/IMG_3057.jpeg" width="263" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afoot and lighthearted we take to the open road.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="text-align: justify;">I’ll tell you who: my kids. Both of them. Screaming. Wailing. Temper tantruming. Rolling on the ground. The only way to get either of them to accept sitting “in the trunk” was to offer them my portable fan and my Snapchat account.</span><br /><br />Here is but a small taste of what that led to:</div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='400' height='320' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxy6jPl-04Y78A1b_h-HDJ42IddqBsGlrHu-_l574zQGvGYGdmt8SnPJQXp8egkTyTE2Yjsfs1sz4tFZWcGzg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thespian #1</span></div><br /><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='400' height='320' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxldrGkzUhBTRrN83nPkveLviWgXRsIH9Aey4oRiHuSABpGlwCFaT_-xHoyfdIDO6_ZVgjMTCp3IsT45ZyHjA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thespian #2</span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;">Group travel is an interesting sociological experiment, and ours is always a particularly <strike>dysfunctional</strike> unique brand of that. Take two American grandparents who are used to having calm and quiet, add two Franco-American children who are the exact opposite of calm and quiet, one Frenchman who feels neither heat nor cold nor pain nor fatigue, and myself, who wants nothing more than two months of absolute solitude in a mountain monastery, and cram them all into a 20-year-old car with sketchy air conditioning for a three-week, 1,000-mile trek through southwest France in 90° heat … and what do you get?</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHV6MxmSf667SJXMa1sAmtmq4qccE8kzMLrX8WnSuTndVMOEQNoMXat0D6gh-_tv29uXDjtybTEVq1dQ0L0IMdiT7wdfV_TT6ia3WyR8NgKT4-SVJK5i5CVTCO25VVboLN-EGa3KzS2YL1Yoj-l5vAX0EE7t3cxbR0Vrew3t0oDAmaMZ0ot5e-j5i6VQ/s1280/20220810_142455.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHV6MxmSf667SJXMa1sAmtmq4qccE8kzMLrX8WnSuTndVMOEQNoMXat0D6gh-_tv29uXDjtybTEVq1dQ0L0IMdiT7wdfV_TT6ia3WyR8NgKT4-SVJK5i5CVTCO25VVboLN-EGa3KzS2YL1Yoj-l5vAX0EE7t3cxbR0Vrew3t0oDAmaMZ0ot5e-j5i6VQ/w400-h300/20220810_142455.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">A lot of drinking (obviously).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="text-align: justify;">Negotiating everyone’s various and often conflicting needs was interesting, between my dad’s swollen ankles and my husband’s view that any day registering under 20,000 steps is a day wasted; between my mom’s natural amiability and my natural irritability; and between my daughter’s aversion to car rides/heat/walking/eating/sleeping and my son’s equal aversion to all of those things, it</span><span style="text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: justify;">s a wonder that none of us throttled the others with our bare hands (the temptation was real). </span></div><div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzKO3xBIjGf90pOLQJQYHOBUD3npsdnYJtHKbmX0OqesvVG57y4B4FGjNiBpRhwNRXtkIGpq1Ge9v8_k408_LI4fqBPwHzMWZ1XyZW5fEBEcVOkc2sWHPnz4UVt58yncIPbRzKFFtv_4FFhWbYLcrGj3_AdNQ6N_FEPpW3a0qyDMTDvbE7UZWWMNWMw/s1280/DSC06746.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyzKO3xBIjGf90pOLQJQYHOBUD3npsdnYJtHKbmX0OqesvVG57y4B4FGjNiBpRhwNRXtkIGpq1Ge9v8_k408_LI4fqBPwHzMWZ1XyZW5fEBEcVOkc2sWHPnz4UVt58yncIPbRzKFFtv_4FFhWbYLcrGj3_AdNQ6N_FEPpW3a0qyDMTDvbE7UZWWMNWMw/w400-h268/DSC06746.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at the camera, folks.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="text-align: justify;">But for all our differences, we managed to visit quite an astounding number of places, and to have rather a good time of it to boot. Sprawling cities and perched villages, medieval castles and neolithic caves, craggy mountains and lush valleys, meandering rivers and tranquil lakes, and “oh Mom, not another church.” You name it, we did it. My dad’s ankles survived, my husband’s inner athlete was appeased, and the kids will (maybe) thank us one day for offering them so much culture.</span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QatJH-dOqCicFM6ueJUqlfn3lUsETWOykF2uG0XOern_rPkgx-fDxM6o7OIP8-URCQwixaA2OaoJTeHrKSJ_Ynb4bReD35TCyB7hqa35KyZSDBNDsPDbcV6UGecpw1EGtZKtQe16pQv9-A4Yt3Uddrr5-dVajSHC8v6ahZRiqMUV533pGjOnYH-eXA/s1280/20220803_113745.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-QatJH-dOqCicFM6ueJUqlfn3lUsETWOykF2uG0XOern_rPkgx-fDxM6o7OIP8-URCQwixaA2OaoJTeHrKSJ_Ynb4bReD35TCyB7hqa35KyZSDBNDsPDbcV6UGecpw1EGtZKtQe16pQv9-A4Yt3Uddrr5-dVajSHC8v6ahZRiqMUV533pGjOnYH-eXA/w400-h300/20220803_113745.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is it September yet?</td></tr></tbody></table></div><br />Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-36530184060680317832022-01-27T17:43:00.022+01:002022-02-03T11:44:28.093+01:00Here’s to your health<p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: justify;">For the past several years, I have been reading my way through the Bible from cover to cover. In December, I finally reached Revelation. Do you know which word is generally associated with Revelation?</p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Apocalypse. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And that brings me to our most recent voyage. If you’ve read any of my posts over the past decade, you will know that travel and I have a very intense love/hate relationship, i.e. I love visiting new places, but I hate getting there. Disaster seems to strike every time I venture beyond my front door, yet I keep on travelling. Why? Because as soon as it’s over, I forget the bad part and retain the good ... until the next voyage-related calamity, when it’s too late to back out.</div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Anyway, 2021 being what it was, I probably could have guessed it would come to an unpleasant climax. Mad optimism, however, drove us to buy tickets to visit my parents in the US for Christmas, seeing as how the last time we were able to do that was in blithely ignorant 2019.</span> </p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">So we bought tickets. Or, more accurately, my husband bought tickets; my travel anxiety is such that the mere thought of visiting kayak.com triples my heart rate. Anyway. We acquired tickets. And a rental car. And a taxi. And I printed out my famous, excruciatingly-detailed packing list in 9-point font. And that was that.</span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">The day before our departure, everyone took the requisite Covid test at our least-favorite neighborhood pharmacy, where every visit means standing in line to register indoors, then standing in line again to take the test outdoors, while certain children<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: "EB Garamond"; font-size: 14px;">—</span>who shall remain nameless<span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(51, 51, 51); color: #333333; font-family: "EB Garamond"; font-size: 14px;">—</span>run, screaming, up and down the sidewalk and/or blow raspberries against the storefront windows and/or activate (and re-activate. And re-activate. And re-activate) the pharmacy’s automatic doors. </div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">At least we all tested negative.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The next day, we arrived at the airport FOUR HOURS EARLY, which is what one must do now in the Pangolin Era. It went as well as could be hoped for us; we managed to actually board our plane, which was a definite improvement over our <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2021/07/revenge-travel.html" target="_blank">last voyage,</a> </span>and 12 hours or so later we landed in Los Angeles, where we promptly headed to our usual mediocre-yet-reliable airport hotel. For dinner, we had the option of either Taco Bell, where I had not set foot since age 17, or Subway, which we have in France. So we chose Taco Bell for its “exoticism.” But this was no ordinary Taco Bell; this was Pandemic Taco Bell, where the order counter is behind a wall of cellophane and the seating area is roped off with crime scene tape. Come to think of it, that might actually have been a crime scene; LA is dangerous.</div></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">The next day, we picked up our rental car in a singularly bizarre location (inside the lobby of a nearby Marriott? Why?). And off we went, despite the fact that my husband felt a bit weird. “Jet lag,” I assured him (*queue ominous music*). We didn’t want to go directly to San Diego, as <i>that </i>would have been too easy, so we stopped at Venice Beach. It was sunny. We took photos. We strolled up and down the sidewalk, trying to sufficiently appreciate the tackiness of the excessively-colorful commerces selling everything from healing crystals to 12-flavor corndogs to underwear with saucy quips splashed across the derrière. We saw, among other novelties, a bare-breasted woman on roller skates; we bought lunch from a dude with what looked like a golf ball in his left eye socket; our son attacked some seagulls with a giant Snoopy glow stick that he found outside the public toilets; and everyone (but me) got covered in sand and seawater. Then we climbed into the car and drove straight into LA Friday afternoon traffic, thus taking five hours to reach my parents’ house instead of three. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Maybe next time we’ll skip Venice Beach.</span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1ftpaNYVjfVKz77d-6DDFjzmaX3H1-3y2lU4zTR7rh-VnIIR7B8fLqFy4r7gr2wChjj1IAHkaCYUPqh29O3rXSYS7Oz1ewynmX2VzH64vSyrIPQvKFDc2nWVzlvWzKeQ4Q9JLLy5Rz8Bku_YIdGHR8QiKmmdTuRDVe1WLH1Zx8Dy7URmak49MGTRFuw=s1500" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="1500" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1ftpaNYVjfVKz77d-6DDFjzmaX3H1-3y2lU4zTR7rh-VnIIR7B8fLqFy4r7gr2wChjj1IAHkaCYUPqh29O3rXSYS7Oz1ewynmX2VzH64vSyrIPQvKFDc2nWVzlvWzKeQ4Q9JLLy5Rz8Bku_YIdGHR8QiKmmdTuRDVe1WLH1Zx8Dy7URmak49MGTRFuw=w200-h133" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, but then we<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>d miss out on <i>this.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">The actual visit was great. We celebrated Christmas as only the Holts can; we hiked all over the place, went shopping, visited friends, went to church, sang carols, lit a whole lot of candles, drank many gin & tonics, ate a ton of Mexican food (which is always my #2 reason to visit home anyway) and agreed once again that there’s no one quite like Paul Simon. Check it out:</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinUKFbp0WIPAaLHW9cJrZYgVxiceQ4YYulSr0U9E31bDjidFtGSawk0BYrgae1z3iJVkCOM6FjbYWV3VG7WV2ax78xBksq7GbN0hjAQJElBWTK1mTp31KY6_DFeBufnd8ak9F1oE0lVTXboC-Awe94_zLTYecqOdiIGQ0nD0eCVE4wIfHqD-KeUac5sQ=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinUKFbp0WIPAaLHW9cJrZYgVxiceQ4YYulSr0U9E31bDjidFtGSawk0BYrgae1z3iJVkCOM6FjbYWV3VG7WV2ax78xBksq7GbN0hjAQJElBWTK1mTp31KY6_DFeBufnd8ak9F1oE0lVTXboC-Awe94_zLTYecqOdiIGQ0nD0eCVE4wIfHqD-KeUac5sQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2OSphfA1mZp7g4op45PvlX7c5a-fkffecGLi1a_7TvnV0bFdCyeJQeQGLPOWn1YVz_k5h1A9BBndHZTPbt2dD9H5hEHwvrqpBc24AMIcCbgYFIozUFUHvxvaD8fIPROd4PcjX7D66bKDUnZ4iC1IQTAID5DHe_qjZB6aU1_mXDBp-f2xQElAS65MvGw=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj2OSphfA1mZp7g4op45PvlX7c5a-fkffecGLi1a_7TvnV0bFdCyeJQeQGLPOWn1YVz_k5h1A9BBndHZTPbt2dD9H5hEHwvrqpBc24AMIcCbgYFIozUFUHvxvaD8fIPROd4PcjX7D66bKDUnZ4iC1IQTAID5DHe_qjZB6aU1_mXDBp-f2xQElAS65MvGw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2Vu41RvpvWkzvCzNQ5kzvMj_0vIffHZjCrJDgUkaaRl-5HGC_tWXH5yMdx2_rh5NKXWCuOIaAjuG13ndJfJup6-rSGWyLZltQkq73WLAdlcPLHFOC9MGpoq4V5PntCpx6Hjue9O6vy4wNNEHRkwd9QWGEzOl10io9fVrDArklThgZlXe9oLPRHuL1IA=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2Vu41RvpvWkzvCzNQ5kzvMj_0vIffHZjCrJDgUkaaRl-5HGC_tWXH5yMdx2_rh5NKXWCuOIaAjuG13ndJfJup6-rSGWyLZltQkq73WLAdlcPLHFOC9MGpoq4V5PntCpx6Hjue9O6vy4wNNEHRkwd9QWGEzOl10io9fVrDArklThgZlXe9oLPRHuL1IA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbazrt1SwhKbtuuwBUsBSm5kOLwVTXJl_ZBVv9Hov0SOdajdz7L_vXD_NcyxsSvxZmUXhgYuN1cxXN5-eCITLd3C565gpEIbPReFc_4oJoPHYmRypRGPGC9QY5Rnxwsa3Vye1UyBp9q8I514O9Q5kadDL0awAz_bd_CWvnZ1gaAOX7PtH6nU0ETF_jA=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNbazrt1SwhKbtuuwBUsBSm5kOLwVTXJl_ZBVv9Hov0SOdajdz7L_vXD_NcyxsSvxZmUXhgYuN1cxXN5-eCITLd3C565gpEIbPReFc_4oJoPHYmRypRGPGC9QY5Rnxwsa3Vye1UyBp9q8I514O9Q5kadDL0awAz_bd_CWvnZ1gaAOX7PtH6nU0ETF_jA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh yeah, and we all caught Covid-19. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Turns out my husband felt under the weather because he quite simply had been infected with Omicron. Oops. “But wait!” I can hear you saying. “You said everyone tested negative!” Indeed, we did test negative. But that was only because my husband had caught the virus <i>mere hours</i> before getting tested. He caught it at his company’s Christmas luncheon, and we know this because we later found out that EVERYONE who attended it also caught the virus. They actually had to close and disinfect the entire office. </div></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">But hey, on the upside, our symptoms were mild. In fact, I didn’t even know I had it until I took a home test the day before our scheduled return date “just to be sure” and it came up positive: Two bright blue lines appeared with the same speed and certitude as a pregnancy test taken when you’re already three months along. </span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">The folks at Air France, to their credit, were very understanding. We changed our dates, extended our car rental, emailed a few folks and added four days to our vacation. After that, I took another test. STILL POSITIVE. My husband couldn’t take any more time off from work, and since HE was negative, he and our son headed back to France while I remained with our daughter at my parents</span>’ home for another three days (which was fun, don’t get me wrong). Ultimately, my immune system dispensed of the accursed virus and we too were able to board a flight back to Paris. Whew!</p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">So that was the 2021 season finale. Shall we call it “challenging” for lack of a non-four-letter synonym? It was challenging. But what is it we’re supposed to always say about challenges? That they conceal opportunities! And sometimes, they conceal said opportunities so well that they are completely undetectable! Actually, one opportunity made itself abundantly clear throughout this particular challenge: wine. More, more wine.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg63CpEE3EbK5Q2lJdfq48Z3LibNXgn7IBcdZ_QXJTKbmL4bvlE254quotJBfaZg_TGRd0FwZWOj8oPdfxPTJE-r1OSTIv2WU9bC3AGcq4SDahSdFzNL9deFjHTU9bVF1EleWXig0eRrWaHgcdGNmAI3-eD1xPBgzOMWK7ZuD2-TOG9gfDf_jH1cKS-0g=s1280" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg63CpEE3EbK5Q2lJdfq48Z3LibNXgn7IBcdZ_QXJTKbmL4bvlE254quotJBfaZg_TGRd0FwZWOj8oPdfxPTJE-r1OSTIv2WU9bC3AGcq4SDahSdFzNL9deFjHTU9bVF1EleWXig0eRrWaHgcdGNmAI3-eD1xPBgzOMWK7ZuD2-TOG9gfDf_jH1cKS-0g=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>s 5 o<span style="text-align: justify;">’</span>clock somewhere.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">And that, as they say, is all she wrote. Until next time!</p><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEbHZjlBD4unPqfpfOzFsNKIn4rcE0o6RDVE-pA_cUB90EeB6P0BBrd8Lh11WnJXIaB4wDfSTUd8MyQirMYZnA3ZuKnJlMAPGF1mEgyw-6QS5CmJ0pnULxxwfSx_MVkXmganxW9QojA9-J66d1jxA3EI04P3k8tI9pqFtlItxt2GHkYxZ0s1DGDLS2Yw=s1280" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEbHZjlBD4unPqfpfOzFsNKIn4rcE0o6RDVE-pA_cUB90EeB6P0BBrd8Lh11WnJXIaB4wDfSTUd8MyQirMYZnA3ZuKnJlMAPGF1mEgyw-6QS5CmJ0pnULxxwfSx_MVkXmganxW9QojA9-J66d1jxA3EI04P3k8tI9pqFtlItxt2GHkYxZ0s1DGDLS2Yw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><p></p>
Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-90552532498628448752021-10-29T12:06:00.003+02:002022-08-25T14:10:45.005+02:00Not that smart<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A lot has been said about the connected </span>“<span style="font-family: inherit;">smart</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> car. A LOT.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, it sure <i>sounds</i> cool: your vehicle as an addition to your devices, an extension of your modern connected lifestyle. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then my husband’s job went and gave him a company car equipped with a bunch of connected technology. And let me just come out and say: we’ve all been duped. Cars don’t need to be giant versions of anybody’s smartphone. Why? I’ll tell you why.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let’s start with music. Before all this connectivity madness, if you wanted to listen to the car radio, you pressed a button or turned a dial. If you wanted to listen to a CD, you simply slipped a disc into the dedicated slot.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But not in our new connected car, no sir. The whole central dashboard is just one big screen. No radio knobs. </span>No CD slot. <span style="font-family: inherit;">Only a lonely “home” button. Where do you put your CD? “NOWHERE” is the answer. You put it nowhere, because judging from our car, CD’s are clearly old-school and therefore obsolete.</span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Same thing goes for the radio. Where is the tuner? It’s hidden inside a menu inside another menu that you can only access by fiddling around with the big dashboard screen. Don’t like the volume level? More fiddling around in menus and submenus.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m a consumer. I don’t recall voicing any desire <i>at all</i> for my in-car listening experience to become so pointlessly complicated.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But let’s move on.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">How about Bluetooth? Heretofore, I kind of liked Bluetooth; it let me listen to music from my Deezer account through our wireless home speaker, which was neat.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But in the car, I would call Bluetooth a liability at best and life-threatening at worst. Know what happens the instant we climb into ours? Bluetooth detects our phones, and starts automatically playing music from phantom playlists we didn’t even know we had. Simply trying to make the sound system stop <i>doing that</i> is enough to send one off the road and into a ravine. Who came up with this and where should I send my hate mail?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Another “perk” of Bluetooth: notifications. Good God, why why why? For instance, let’s take WhatsApp. WhatsApp bombards us with notifications, which, because of the connectedness of our car, all appear at the top of the dashboard screen accompanied by a notification sound. Now, it just so happens that the volume of this particular app’s notifications came pre-set on “ear-splitting,” meaning every notification blasted through the speakers as <span style="color: red; font-size: x-large;">BEEEEP!!!</span> thus causing my heart to systematically leap straight out of my chest. But for the life of me I could not find the car volume settings for WhatsApp, despite digging through every last menu and submenu in the whole damn system. I ultimately had to consult some online chat group to find the solution. Again, WHY?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The one place where Bluetooth could actually contribue something helpful in the car is hands-free phone calls. Someone calls you, and the call is sent straight to the sound system, thus liberating your hands for other tasks, namely <strike>messing with your GPS</strike> holding the steering wheel. Except that the “benefit” of Bluetooth calls is limited to folks who drive ALONE. In a car full of people, in which NO ONE wants to hear your private conversation, much less in surround sound, this feature is truly terrible. Also, what happens if one’s mistress calls while one’s wife is sitting right there in the passenger seat? I mean this is France. I bet that totally happens.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And while we’re on the topic of voice, let’s discuss Google Assistant. I have long learned to avoid using it with, say, our remote control; it clearly finds my American accent to be incomprehensible. But my husband, who is French, does not have much more luck with it than I do. Why? Because the technology is crap, that’s why. When he receives a text in the car, for example, Google Assistant offers to read it to him out loud. If he agrees, the assistant reads the messages INCLUDING THE PUNCTUATION AND THE EMOJIS. This leads to such utterly surreal results as, “Can you bring a bottle of wine to the party question mark smiley face confetti fireworks cake smiley face.” And when the “assistant” is done reading, it asks whether my husband wants to respond. Regardless of what he answers, the robotic voice pauses for a moment, then says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand. Do you want to respond?” This can go on for several minutes, usually resulting in palpable irritation inside the car, without mentioning the increased likelihood of a potentially fatal accident outside the car. Thanks, Google.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So in conclusion, the term “smart” is highly relative when applied to the car. And as a recent visit to an automobile museum reminded me, people have been rolling along in perfect comfort for quite some time now, blissfully unaware of connected technology. I say it</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s time to bring back the dumb cars.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZevQ7U0UL5i3J97mMZsyNqkVGC_GLxRGiB63x6qFVn6aRdOC6yg0XYkKqlJvM8YoazOJjdjzNwpCFctgU8qm9-6crXwksZ8_xMkwLnP6xVd7F51Yf7xnqsovO7814BWlmMOHlE_naQ0mg/s1280/icon-1243682_1280.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1280" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZevQ7U0UL5i3J97mMZsyNqkVGC_GLxRGiB63x6qFVn6aRdOC6yg0XYkKqlJvM8YoazOJjdjzNwpCFctgU8qm9-6crXwksZ8_xMkwLnP6xVd7F51Yf7xnqsovO7814BWlmMOHlE_naQ0mg/s320/icon-1243682_1280.png" width="320" /></a></div></div></span>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-29870354242249161612021-09-09T00:01:00.021+02:002021-09-09T17:39:22.976+02:00Revenge is ours!<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Malta. </span><a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2021/07/revenge-travel.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">Getting there was tough,</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> but ultimately well worth the effort. You heard about the bad, now hear about the good.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7NxjjgadLDtCp50eHr6T9Qj1PrrZo0F2bYam-5Jx1bV_qqwNjRjGl69wJVGlzAEC7taIiol0EzYdltGBqmOiH2j9a2xl77edi54tqkTffwO9-FEfN9UNgHZlpE1pPRlD8hCEKReZm51v/s1280/DSC04767.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="1280" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA7NxjjgadLDtCp50eHr6T9Qj1PrrZo0F2bYam-5Jx1bV_qqwNjRjGl69wJVGlzAEC7taIiol0EzYdltGBqmOiH2j9a2xl77edi54tqkTffwO9-FEfN9UNgHZlpE1pPRlD8hCEKReZm51v/s320/DSC04767.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The good.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">First, while technically a rock in the middle of the sea, Malta is gorgeous. Golden stone, azure water, handsome architecture, vestiges of ages past at every turn … it’s a veritable movie set. In fact, it’s an actual movie set. Loads of movies and TV shows have been shot in Malta. Part of <i>Game of Thrones</i> was filmed right across from our hotel, which is not exactly a selling point for me since I detest GoT; however, <i>Paul, Apostle of Christ</i> was also filmed in Malta and</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">that </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">is cool.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwaQxAlm5lPTzfVBb4mJ5zIvm-ctwnM7a7oyDB6BE7Y7mHPy_ReWBYzrnozaW0NOB1rLB8bVRpNA0lhfjTeq2kUtCh6R69syQf_gnuzCaVnc1vqTdzPahs4RVse9fDRN0SeukiatyH07CM/s1280/DSC04710.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwaQxAlm5lPTzfVBb4mJ5zIvm-ctwnM7a7oyDB6BE7Y7mHPy_ReWBYzrnozaW0NOB1rLB8bVRpNA0lhfjTeq2kUtCh6R69syQf_gnuzCaVnc1vqTdzPahs4RVse9fDRN0SeukiatyH07CM/s320/DSC04710.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Who wouldn’t want to shoot a movie here? NO ONE.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Second, Malta’s breadth and depth of history is astounding; the whole country may as well be governed by UNESCO. And while fans of all eras are well-served, the prehistory crowd is especially spoiled. The place has megalithic temples that predate Stonehenge, for crying out loud. Malta is also home to the phenomenal Hal Saflieni Hypogeum, an underground burial site and temple that is among the marvels one must see in one’s lifetime, if one has the chance.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtL9AtClm6Gv4b5wnCCGW2CnxV_XMU6lKjm0u0TT-6CXQUB2PdlWbGnDz0FkxqGN60DAv3aELBMVEccF_Rt_hyphenhyphen2epQ_W4q-n5lx8IpstcFUQTaEA42oWU1gCEcMBzk1dsAApZYzYSUjc3L/s1280/DSC04856.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1280" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtL9AtClm6Gv4b5wnCCGW2CnxV_XMU6lKjm0u0TT-6CXQUB2PdlWbGnDz0FkxqGN60DAv3aELBMVEccF_Rt_hyphenhyphen2epQ_W4q-n5lx8IpstcFUQTaEA42oWU1gCEcMBzk1dsAApZYzYSUjc3L/s320/DSC04856.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The Hypogeum</span><span style="text-align: justify;">’</span><span style="text-align: left;">s iconic 5,000-year-old “Sleeping Lady,” who looks truly great for her age.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Perhaps unsurprisingly considering its 7,000+ years of history, Malta has a TON of ruins. There are ruins lining every field, just sitting there in the hot, hot sun, waiting to be admired. There are also many extensive and extremely awe-inspiring catacomb sites. We visited Saint Paul’s Catacombs, which are not only badass (albeit haunting), but also offer a welcome bit of respite from the pounding heat. Not sure I’d have a full-on meal down there though, as early mourners are believed to have done. I once saw a group of tourists try to have a picnic <i>inside</i> Chartres Cathedral, which was shockingly uncouth, but interestingly, eating alongside decomposing bodies in the catacombs back in their heyday was, I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">m assuming, ceremonially respectful. Probably stinky, though.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Saint Paul (we meet again!) is especially beloved in Malta for having spent several months on the island following a shipwreck on his way to face trial in Rome sometime around 60 AD. One can visit the cave in which he is said to have stayed during his sojourn. You bet we visited it. It was rad. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0WQryEHZ7ClgTekghwJVBmZ19hVrhj-2YWw5oFYSPJhqxBNof3S7iJmRZLb2IE4E2OI6jaXho81UpQuIhNUNqNAUnUOtCLyZ215bwkGY-Z6FHxpZeGpibApQ3JRpTcc2oTxymZERK_om/s1280/DSC04975.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs0WQryEHZ7ClgTekghwJVBmZ19hVrhj-2YWw5oFYSPJhqxBNof3S7iJmRZLb2IE4E2OI6jaXho81UpQuIhNUNqNAUnUOtCLyZ215bwkGY-Z6FHxpZeGpibApQ3JRpTcc2oTxymZERK_om/s320/DSC04975.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Highly shipwreck-worthy.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Like Saint Paul, the Knights of Malta are a very big deal. They are notably celebrated for the heroism they showed during the Great Siege of Malta in 1565, when some 500 knights and 6,000 foot soldiers managed to fend off an entire armada of like 30,000 angry Ottomans. I won’t bore you with the details (which are frankly not so much boring as they are bloody and gross). Instead, here’s a kid-friendly summary:</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc79Q1TP6tOxH8MRyOqb7TjD8iueGWA56hODUWUhZjbVms3AdOBKM0_Rbu0aUjKul7YM3Dh5qCtKm3KxGa_i-bAvlhQs2BeChcxlU50e7xqt9Yt0pbRng7ATgLgzBayEuIjmuyFoSA6Pl_/s1280/20210722_150826.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="1280" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc79Q1TP6tOxH8MRyOqb7TjD8iueGWA56hODUWUhZjbVms3AdOBKM0_Rbu0aUjKul7YM3Dh5qCtKm3KxGa_i-bAvlhQs2BeChcxlU50e7xqt9Yt0pbRng7ATgLgzBayEuIjmuyFoSA6Pl_/s320/20210722_150826.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“GO AWAY.</span><span style="text-align: left;">”</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">What else can I tell you about Malta?</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Malta is dry. And as someone who grew up in inland Southern California, I know about dryness. Malta is “tumbleweed and baked earth” dry. How anyone cultivates anything there is a mystery. Luckily, Sicily is nearby, and while also dry, apparently it grows more stuff than Malta. Malta has fennel. And cows. But the cows are from Sicily.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SzbaqEwC-eHEiLNoxGTbGQDi5tM3lwT8jd86hDFq-449_fJHjvYJ99SJBO84uNQx5fXIqRHP81hujo-AgMXgOyObeJte3FATcI9UUC2LFYa_PZU7mN5igKypDSR1Awyed-i5qpObRd84/s1280/DSC04814.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1280" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5SzbaqEwC-eHEiLNoxGTbGQDi5tM3lwT8jd86hDFq-449_fJHjvYJ99SJBO84uNQx5fXIqRHP81hujo-AgMXgOyObeJte3FATcI9UUC2LFYa_PZU7mN5igKypDSR1Awyed-i5qpObRd84/s320/DSC04814.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Dry toast. And ruins.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Driving around Malta is terrifying. First, they drive on the left, which, with all due respect to Lord Let</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s All Drive on the Left, may be the dumbest idea anyone has ever had <i>ever. </i>Second, they drive really fast. Even my husband, who drives really fast, said repeatedly that the Maltese drive really fast. Plus our rental car had an engine about the size of a coconut, meaning going uphill was somewhat comical. The battery, apparently even smaller than a coconut, died on us while waiting to board a ferry to visit the nearby island of Gonzo. That was much less comical.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Maltese language is crazy. It’s a mix between Arabic, Italian, Sicilian, English, French, Spanish, and the kitchen sink. And while written Maltese uses the Latin alphabet, it includes letters I’ve never seen anywhere else, but for some reason they give me a thrill. Check this out:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0u5u5ko87LTIQPnE_6oYd-bnap4lPwPgDAoCv4T0s9kgu9J-jPAU11brh_E3gYdECw6jpNWmXkbmu_rYRIV-9tjJUYtwBk1eyjP5Chk0mZxEY_rTLSFyBG7CWk21mqP78OL4AxzaJlmY/s993/Hh.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="993" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB0u5u5ko87LTIQPnE_6oYd-bnap4lPwPgDAoCv4T0s9kgu9J-jPAU11brh_E3gYdECw6jpNWmXkbmu_rYRIV-9tjJUYtwBk1eyjP5Chk0mZxEY_rTLSFyBG7CWk21mqP78OL4AxzaJlmY/s320/Hh.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Do you have goosebumps? I have goosebumps.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Eating lunch on the street in Malta is very cheap. You can buy these fun little stuffed pastry things called pastizzi for about €1 and be full for like eight hours.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Malta takes Covid seriously. Really seriously. When you arrive, you are immediately faced with a wall of stern-looking authority figures demanding to see your paperwork. Woe to those who have not the proper paperwork! Also, the testing procedure on the island is next-level absurd. They send you to a sketchy parking garage behind a “hospital” in a part of town that looks like Baghdad, where you must pay in cash so that some dude wearing a moonsuit can jab at your sinuses with a glorified Q-Tip. I’ve now been tested like five times since the start of this Corona madness and honestly, the process is less painful each time. Is that a good thing? It doesn’t seem like a good thing. You’d think my sense of smell would have improved, but instead my hay fever has worsened. Hmm.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So there you have it. An overall wonderful trip despite a very rocky kick-off. If you ever have the opportunity to visit Malta, definitely seize that opportunity. Just make sure your Covid paperwork is pristine, your rental car is bigger than the Hot Wheels model we had, and your flight is not with Lufthansa (sorry not sorry).</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6GsLlknI5pCrumHNsDnSzcCWeK7vIrvdn8k4j2M3doIrJrg1nNCg_9T4f_kc4TkKvCndhDUux8zoW0MpDUo5MqMpBNXBjKWs1gsXtp0BYftN6awISUVrxHVgKDtFPleOUYGA6NOtyFXq/s1280/DSC04861.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie6GsLlknI5pCrumHNsDnSzcCWeK7vIrvdn8k4j2M3doIrJrg1nNCg_9T4f_kc4TkKvCndhDUux8zoW0MpDUo5MqMpBNXBjKWs1gsXtp0BYftN6awISUVrxHVgKDtFPleOUYGA6NOtyFXq/s320/DSC04861.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Ahhh.</i></td></tr></tbody></table></div>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-41952661126009588482021-07-23T13:05:00.005+02:002021-09-09T00:02:34.486+02:00Revenge travel?<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, vacation. Remember what that used to be like? You know, in those carefree, innocent days before Covid-19 stole all of our naive illusions and sent them plummeting into the abyss?</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, we had a chance last week to do more than reminisce about mobility. With the world gradually opening up to travel again, my hubby and I decided NOW was the moment to finally celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary (which was technically in April) by boarding an actual airplane and flying to an actual place. But where to go?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We chose Malta. Its beauty, history and relative proximity convinced us.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So we sent our kids to visit their grandparents, which was weird in and of itself.</span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then we packed, which was also weird after what felt like a lifetime of not packing.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We underwent the requisite Q-Tip-up-the-nose PCR test in a sketchy pharmacy in the ghetto (PCR tests are hard to come by). </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We filled out a lot (A LOT) of paperwork. International travel these days demands much more of that than before. Thanks, Covid.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And we went to the airport. Or rather, we dove head-first into a sea of humanity rather like this:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-4vNUqHvWqtkOk46K4n8O16tMrMVMfkRW6VxNfTbBPwVX5Be5exCabfn91VKKZI68suetfBoii0ANkb_ox_cqg8AsgNf6315_5jHPEMfpxlbf3SZlHZOGBTZavt3NW2zXca4MI-v5h-B/s2048/crowd.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs-4vNUqHvWqtkOk46K4n8O16tMrMVMfkRW6VxNfTbBPwVX5Be5exCabfn91VKKZI68suetfBoii0ANkb_ox_cqg8AsgNf6315_5jHPEMfpxlbf3SZlHZOGBTZavt3NW2zXca4MI-v5h-B/s320/crowd.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’d forgotten how much <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/search?q=the+terminal" target="_blank">I hate the airport</a>.</span></div></span></div></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Many hours later, we staggered to our departure gate. Our “airplane” looked like this:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaFPdIFHoqrUs7oBv8BG0OpXcyGFXzB0ykowAw8S7Vw_3LYgbunPQpD8n9Uc3FKeGvexcQbE5qG65KPSZ33mF8FdVGdBlj5UarPiUVh17Fmt955y0hO0riyYKVsujeQmWT5N-39dqSd-h/s2048/paper+airplane.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpaFPdIFHoqrUs7oBv8BG0OpXcyGFXzB0ykowAw8S7Vw_3LYgbunPQpD8n9Uc3FKeGvexcQbE5qG65KPSZ33mF8FdVGdBlj5UarPiUVh17Fmt955y0hO0riyYKVsujeQmWT5N-39dqSd-h/s320/paper+airplane.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The flight was delayed. First 20 minutes (excusable), then 1.5 hours (inexcusable), and then just flat-out cancelled (have I mentioned that I hate the airport</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">?).</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thus commenced many hours filled with that noxious yet familiar cocktail of boredom and panic that pretty much defines my whole relationship with travel. I’ll spare you the details, but in short, it was bad. At least I met a nice fellow passenger from LA who knew my hometown, which was a little ray of most welcome sunshine.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ultimately, we were placed on a new flight connecting through Frankfurt. Only here’s the thing: PCR tests expire after 72 hours, and with the rerouting we would technically be over the time limit by a couple of hours. “No problem,” said Lufthansa (you bet I’m naming names).</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So we flew to Frankfurt and then proceeded to our connecting flight, operated by Air Malta. Air Malta, you may be surprised to learn, is far less laid-back than Lufthansa. They were not buying our “but the airline said it was OK” spiel. Thus, we were barred from boarding, and were offered exactly zero sympathy from the flight attendants, who suggested we go tell our sob story to Lufthansa customer service before moving on to the next passenger. So much for Mediterranean warmth.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So we went to Lufthansa customer service, which was located on the whole other side of the airport, distraught AF. To their credit, they were kind (as they should have been, considering the whole mess was their fault to begin with). They gave us vouchers for a new Covid test, vouchers for a hotel, vouchers for dinner and new tickets for the following morning. They also made fun of Air Malta, which we appreciated.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then they sent us, minus our luggage, to an airport hotel whose vibe was something like this:</span></div></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYppDNrTEWaRrLWcHQMPvb5wgdD-rfUloj4zPS5gXUH5d-8EvpUbxqP4rKYqeLqHV1qyFT6Lm0o2pwGiDJzULjOlnvKAAfr5rksg8h_wcqGotdqs8xm47GwEdfPbod2bxIQZCleZEx8PBl/s1280/fallout-shelter-2835496_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYppDNrTEWaRrLWcHQMPvb5wgdD-rfUloj4zPS5gXUH5d-8EvpUbxqP4rKYqeLqHV1qyFT6Lm0o2pwGiDJzULjOlnvKAAfr5rksg8h_wcqGotdqs8xm47GwEdfPbod2bxIQZCleZEx8PBl/s320/fallout-shelter-2835496_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The hotel offered us a room and a sterilized, socially-distanced buffet dinner consisting of canned vegetables and mystery meat, in an atmosphere somewhere between a wake and a strip mall on a Sunday night. Our bathroom was lit by a single red light. On a timer.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At 5 am the next morning, we fell out of bed and got ready in under 10 minutes—as one can when one has pure anxiety coursing through one’s veins, as well as no luggage.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We boarded a shuttle BACK to the airport, where we took yet another Covid test. It was negative, so that was positive (a little Covid humor for ya).</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We boarded the plane to Malta. It didn’t crash, thank God.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We exited the airplane and went to baggage claim. Our bags were not there.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We spent 40 minutes filing a missing baggage report, which at this point was (almost) comical.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But then, negative test results in hand and no luggage weighing us down, we marched boldly past the immigration gestapo and felt the tide turning in our favor.</span></div></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We picked up our rental car. It looked a lot like this (only smaller):</span></div></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ADtvoMbYpeSHMbjkwVpCYr-jcANMBBcf-x_srMcn0GgzgYB4pNWqktPW1Mf1wge1hoPvAQe3y7gIe1BqyMlmqNS2cK1eIobZdxVlgmC7RPrtKdpf_dkBFciRyyZU0udCz0XFZ3kInNcF/s2048/toy+car2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1589" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ADtvoMbYpeSHMbjkwVpCYr-jcANMBBcf-x_srMcn0GgzgYB4pNWqktPW1Mf1wge1hoPvAQe3y7gIe1BqyMlmqNS2cK1eIobZdxVlgmC7RPrtKdpf_dkBFciRyyZU0udCz0XFZ3kInNcF/s320/toy+car2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">We rediscovered the thrill of left-hand traffic, which is how Malta rolls, thus kicking my cortisol levels up another notch.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ah, but a short while later we reached our hotel, whose vibe was something like this:</span></div></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7m-xtK-3ZizAp5xcKohrjb5QbwzCmnMBtY9HY3JJTLGAJHhLQINbq5ljESO69hiRxSNx9LEnkGYBunicTVMLcmGbEaTMSvH7FuSDGI6wf-vLuky5DK331F3pE2wBMnU_ncTXi2CGPQKM0/s1280/swimming-pool-918593_1280.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7m-xtK-3ZizAp5xcKohrjb5QbwzCmnMBtY9HY3JJTLGAJHhLQINbq5ljESO69hiRxSNx9LEnkGYBunicTVMLcmGbEaTMSvH7FuSDGI6wf-vLuky5DK331F3pE2wBMnU_ncTXi2CGPQKM0/s320/swimming-pool-918593_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And believe it or not, but the rest of our stay was really wonderful</span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">albeit often surreal. It deserves its own post, which it <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2021/09/revenge-is-ours.html" target="_blank">shall have.</a></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">To be continued!</span></div></span></div>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-7744808229214243782021-06-15T13:39:00.008+02:002021-06-15T17:34:26.792+02:00A pain in the ass<p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Let me tell you a little story. A story about a girl. A girl who liked to run. A girl who ran too much and got tendinitis. Double tendinitis in fact.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">OK the girl is me and at 41 I’m not technically a “girl,” although I’m more a girl than I am a boy so let’s not get bogged down in semantics.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, remember how I mentioned </span><a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">running a lot</a><span style="color: #0070c0; font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">during all of those nasty lockdowns of 2020-21? Well it turns out that I </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">may</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> have overdone it just a bit, resulting in a constant (and I mean CONSTANT) ache in my left piriformis muscle, which is located deep in the gluteal region and does helpful things like allow the hip to rotate. As a bonus, the sciatic nerve runs right through it. I know this because not only do I have glute pain but I also have sciatic pain! Yay!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The unpleasantness began in early October of 2020. I thought it might go away on its own, so I kept on running. But it didn’t go away, so I stopped running and made an appointment with my GP, or rather, with my GP’s intern, because you can get an appointment to see the intern relatively quickly whereas the GP has a waiting time of about three weeks. Here’s how that went:</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: My butt hurts.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Intern: Why?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: I may have been running too much.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Intern: Run less. Also take Advil.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Is that it?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Intern: Get some insoles. I’ll refer you to a podiatrist.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So off I went to the podiatrist. As it was my first time seeing one, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I couldn’t help wondering </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">what</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> exactly inspires a person to pursue this type of profession though. I mean it’s a little odd, no? Just looking at people’s feet all day? My son likes feet. Maybe one day he’ll be a podiatrist.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: My butt hurts.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Podiatrist: Why?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: I may have been running too much.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Podiatrist: Show me your feet.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">This is going to get weird, isn’t it?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was weird. I’ve never had anyone take THAT much interest in my feet before. Also he was extremely serious. I kept trying to make jokes to lighten the ambiance, except he clearly didn’t understand them since he kept asking me to repeat myself, thus killing the jokes. Maybe podiatrists don’t laugh. That’s understandable. In the end, he made me some special insoles. They didn’t help. He made me some new ones. The new ones actually made my butt hurt </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">more.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then I tried my osteopath because she’s competent as well as good-natured, plus I’d been meaning to see her anyway. She did what she could, but said she suspected a DOUBLE tendinitis and that it would be helpful if I consulted a </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">kiné</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (short for </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">kinésithérapeute</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> – physiotherapist). All French people see the </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">kiné</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> at some point in their lives. It is a very French thing to do. So I made an appointment.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: My butt hurts.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kiné: Why?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: I may have been running too much.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kiné: What part of your butt hurts? How about *here*?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Nah.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kiné: *Here*?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Sort of.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kiné: *Here*?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: <i>OW!!!</i></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Kiné: I think I know what’s wrong with you. But you should see a sports doctor just to be sure.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I made an appointment with a sports doctor. In Paris. It took half a day. But he was reassuring as well as charismatic, in a 50-something sports doctor sort of way.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sports doctor: Where are you from?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: California.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sports doctor: I lived in California for a while! I went there to play music.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Cool! Where?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sports doctor: *Cites unrecognizable and possibly fictional place*</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Did you love it?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sports doctor: Meh.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Meh?</i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sports doctor: I need you to take off your pants and lie on this table.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">You gonna buy me a drink first or what?</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">That went OK. He said he was pretty sure what was wrong with me, but that I needed to get an MRI to confirm. So I made an appointment with the specific MRI place he said I had to go to. Also in Paris. Also half a day.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">MRI technician: Hi. Take off your pants.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">My, aren’t you a straight-to-the-point kind of person?</i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">MRI technician: Is this your first time?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Is this YOUR first time? I hope not because this is costing me €200.</i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">MRI technician: Here, lie on this table and put these headphones on. It’s Queen. Do you like Queen?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Headphones: *</span><i style="font-family: inherit;">WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS, MY FRIENDS…*</i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">MRI technician: I’ll be back in 15 minutes.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: What?</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I got the full results that night and had to take them BACK to my sports doctor, which meant yet </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">another</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> trip to Paris and yet </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">another</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> half-day gone. He was happy with the results and said they confirmed his opinion that I would need an </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">infiltration</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> (ultrasound-guided cortisone injection). Oh good.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I made an appointment for the injection. Also in Paris. Also half a day.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Technician: Hi. Take your pants off please. The doctor will be in shortly.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Cool, cool.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Hi. Which side are we injecting today?</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Left.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Lie on your stomach, with your head at this end of the table.</span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: Uh … that’s my right side.</span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Doctor: Oh sorry. You said left, </span>didn’t<span style="font-family: inherit;"> you?</span></div><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Me: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">This is so not worth it.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The shot was 50 shades of weird. First, the doctor was roughly three times my size; he looked like some superhuman German grandpa whose dimensions were not of this world. Second, the technician turned the lights down, creating a soft (i.e. WEIRD) ambiance that could only have been made weirder if he</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">d put on some smooth jazz. And third, they may have numbed the injection site, but I could still feel the needle itself poking around <i>inside</i> the muscle. It didn’t exactly </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">hurt,</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> but the sensation was not what one might call “pleasant.” At one point, I heard the doctor say something to the technician involving the words “next” and “time,” at which I could only snicker. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">There will be no “next time,” my dude.</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></i></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent the following day at home, awaiting some crazy effect of painlessness or painfulness. But in the end, it was pretty damn close to how I felt prior to the injection. </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">Hmm.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> And today, a full week later, I have to report that the result is subtle at best.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You know what I think? I think that, much like parenting a difficult child, there </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">is</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> no real solution other than time. Your average tendinitis lasts 12-18 months. And while my children are finally starting to exit their difficult period, it looks like </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">this</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> particular pain in the ass is going to be sticking around for a while.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0A92zU-Q7Z3FGQUj5tVLnOcEJFGiFLa5r6HpnqidktVxmA24p1yi4MlcXULW5HnLR6JP8Dleo9FCJgPN6tELA0w5sCOTKo5pejMZMDp38gT5k3L2VXxXsmEedsE-R4EKVyrYrYN7jyVj/s780/bunnies.png" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="780" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0A92zU-Q7Z3FGQUj5tVLnOcEJFGiFLa5r6HpnqidktVxmA24p1yi4MlcXULW5HnLR6JP8Dleo9FCJgPN6tELA0w5sCOTKo5pejMZMDp38gT5k3L2VXxXsmEedsE-R4EKVyrYrYN7jyVj/s320/bunnies.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div></span><p></p>
<p style="font-family: Garamond; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-46769762960941637472021-03-16T12:28:00.046+01:002021-03-17T00:50:28.788+01:00The waiting game<div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve been thinking a lot about the nature of time lately. For instance, it’s March. One year ago, as France entered its first major nationwide lockdown, I remember muttering something to myself like, “Beware the Ides of March indeed!” And behold—here we are again. That was the fastest 100 years <i>ever. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So much about how I personally have experienced these past 12 months has revolved around time—facing time, grappling with time, hating time, accepting time—that I feel it warrants a closer look. Because what do I have on my hands for once? Time.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First of all, time and I are not pals; I am chronically late—or <i>was,</i> when I used to have things to be late for. Ever seeking to rectify this, yet knowing that I probably can’t, the very thought of having to be somewhere for something at a given hour <i>and no later</i> (school, for example, or any form of public transportation) invariably plunges me into a state of stress that less eccentric people reserve for auditions or blind dates.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But time, like so many other things, has been turned on its head in the Covid Era. Rather than chasing after time, wishing we had more of it, time has now become the prison guard smiling cruelly at us as we ask how long our sentence is. As the pandemic has evolved, my temporal concerns have evolved alongside it. What began as “How long will this last?,” “When will masks be available?,” and “When IN GOD’S NAME will my children’s activity books show up?” became “When can we go back to real classes?,” “When can we fly to the US again?,” and “When can we get vaccinated?” Now, one year later, the questions have taken on a certain resignation; optimistic <i>whens</i> have been replaced by melancholy <i>wills: </i>“Will this ever end?,” “Will we ever get our lives back?,” or to quote Dave Matthews, “Will it [ever] be the same again?” But regardless of the question, time’s unsympathetic response remains ever the same: <i>I. Don’t. Know. *snicker*</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I’ve often joked that Covid has been a spiritual exercise unlike any other. The noble ideals of being present in the moment, of finding small pleasures in the everyday, and of living life as it comes have all become almost required learning if one is to survive the waves of cancelled plans, thwarted goals, and absolute powerlessness that this past year has brought. For a society in which the virtue of patience is as antiquated as a brass bedwarmer, being forced to wait for absolutely everything—INDEFINITELY—has been excruciating.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To stem the frustration, I’ve learned to simply stop planning to have or see or do anything outside my immediate reach. I suppose a certain freedom lies therein; for those of us who tend to be on the anxious side, not having to think about the future means not having to worry about it. But it’s also a way of life that seems to be perpetually on hold. While we watch and wait, the world continues to spin. The seasons change. Birthdays and anniversaries come and go. We are both in reality and weirdly outside of it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">All of us humans lead dual lives. I know from experience that the inner, contemplative life can absolutely benefit from the spiritual lessons of lockdown and social distancing. But even an introvert such as myself can see that the outer life—the one that has been wholly sacrificed this past year—is quite simply <i>indispensable</i> to our well-being. Activities, ceremonies, traditions. School, office, church. Restaurants, theaters, museums. Dance lessons, Boy Scouts, play dates. Brunches, after-work drinks, dinner parties … all of these things <i>matter.</i> They aren’t banal. They aren’t expendable. They are part of what makes us human. Without them, we’re all a bit diminished. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For some reason, I have always hated the saying “this won’t last forever.” I find it to be both condescending and oddly bleak. But in the age of Covid-19, it suddenly doesn’t feel so depressing anymore. Probably because it’s better than “I don’t know.” I mean, at least it recognizes the <i>existence</i> of an end point, even if it doesn’t specify where the end point lies. All jokes aside, though, I am hopeful. Truly. This <i>won’t</i> last forever. We <i>will</i> be vaccinated sooner or later. The masks <i>will</i> come off one day. And in the meantime, we just have to continue to seek the joy residing within our own little worlds, to do our best to keep holding on, to remember that the time we have is borrowed—and that no one is preventing us from dancing.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Dave Matthews: <span style="text-align: justify;">“</span>Shadows on the Wall<span style="text-align: justify;">”</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>(aka <span style="text-align: justify;">“</span>Singing from the Windows<span style="text-align: justify;">”</span>)</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="260" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hRfiWzUsBGw" width="386" youtube-src-id="hRfiWzUsBGw"></iframe></div></div><div><br /><i>When the war is over <br />and we go back to everyday, everyday <br />will it be the same again <br />when you've been turned inside out and outside in? </i></div><div><i><br />Singing from the windows <br />shadow on the wall, the way they dance <br />not much of nothing <br />and look at this fire burning bright </i></div><div><i><br />Look at how the children play <br />none of us know what's to come tomorrow <br />but I'm not going out today <br />so dance with me like the time we've got is borrowed </i></div><div><i><br />Singing from the windows <br />sirens in the dark, where are you going? <br />pretend that it's nothing <br />but look at this fire burning wild </i></div><div><i><br />Well this is how we keep holding on <br />every day, all day long <br />but sometimes things just fall apart <br />no matter how you try, they won't stop </i></div><div><i><br />Singing from the windows <br />something outside and I don't know</i></div><div><i><br />When the storm is over <br />and picking up the pieces of everyday <br />memories in picture frames <br />trying to put the inside out and the outside in</i></div><div><i> <br />Singing from the windows <br />walking down the hall, nowhere to go <br />(it'd) be good to see you, but <br />suppose when it's all said and done </i></div><div><i><br />This is how we keep holding on <br />all the days, all day long <br />but sometimes things just fall apart <br />no matter how we try, they can't stop </i></div><div><i><br />Singing from the windows <br />voices outside and no one knows <br />singing from the windows <br />we'll get going again </i></div><div><i><br />When the war is over</i></div>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-77343129337417269032020-08-27T15:54:00.001+02:002020-08-28T14:19:28.866+02:00No ordinary island<div style="text-align: left;">
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Pandemic be damned, it’s summer. And summer means vacation. Because this is France, and <i>liberté-égalité-congés payés</i> is what. As for myself, I may never truly be on vacation again because I am self-employed, but <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html">Covid-19</a> has suddenly placed new emphasis on the <i>free</i> aspect of freelance, so sure, bailing for several weeks is fine.<br />
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Normally, my parents were due for a visit this summer and we were all going to Ireland, but the whole 2020 pangolins-bats-yada yada-cough cough-touch nothing-go nowhere-viral armageddon kind of threw a wrench into <i>that.</i> Plus President Macron told us to behave and stay (relatively) close to home.<br />
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<b>Us:</b> Corsica is technically in France. Let’s go to Corsica!<br />
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When in Corsica, one definitely needs a car. So we decided to cross nearly the full length of the mainland and take a ferry docked in Nice, thus keeping our car and avoiding the airport. The very thought of the airport sends my cortisol levels through the roof. Maybe because of multiple experiences such as <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2010/09/terminal.html">this</a> one.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaRmBOI1zM9BwpwZCQF9jAn7KcCtdfZ1_O5kY1bReCaEsoghqg66ANYKRg5rKe0uR_OqmITX7D4723WnMaU_8DrH0Z6WhGRpyDCOJwseXGUnraTTVflRaXs_n0NB85_s9nNFkdrTBVZpz/s1280/DSC03026.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfaRmBOI1zM9BwpwZCQF9jAn7KcCtdfZ1_O5kY1bReCaEsoghqg66ANYKRg5rKe0uR_OqmITX7D4723WnMaU_8DrH0Z6WhGRpyDCOJwseXGUnraTTVflRaXs_n0NB85_s9nNFkdrTBVZpz/w328-h218/DSC03026.jpg" title="From here it looks good" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-small;">Sure looks good from here.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Parking on the ferry was interesting. Its staff for some reason</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">was made up of </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">100% irate Italians, barking barely recognizable orders as we </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">maneuvered our way</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> onto one of the lower decks. I don’t know what madman came up with the parking plan on this thing, but the cars were crammed in so closely together that we couldn</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">’t</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> so much as open either of the doors on the right-hand side. Weird. Somewhat barbaric. Borderline panic-inducing. Oh well!</span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The crossing took six hours, which maybe would have been OK with the kids <i>if</i> the on-board activities and attractions had been open, but thanks to our pal Coronavirus, everything was closed. The whining commenced almost immediately.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Dear son:</b><b> </b>Mom this boat sucks <i>so </i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>m</i></span><i style="font-weight: normal;">uuuuuuch!</i><span style="font-weight: normal;"> There’s nothing to </span><i style="font-weight: normal;">doooooooo!</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Me:</b> Do you know what you sound like right now? Like an overprivileged white kid with first world problems. You are lucky and I mean <i style="font-weight: normal;">really</i> <i style="font-weight: normal;">lucky</i> to be voyaging across the Mediterranean with your sister and two parents who love you while other kids out there are hungry or homeless or caught in the midst of war—<span style="font-weight: normal;">do you hear me?</span>—<span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>WAR!</i> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Dear son:</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> *stares blankly at me*</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Me:</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Oh never mind. Here’s half a Twix.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Dear son:</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"> *smiles*</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Exiting the boat was hellish. Actually, scrap the </span><i style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">-ish.</i><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> It was straight-up hell. Dark, hot, crowded, airless, and definitely not compliant with social distancing measures. It was bad. They really need to rethink that whole park-on-top-of-your-neighbor concept. But we lived. Next.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">The first week, we stayed in Lumio, a charming hillside town overlooking the sparkling Bay of Calvi, and also the home of supermodel Laetitia Casta (who knew?). The rental was f</span><span style="text-align: left;">ab:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7FdDrLfUYoKLvCd1vlC6HXixOGROmqQUn3119T5wgmPe1c7Ce-5NTpieE-cTiv3Z6EsDtzMCQStTIJ2cJDSZ7YgMsVI8dxtRQDRbbI5M8mOPCEoGT122cTuZKlgWj9vm_mUneXPrWeGN/s1600/Collage+1+white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-7FdDrLfUYoKLvCd1vlC6HXixOGROmqQUn3119T5wgmPe1c7Ce-5NTpieE-cTiv3Z6EsDtzMCQStTIJ2cJDSZ7YgMsVI8dxtRQDRbbI5M8mOPCEoGT122cTuZKlgWj9vm_mUneXPrWeGN/s400/Collage+1+white.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Each day, we explored northern Corsica to the best of our abilities. We took twisty windy hold-onto-your-faith-with-both-hands cliffside roads with breathtaking (and potentially life-taking) views. We discovered the UNESCO world heritage site of Scandola, with its turquoise coves and rainbow rock formations:</span></span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVwjhCIEWoPX9kJ1PGbYboh7ukYxfcf2ra-5IoD-EwEdt1hKXdp3Ufh6kcDjusOi-gjRF8sTGOXwm6iXnVEpRu6W56drhhTkyrxkirdOZ9MReZ9Sra7-gqmYGyWFGY1-MhvQlxZK7voNm/s1600/Collage+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVwjhCIEWoPX9kJ1PGbYboh7ukYxfcf2ra-5IoD-EwEdt1hKXdp3Ufh6kcDjusOi-gjRF8sTGOXwm6iXnVEpRu6W56drhhTkyrxkirdOZ9MReZ9Sra7-gqmYGyWFGY1-MhvQlxZK7voNm/s400/Collage+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: justify;">The kids dug it:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmSYeyjrynHXinkkqSdrIveP6CejtIlvamaFv2erIcPmKILmBixuNfNVWuZk22i62qzififW5RFiqPEU4u6BaPscAgJELczh_IeAJN0d7YitKvr-D1rF6c9NkIvnUW0JmoHMt2yWb8rqO/s1280/DSC03233.jpg" style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="854" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmmSYeyjrynHXinkkqSdrIveP6CejtIlvamaFv2erIcPmKILmBixuNfNVWuZk22i62qzififW5RFiqPEU4u6BaPscAgJELczh_IeAJN0d7YitKvr-D1rF6c9NkIvnUW0JmoHMt2yWb8rqO/w342-h512/DSC03233.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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We ventured onto secret beaches and swam in natural pools. We enjoyed picnic lunches and al fresco dinners. We caught some lizards and a few sea critters. We scraped the finish off the side of our car on a giant yucca. We ate some exceedingly pungent cheese. We visited perched villages in the 90° heat.</div>
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The kids dug it:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFAL4RcOHuAutH0pmpvP2jjDIJq-e7lN0VYfZ75AIHX0-AWAdSvKWvEPYhq17H81SBb5KQJkTClMrsxXWJNqSAxK17wLU3UvRDABl_u-V6FlNyzJGBKOF9nXTS5MM6_JBhNrhugC-CP_X/s2048/DSC03463_2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFAL4RcOHuAutH0pmpvP2jjDIJq-e7lN0VYfZ75AIHX0-AWAdSvKWvEPYhq17H81SBb5KQJkTClMrsxXWJNqSAxK17wLU3UvRDABl_u-V6FlNyzJGBKOF9nXTS5MM6_JBhNrhugC-CP_X/w512-h342/DSC03463_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Northern Corsica is rugged and wonderful, surrounded by turquoise water and vegetation that looks surprisingly similar to that of San Diego (represent!). It also has simply incredible rock. Quartz, limestone, rare pink granite, basalt. Gorgeous. Every river, every beach, every natural pool is a treasure trove of multi-colored boulders and pebbles:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH2dFoYv4NW3s1CSyiqXpTbFPzWcTn-bRoxOhWfbdhOml9LFFnqEAQuw5tJna1I8hjPRlwTJA05BQpGoEl6ZZnpQ82GgbIcyHAJsCab9raSS3vqBRUdRMDm5R5tm5mJoV72m-UZ_5I3-x/s1920/Collage+3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1920" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWH2dFoYv4NW3s1CSyiqXpTbFPzWcTn-bRoxOhWfbdhOml9LFFnqEAQuw5tJna1I8hjPRlwTJA05BQpGoEl6ZZnpQ82GgbIcyHAJsCab9raSS3vqBRUdRMDm5R5tm5mJoV72m-UZ_5I3-x/s400/Collage+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">I’<span style="font-family: inherit;">m hooked on macro photography, for better or worse.</span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Only downside: the heat. I don’t do heat (I don’t really do cold, either, but that’s a topic for another day). In fact, the older I get, the less I do heat. At least when it’s cold, you can put on an extra sweater. But when it’s hot, all you can do is stand in front of the A/C or go swimming. So we stood in front of the A/C and went swimming. A lot. I actually ended up with a tan, which totally flies in the face of the whole Scandinavian vibe I usually have going.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">At sunset, we would climb up to our rooftop terrace with a view of the bay for <i>apéro,</i> every surface still radiating the day’s warmth, crickets chirping, the lights of Lumio twinkling on the hill behind us and the stars sparkling above. It was otherworldly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then suddenly, a whole week was over and it was time to head south. Despite its modest size, Corsica has a remarkably rich and varied landscape; we traded the golden cliffs and Californian vegetation of the north for the sandier, balmier, more Côte d</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">Azur feel of the south (which is somewhat bizarre considering we were farther than ever from the actual Côte </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">d</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">Azur, but OK</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Our next rental was also nice, although less “authentic” than our first. It had a little cubby hole kids’ room accessible via a really dangerous-lo</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">oking ladder, a classic example of what the French would call a <i>fausse bonne idée </i>(an idea that seems good at first but is actually a curse in disguise). The A/C was right on the money, though, so we just upped our level of vigilance by about 200%:</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>What lawsuit?</i></td></tr>
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Our “mini villa” (*grabs dictionary, looks up <i>oxymoron</i>*) was also in close proximity to some of the world’s most beautiful white sand beaches, so we hit the beach and I mean HIT IT. Lots of sand and sun and more sand and more sun! I got even tanner! My pale-faced ancestors were surely spinning pirouettes in their graves!</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We also visited the southernmost tip of the island, a splendid city called Bonifacio. Magnificent scenery. I took roughly 200 photos because how could you not? Many of them were macro shots of flowers and the famous Corsican maquis, but I will spare you!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGQ2M8InOobBpykRxJ3TEfeq1cmWBe6OWFqo0QSymhv_2a1hp0N_ooiuBlsDevvySlkUPVPeJRkJBAyNUKE1qBxHfqmlQGYsgp6v50eeYFI5O4QgbA5oY7b98TIM7SXw_UA7iiKOPXxXo/s1920/Collage+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1920" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrGQ2M8InOobBpykRxJ3TEfeq1cmWBe6OWFqo0QSymhv_2a1hp0N_ooiuBlsDevvySlkUPVPeJRkJBAyNUKE1qBxHfqmlQGYsgp6v50eeYFI5O4QgbA5oY7b98TIM7SXw_UA7iiKOPXxXo/s400/Collage+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the “musts” in Bonifacio is a staircase carved into the side of a cliff known as the Staircase of the King of Aragon, which is a secret passage to a natural spring with fabulous views of the sea. According to legend, it was built by said king’s troops during a siege one night in 1420, although the truth is that it was probably built by monks (which is</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> just the <i>absolute opposite</i> of</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> the legend, but whatever!). In any case, after donning protective gear and completing the visit, I came away feeling highly dubious that any king, legendary or otherwise, ever huffed it up and down this killer staircase. Pity his servants and water-bearers, although I’m sure their rear ends were as finely chiseled as those 187 steps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The kids dug it, <i>bien sûr:</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzYEJJ38fILynmrmb8i8p3XAlN9P6naSDPKF-GkWiu3WWa4dojaSiqA9txxDq6Gsjcw5fURS4rt4bpiTOV90pL_3DsIeDmzC0C5kmje0v0rEymoWGqVKSRqrRRTc_-GikA4qH7ocXNW6Z/s1280/DSC03536+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWzYEJJ38fILynmrmb8i8p3XAlN9P6naSDPKF-GkWiu3WWa4dojaSiqA9txxDq6Gsjcw5fURS4rt4bpiTOV90pL_3DsIeDmzC0C5kmje0v0rEymoWGqVKSRqrRRTc_-GikA4qH7ocXNW6Z/w512-h341/DSC03536+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And lest I forget a personal highlight, mountain child that I am: Corsica is </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">also</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> blessed with absolutely glorious mountains. In fact, so mountainous is the island that it is often referred to as <i>une montagne dans la mer</i> (a mountain in the sea). </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">So many ridges and peaks to choose from! We explored just a smidgeon, but I’d gladly have lingered far longer. I mean look at this:</span><br />
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An extraordinarily magical, mystical land altogether. Being a fervent admirer of all things Tolkienian, <i>and</i> in the midst of reading <i>The Silmarillion</i> with the utmost relish<i>,</i> Eru Ilúvatar, Varda, Ulmo et al. were on my mind quite a bit throughout our travels.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoz_vCHUqcvczCdgxPZHalhrb4iiPFotE4-iKrOZMPPLlAfcL9HHMDHLCxZ7VVVbicZDOqgRXp6f1wLO7qG8DImEuVzEm6xVN-HmQDRsX599drkTBMqw7osN1t-m6d0TnNiiBdTzthQujM/s1920/blue-259458_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoz_vCHUqcvczCdgxPZHalhrb4iiPFotE4-iKrOZMPPLlAfcL9HHMDHLCxZ7VVVbicZDOqgRXp6f1wLO7qG8DImEuVzEm6xVN-HmQDRsX599drkTBMqw7osN1t-m6d0TnNiiBdTzthQujM/w512-h342/blue-259458_1920.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Corsica or Middle Earth?</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In conclusion, and if I may wax profound for just a minute here</span><span style="text-align: left;">—</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Corsica took my breath away. I have been travelling around France for nearly 20 years now, and have discovered countless things to love, but this island</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> had an entirely different, deliciously unique feel to it. In Corsica, the imprint of French Civilization is far less overwhelming than it is on the mainland, where art and architecture speak passionately and eloquently of human history, of human achievement. In Corsica, the roles are reversed: structures, however handsome, are ultimately mere props; Nature is the true star of the show. Polychrome rock. Spirited wind. Fiery sun. Crystalline water. They spoke deeply and powerfully to me on this trip, cutting through the layers of suppressed anxiety and accumulated mental clutter. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In these strange and often surreal times, the “new normal” for many of us is one of uncertainty, of disorientation, and a gnawing fear that the Covid-19 crisis is but a warning shot. Yet these timeless elements of earth and air, fire and water, which existed long before we arrived and will endure long after we have departed, are a reminder that perhaps our view of our own lives has itself become too “macro.” Perhaps we need to zoom out, shift our focus off of our little selves, forget our all-important problems for a while, and remember that we are part of a much larger picture. We and All That Is are made of the same stuff—are works by the same Artist. Checking in with the heart, reconnecting with the present is simple: hear the rustle of wind in the trees. Slip one foot, and then another into a cool brook. Close your eyes and feel the sunshine on your face. </span>Ultimately, what makes me feel safer, healthier, more in touch with life itself: checking my Twitter feed for the umpteenth time, or lying in silence on a warm boulder, listening to the sound of water flowing over pebbles? <span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe the key to soothing a weary soul really is as easy as that. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Contentment doesn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t have to be fleeting. </span><br />
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Someone should tell my kids.<br />
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-48922473948801863652020-08-27T13:35:00.000+02:002020-08-27T13:35:51.287+02:00Gone viral: part V<div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Good heavens, you’re still here. You must be under lockdown too. Or maybe you <i>enjoy</i> my ranting? If so, thank you! Here’s tons more in case you missed it: <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html" target="_blank">part I</a>, <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-ii.html" target="_blank">part II</a>, <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-iii.html" target="_blank">part III</a>, <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-iv.html" target="_blank">part IV</a>. This, I hope, will conclude my lockdown diaries. It</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s been real. And it</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s been fun. But it hasn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t been real fun. I mean it <i>has,</i> but only if slowly going insane can be considered <i>fun.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 29</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The French government has announced a gradual relaxation of lockdown restrictions beginning on May 11. I remain skeptical (STILL NO SIGN OF THOSE ELUSIVE MASKS), but we shall see, shan’t we?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 30</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today my husband and I are celebrating our ninth wedding anniversary! Sadly, we can neither travel nor dine out, but no matt<span style="font-family: inherit;">er</span><span style="font-size: 12px;">—</span>we have a very nice bottle of bubbly that has been patiently awaiting the right occasion. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nine years ago today, I was younger, but not stronger; quicker, but not faster; sweeter, but not wiser. I had (significantly) less gray hair. I also had zero children. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc? Maybe!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 1</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today is a holiday! A holiday from what, lockdown? NO (but nice try)</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8</b></span></div>
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It’s like déjà vu all over again. And again. And again.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 9</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Some folks have been using lockdown to learn a new skill. I, on the other hand, have been perfecting an old one:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><strike style="font-family: inherit;">alcoholism</strike><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">mixology. You need a cocktail? No, I need a cocktail.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 10</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">OMG the crime scene tape blocking off the bike path in front of our place has been pushed back a whole meter! It’s really happening!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 11</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Déconfinement!!!</i> Lockdown is over! I mean sort of! And it’s … strangely anticlimactic. Huh. No matter, CHAMPAGNE!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 12</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back to school</span>—oh, but not for us.<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Our children are not <i>“prioritaires”</i> because we are not health care professionals and can therefore </span>(obviously) play the role of full-time teachers<span style="font-family: inherit;"> forever, even without possessing any semblance of qualification nor being the least bit interested in the educational field! Just ask the mayor! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 13</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Both my turnover and my morale have taken a hit, but I am feeling defiant. Seriously, go jump in a lake of fire, <i>The Economist,</i> and take your <a href="https://www.economist.com/leaders/2020/04/30/life-after-lockdowns" target="_blank">bleak-ass economic forecast</a> with you. Your articles are self-reverential and overly long, your titles aren’t half as witty as you clearly think they are, and your artificial lack of bias is a bias <i>in and of itself,</i> so there! YOUR MOTHER WAS A HAMSTER AND YOUR FATHER SMELT OF ELDERBERRIES! <i>*punches a hole in the wall*</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 14</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe time really is just an illusion. Maybe <i>life</i> is just an illusion. <i>Maybe I am just an illusion.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 15</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Who are we, anyway?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 16</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Wait, I know this one—all we are is dust in the wind, dude. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>May 17</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe I’ll wake up and it’ll be mid-February when I was on a ski vacation and … THAT’S IT! I’m in a coma! I had a ski accident and I’m in a coma and none of this is real. <i>Phew! </i>Binge-watching <i>Sherlock</i> on Netflix is really paying off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>THE END.</b></span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-14708187534049731442020-04-24T15:04:00.000+02:002020-04-25T01:26:03.283+02:00Gone viral: part IV<div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Congratulations</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "eb garamond"; font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">—</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">you</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">ve made it to part IV of my lockdown diaries. Parts I, II, and III are </span>available <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, respectively. Thanks so much for your support, comments, shares, and likes. We will make it through this together! Maybe!</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 15</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-ii.html" target="_blank">previously mentioned</a>, I have developed a rather unhealthy relationship with my vacuum cleaner; i.e. it has become the channel by which I rid myself of my (considerable) pent-up frustrations. But as I have discovered, one can only hate-clean so often before one’s thumb begins to develop tendinitis from activating the button of one’s turbo brush. So I decide to move on to the garden. Lots of possibilities there. I start with our leafless, flowerless Clematis, which seems to have gone dormant. I have <i>had it</i> with putting every last thing on hold and I REFUSE to wait for next spring to see if this lazy plant comes back to life. I am not the captain of much these days, but by God, I am the captain of this. Out comes the trowel. Goodbye, Clematis. May your successor flower abundantly OR ELSE.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 16</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I need soil. Like normal potting soil. The kind that one can procure whenever one wishes when one is not locked inside one’s home indefinitely. I also need mulch, preferably of the coastal pine variety. I turn to my most loyal lockdown ally: the internet. But alas! After toilet paper, then flour, now it appears <i>soil</i> is all the rage. I lose about two hours hunting for it on many, many websites, each with its own lame excuse. One is delivery-only, except for what I want. One offers in-store pick-up, but not at any store within a 50-km radius of our home. One is under maintenance. One offers pick-up near us, but doesn’t know its own inventory. One knows its inventory <i>and</i> offers pick-up near us, but doesn’t have any openings available. <i>AARRRRRRGGGH!</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I would turn to trusty ol’ Amazon, except Amazon France is under attack by the French government for catering to needs other than “essential” ones (which during lockdown is illegal, except when it’s not). Someone needs to explain to me how it is possible that things like WOOD and DIRT, which are the VERY STUFF OF LIFE, are somehow <i>not</i> essential enough to be sold on Amazon. What’s next, water? Sunlight? TOILET PAPER? And that’s without taking into consideration how bloody essential it is to my wellbeing that I find something <i>other</i> than compulsive vacuuming to release my anger. Is hate-gardening a thing? Shall I try to make it one? OH WAIT, I CAN’T BECAUSE NO ONE WILL SELL ME ANY #@*$% DIRT.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 17</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Speaking of being out of stuff, the subject of masks is becoming quite <i>préoccupant</i>. Like, how come we don’t have any? My parents in California and my brother in NYC have been sporting masks for weeks, while France remains maddeningly ambivalent. First we were told that masks were only for medical professionals. Then we were told that masks could be worn by the public, but only the sick public. Then we were told that masks should in fact be worn by everyone, but that only medical grade ones were effective. Then we were told that ALL masks had merit, but that there weren’t enough for everybody. Now we’re being told that masks will be an <i>obligatory</i> part of post-lockdown French society, and that handmade ones are better than nothing, but there are no details on how, when, or where we can get our hands on any. Overall, I am left with the impression that nobody knows anything about anything</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">, and a distinct desire to engage in a vigorous round of vacuuming.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 18</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today I am suspending all sense of reality and am doing my bi-annual wardrobe transition. Out with autumn/winter and in with spring/summer! Hooray! I have too many clothes. Some are over five years old and still have their tags on them. Some went out of fashion so long ago that they’re back in fashion now. I should do the “sparking joy” thing and triage the hell out of this closet to decide what gets saved and what does not. But with everything closed, where would I put all the insufficiently joy-procuring items? Guess I’d better wait. My daughter is almost four and is already about half my height, so hey if I wait long enough, maybe I can just give it all to her!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 19</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We are out of coffee. My husband informs me darkly that coffee is probably going to be next on the “aggravating nation-wide shortages” list. Considering that my mental and emotional stability at this point is 100% dependent upon wine, coffee, and the grace of God, any of these things being added to “the list” is out of the question. DO NOT PANIC. I may have to suck it up and hit the supermarket in town, dressed in a garbage bag, dishwashing gloves, and my son’s diving mask. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 20</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Spring vacation is officially over, but all the schools are still closed, and that means returning to my state-enforced alternate profession of 1st grade/preschool teacher. President Macron recently stated that schools would be reopening on May 11, but in light of the widespread skepticism that greeted this optimistic announcement, the government is now back-pedaling and retroactively asterisking like mad and my hopes of a return to normalcy in the semi-near future have pretty much evaporated. I’m getting used to disappointment, however, and am handling this one admirably. <i>*sob*</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 21</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For those of you not in the know, Andrew Lloyd Webber has been offering free 48h broadcasts of his greatest hits, with a new one available each weekend, on the YouTube channel </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCdmPjhKMaXNNeCr1FjuMvag" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">The Shows Must Go On!</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I watched The Phantom of the Opera with the kids last weekend, and have been humming most of the score non-stop ever since. Incidentally, teenage me was a Phantom FREAK; I once travelled from San Diego to Los Angeles with my piano teacher and her friend in the middle of the night in order to camp out in front of the Ahmanson Theatre in the desperate hope of catching Michael Crawford as the Phantom prior to his imminent retirement. We made it in on cancellation tickets for three seats in row H, dead center (i.e. right underneath THE chandelier), literally five minutes before the performance began and</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> yes—the experience absolutely blew my mind. It’s ironic that the Phantom would be streaming </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">now,</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> because if there’s one dude who would never </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">ever</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> have allowed a nation-wide mask shortage, it’s him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 22</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">What day is it? What year is it? What does anything even <i>mean?</i> I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. But even my astral body does not have a mask because THERE AREN</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">T ANY.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 23</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The talking heads on TV all seem to agree that not much is going to change in May, and think we shouldn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t get too excited. Cross-regional travel is likely to be banned until at least June. We are advised to lower our expectations regarding summer vacation. Still no masks in sight. Also no printer paper, maybe because my kids</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"> teachers keep asking us to print roughly a gazillion pages of classwork every week.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 24</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Things we’re out of: flour, yeast, dirt, wood, paper, masks, patience, and potentially our minds.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">BUT HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">To be continued...</span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-90681157002803499312020-04-14T19:02:00.001+02:002020-04-14T20:34:02.914+02:00Gone viral: part III<div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Welcome to part III of my lockdown diaries. If you have a little oh, I don</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t know, FREE TIME on your hands, part II is available </span><a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/04/gone-viral-part-ii.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> and part I is available </span><a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">here</a><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 6</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Amazon delivers a box. This is the highlight of my day—a box! With stuff in it! Stuff for me! Actually, it’s stuff to occupy my kids, but no matter; I bought it, so it’s sort of for me. Deliveries these days are bizarre. When UPS came with our new printer last week, the delivery dude basically threw the box at me and ran off before I could contaminate him or whatever he was so worried about. <i>*cough*</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 7</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In an abundance of completely misguided wisdom, the government decides that there are entirely too many people strolling about during the one hour of exercise we are allowed outside of our homes per day. So they limit exercise to before 10 a.m. or after 7 p.m., which as any common idiot can imagine is ABSOLUTELY going to worsen the problem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 8</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I go running at 7:01 p.m., along with what feels like half the town. WTF was the government thinking? I do my best to steer clear of everyone, even leaving the trail and running in the middle of the road (“Thanks for the asphalt,” say my knees and ankles). An older woman leaning on a walker glares at me, as though I were the Grim Reaper in the flesh, despite my respecting about 2x the recommended social distance AND holding my breath. <i>Sigh.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 10</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh look! Our local authorities have noticed that the whole 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. restriction thing was an epic failure. But have they recanted? Not a chance! Instead they have doubled down, and now my entire neighborhood is encircled in barricade tape to keep folks off the most popular running paths, i.e. the ones that aren’t full of roots, leaves, and rocks. Speaking of barricades, I kind of feel like <a href="https://www.louvre.fr/en/oeuvre-notices/july-28-liberty-leading-people" target="_blank">climbing one</a>. Where</span>’d I put<span style="font-family: inherit;"> my French flag?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 12</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Christos Anesti! I slip outside early in the morning and hide the 48 plastic eggs that I ordered online last month and spent 30 minutes filling with chocolates before going to bed a few hours ago. I sit in the garden and enjoy the silence. Having an apartment with a garden is an absolute lifesaver and I am incredibly grateful to be able to do this. The kids soon wake up and have a fantastic time racing about collecting the eggs. This feels like a solid win.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Easter Covid-style turns out quite nicely, actually. I tell the children that I am going to church, which these days means disappearing into my bedroom with my laptop and the online worship service of the <a href="https://www.acparis.org/" target="_blank">American Church in Paris</a>, virtual communion included. It’s alternative, but kind of fun! I like the fact that I can hit “pause” to go to the ladies’ room instead of slinking out of the sanctuary through the back door like I would if I were at a physical church.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Later, we go out for our daily stroll, which lo and behold takes us to the very neighborhood where I have an invitation to a “through the fence” wine tasting. We meet a very nice wine merchant, who lets us into his front yard where he introduces us to his wife and two children, who seem elated to meet our two children and the four of them R-U-N-N-O-F-T together immediately, which makes me realize how lonely my kids probably are, and I’m about to start feeling guilty but I can’t because there is a glass of chilled rosé being handed to me and before I know it the four of us are laughing and telling stories and GOOD LORD IT IS SO NICE TO JUST TALK TO ACTUAL PEOPLE! Like not on FaceTime or Zoom or whatever. Actual people. We buy six bottles and I stop just shy of asking them if we can be friends IRL. Come to think of it, I still might.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">We head home, where I make a fairly elaborate Easter dinner, complete with hard boiled eggs sculpted into <a href="https://www.cuisineaz.com/recettes/oeufs-durs-special-paques-79057.aspx?navdiapo=88-3" target="_blank">little chickens</a> and again, I feel pretty proud of myself. My son says, “Mom, this is the best Easter I’ve ever had.” Remembering this simple affirmation is the primary reason for my writing this entire post. Our Easter is full of hope indeed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>April 13</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Macron addresses the nation wearing his furrowed, “empathetic” look. No wonder he’s trying to look empathetic—he announces FOUR MORE WEEKS of lockdown. I’m about to go look for anything I can make into a noose when he adds that after these next four weeks, schools will reopen. WADHESAY? So help me, there IS a light at the end of this long-ass tunnel. And that light is called “<a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2019/09/we-dont-need-no-education.html" target="_blank">public school</a>.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This really <i>won’t</i> last forever. Imagine that.</span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-91530506214018569482020-04-06T12:00:00.002+02:002020-04-06T18:38:39.431+02:00Gone viral: part II<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Welcome to part II of my lockdown diaries. Part I is available <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2020/03/gone-viral.html" target="_blank">here</a>. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">To set the tone, let us conjugate the expression </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">être confiné </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(to be on lockdown):</span></span><br />
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<i style="font-family: inherit;">Je suis confiné(e) </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">I am on lockdown </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Tu es confiné(e) </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">You are</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> on lockdown</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Il/Elle est confiné(e) </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He/She is on lockdown</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Nous sommes confiné(e)s </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> on lockdown</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Vous êtes confiné(e)s </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">You are on lockdown</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: inherit;">Ils/Elles sont confiné(e)s </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">:</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">They are on lockdown</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "inherit";">AND IT MAY LAST </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">FOREVERRRRRRR.</i></span><br />
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">March 30</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">With the entire country being ordered to #RestezChezVous, work has been a tad <i>slooow</i> for the past few weeks. But that does not stop me from ordering 250 euros</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"> worth of clothing from stores that are naturally closed due to the epidemic and won’t be able to deliver a damn thing until June. My husband, who loves statistics, <i>really</i> loves the one about how men still do most of the earning while women still do most of the spending, but what he doesn’t realize is that in my world, e-shopping is a highly effective form of self-medication with calming powers akin to those of Hatha yoga or, say, hiding in the garage with a shot glass and a bottle of triple sec. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buying stuff</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> has always done great good to my nerves, and this is ESPECIALLY true when they ha</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ve been frayed into oblivion by these very loud, very needy little creatures we live with who, the way things are going, may <i>never go back to school again, ever</i></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">March 31</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the very first cultural lessons I was taught about the French, even before I first arrived in Paris </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">waaaay</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> back in </span><a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">1999,</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> was that direct eye contact with total strangers is a big no-no. Smiling </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">while</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> engaging in wanton eye contact is even worse. Far too forward. Far too direct. Far too </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">intimate.</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> But over time this has, at least in my experience, relaxed somewhat. A smile and a </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">bonjour,</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> when directed at the right passer-by, may be returned—without the recipient taking you for a wacko, a nympho, or a tourist. And as lockdown drags on, I find myself searching the face of everyone with whom I cross paths, hoping to find a kindred sparkle in their eye and perhaps even a little smile of solidarity. Alas, people are so freaked out by the risk of </span>contagion<span style="font-family: inherit;"> that not only do they avoid eye contact at all costs, but they CROSS THE STREET when I come within 10 meters of them. I know it isn’t personal, but it still feels undeservedly cruel.</span><br />
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<b style="font-family: inherit;">April 1</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m out on another mind-clearing run, feeling more unnerved than ever by the deserted park avenues and grassy esplanades that in a parallel universe would have been brimming with families, teenagers playing soccer, and sweet elderly couples out for an evening stroll. But the voices and laughter are gone now, and in their place is an eerie silence that hangs heavy in the air, making it somehow harder to breathe. I think of an article a friend of mine recently posted on Facebook entitled <a href="https://hbr.org/2020/03/that-discomfort-youre-feeling-is-grief?fbclid=IwAR3YjYGCaGH3PDGNdVlbZToXJCoxG3pkNDvAsdo6rgxuRUCngnRtSuDZMRM" target="_blank">“That Discomfort You’re Feeling is Grief,”</a> and before I can stop myself, tears are sliding down my cheeks</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I want to sit down and weep. Weep for this town, for this country, for this world. To surrender just for a moment to the fear I feel for my brother, working on the front lines of this horror show in the emergency room of a New York City hospital, or for my siblings-in-law who are both physicians just south of Paris, or for my parents and so many other people I love who are “over 65” and live halfway around the world. For ourselves, too, and the uncertainty that has replaced the familiar and the safe. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I can’t allow myself to fall apart; not now, not ever. So instead I run faster, wondering how many people are </span><a href="https://johnpavlovitz.com/2013/09/17/fragile-people-handle-with-care-my-week-as-a-grief-zombie/" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank">hanging by a thread,</a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> doing their best to smile when what they really want to do is scream.</span><br />
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<b>April 2</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s Thursday. Thursday is D-Day for food shopping. We’ve been told again and again to avoid the grocery store, but we gotta eat, especially with all four of us here all day, every day. So online shopping it is—along with the entire Paris region, </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">bien sûr</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">. Result: in addition to the physical lines on the streets, </span>there<span style="font-family: inherit;"> are now virtual lines </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">just to access</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> the largest online grocery stores. Plus, no sooner do you manage to enter these websites than you realize with dismay that the earliest you can be delivered (if you can be delivered at all) is in 10 days. Hmm. Pigeons are edible; shall we pursue that?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Never being one to give up, I ultimately find a trick that works: go to chronodrive.fr, open a browser window, and </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">leave it open</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i> for 48 hours,</i> at which point some algorithm or other must take pity on you because around 3:30 p.m., a magical free spot appears for pick-up the following day. Dude, I’ll take it. Actually, virtual grocery shopping in itself is kind of fun. What is not</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> fun is when you choose a time slot, only to be informed that half your cart is now out of stock. Each week has its own “out of stock” theme. After the Great Toilet Paper Famine of mid-March, now the country is out of flour. No flour anywhere. Not in the stores. Not on the internet. Nowhere. No yeast, either. What in God’s name are people <i>doing?</i> Trying to bake themselves a time machine? IT WON’T WORK.</span><br />
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<b>April 3</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">My son’s teacher sends a group email wishing us all good luck for the upcoming holidays. What? Oh <i>riiiiight,</i> tomorrow is the start of spring vacation! Two weeks of <strike>enjoying </strike><span style="text-decoration: line-through;">an all-inclusive resort in Majorca</span> hanging out right here in the living room. She adds that she’s planning to put together a children’s Coronavirus recipe book filled with the delicious cakes and whatnot that her little students have surely been concocting with their newly-unemployed parents during lockdown. Two thoughts come immediately to my mind: 1. As a communication professional, believe me when I say that “The Children’s Coronavirus Cookbook” is not a well-thought-out title. 2. </span>“The Flour-Free, Yeast-Free Children’s Coronavirus Cookbook” is infinitely worse.<br />
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<b>April 4</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Since the only thing I seem to have any control over these days is the cleanliness of our home, I have taken to somewhat obsessive-compulsive vacuuming. In a moment of stupendous foresight, we invested in a handheld Dyson a few months back and it has since become, perhaps not my <i>best</i> friend</span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">that title is reserved for the corkscrew</span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">but at the very least my <i>close</i> friend. However, today I am temporarily out of things to clean, so I decide to tidy up my travel laptop, which my husband says is woefully low on available disk space. I can’t even install the latest upgrade, Windows 10 version “1903” (because nothing makes sense anymore</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">).</span><br />
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<b>April 5</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seeking to free up my hard drive, I delete a bunch of stuff. I get a little overzealous and end up uninstalling Microsoft Office 2010, which is surprisingly easy to do, actually. Only now I can’t reinstall it because the license belongs to my husband’s former boss. All the little blue and white Word document file icons on my desktop transform into “blank page” icons.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I AM AN IDIOT.</span><br />
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<b>April 6</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I find Office 2016 selling for €20 on Amazon. Sounds shady, but the reviews look legit. I download it, install it, and it works. The little blank pages become comforting “W” icons once more.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I AM A GENIUS.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>To be continued!</b></span><br />
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-29722566699731988522020-03-31T15:32:00.002+02:002020-04-04T13:39:57.315+02:00Gone viral: part I<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I’ll probably never cough again without thinking about this period in time, when Covid-19 brought normal life to a grinding halt and we were all ordered to #StayAtHome until further notice. France has been under lockdown since mid-March, with all comings and goings requiring paperwork, ID, and a properly-founded explanation. School is out. Everything’s closed. Work is<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>forcément</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>from home (SEE? <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2017/09/the-plight-of-working-sahm.html" target="_blank">NOT SO EASY, IS IT?</a>). This new social experiment, which consists in forcing families to spend roughly every second of every minute of every hour of every day together, has me vacillating between “I think this obligatory bonding time is doing us some real good!” and “So <i>this</i> is what a mental breakdown actually feels like.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Here are a few anecdotes from the past few weeks. A growing number of you may relate:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="font-family: inherit;">March 12</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">President Macron addresses the nation and for once, we as a family gather around the television to listen together. I know what’s coming. I know he’s going to say it. And then he does: out of an abundance of caution, all schools nation-wide will close Monday morning and remain so until further notice. “Well,” I say to myself, “it’ll be like any other school holiday. I’ll lose 50% of my work productivity, but it’ll be OK.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 16</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">It’s Monday morning </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">and my inbox is crammed with messages. My three-year-old daughter has a long list of projects to make and online resources to discover. My six-year-old son has a 10-page chart of lessons to learn, exercises to complete, links to visit, experiments to conduct, songs to learn, and poetry to memorize. The kids’ English school has also sent me the week’s curriculum for both classes. My husband has redirected all his calls to our home and has been Skyping with his boss for the past two hours. I start to wonder how viable any of this is.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 17</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Time to give this home schooling thing a whirl. I gather the mountain of paperwork and supplies we need, and the kids and I sit cross-legged in a pool of sunlight on the floor of my son’s room. I explain to each child what his and her respective activity is, and they go to it. My daughter intently sticks her little magnetic numbers onto the black board I am suddenly so glad we bought years ago, while my son unconsciously bites his upper lip as he focuses on his math exercises. I look at them working away and for a split-second think, “God, maybe I <i>can</i> do this.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The rest of the week is not quite so easy, though. I realize after much trial and error that the children both need my undivided attention while doing their school work because otherwise they get frustrated, or space out, or squabble, or decide they’re too tired despite having slept for 12 hours straight. So the problem then becomes how to occupy child A while teaching child B. Both of them would happily spend every free second</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> glued to a screen of any size or shape, but we can’t do that, now, can we? Wait … can we? Do rules still exist?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 21</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The first lockdown weekend arrives and it feels almost normal. We engage in our usual traditions of jogging, which is still allowed, and grocery shopping, which is also still allowed. Granted, grocery shopping in an actual physical store has morphed into an extreme sport in which one races about with a radioactive shopping cart, literally risking life and limb for things as trivial as pasta and toilet paper. So I do what any sane person would: I send my husband out to sacrifice himself for the family. He returns a few hours later, triumphant, and I ask how the store vibes were. “Post-Apocalyptic,” he says.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 23</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">We survive the weekend and begin a new week. After nine solid days together, everyone is feeling a little cabin feverish—in addition to feeling <i>actually</i> feverish: my son is running a temperature, I have a nagging dry cough, and my daughter has a runny nose. How we managed to get sick while stuck at home all day is a mystery, but none of our symptoms seems especially serious and in my case nothing a glass of wine (or four) won’t fix. My husband informs me that several recent studies are reporting a jump in alcohol consumption since the start of lockdown. Funny he should mention it, since I was about to suggest we move cocktail hour up to 3 p.m.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>March 24</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back when life was normal, I used to enjoy jogging for purely physical reasons. But lately, I have come to depend on it not just for physical health but for mental health as it</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">s literally the only moment of the entire day wherein I am alone. I have always been a loner. And by “loner” I mean someone who <i>needs</i> time alone each day just in order to remain sane. That is a highly Cancerian trait, by the way: rapid social exhaustion</span>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">I still think I would have made a fantastic hermit. But thanks to our pal Corona, the only way I can find any quiet time these days is by locking myself in the bathroom or by going for a jog. Unfortunately, Corona has also managed to complicate <i>that,</i> since jogging</span>—<i style="font-family: inherit;">jogging!</i>—<span style="font-family: inherit;">is </span>suddenly<span style="font-family: inherit;"> the object of controversy. I’ll sum it up in a conversation that is only somewhat fictional:</span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Non-jogger: you </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">joggers</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> are selfish jerks, spreading your germs without a care in the world. I bet you just learned to jog </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">this week</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> anyway, because it gives you an <i>excuse</i> to go outside and INFECT EVERYBODY WITH YOUR BREATHING AND YOUR SWEAT DROPS AND YOUR GROSS, GROSS SHOES.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jogger: but you’re cool with my going grocery shopping while breathing and wearing shoes IN ADDITION to touching products AND exposing myself to other people’s germs?</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Non-jogger: you’re still a selfish jerk.</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Jogger: and <i>you</i> are being </span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-decoration: line-through;">a judgmental asshat</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> more Catholic than the Pope! Jogging is not only legal but also the only thing standing between me and outright insanity so BACK OFF.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 25</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I realize something: my children’s behavior is actually <i>better</i> than it has been in a long time. Usually, Wednesdays fall somewhere between “crappy” and “horrendous,” but this Wednesday everyone is in good spirits and I wrangle the kids into bed without anybody shouting, swearing, or sobbing, which is a straight-up miracle. I give my son a last squeeze before turning out the light and he asks quietly, “Mom, why was my friend</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">s birthday party cancelled?” “Because everything’s been cancelled, sweetie,” I answer. “Remember all the stuff we used to do, and how we never really stopped to think about how cool it was that we could do it?” “You</span></span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">re right, Mom,</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> he says. </span>“<span style="font-family: inherit;">We should have been more grateful.” </span><br />
<i style="font-family: inherit;">See? Something new is happening here.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 26</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I receive a fresh mountain of homework to print out for the kids. This proves to be the final blow to our printer, which gives up the ghost once and for all and decides to turn itself off for good. I have always disliked this printer. It and I have never seen eye to eye, and this latest betrayal in the midst of WAR is just typical. Well never mind. I will order a new, far superior one, and WE’LL SEE WHO’S LAUGHING THEN!!!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 27</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The French government announces that lockdown will be extended through mid-April. Welp, there goes Easter with the grandparents in the South of France. This will be the first time that we spend Easter here at home, which means the egg hunt now falls squarely in my lap. Maybe that’s a good thing. Time to do it American-style. I race to Amazon, which thankfully is still up and running, and order 48 plastic eggs and two baskets. This will be fun. Plus, I WON’T HAVE TO EAT GREAT GRANDMA’S LAMB! So help me, I hate the very idea of eating lamb. It’s barbaric. You know it is. I don’t understand the tradition, especially from a Christian perspective. “Christ is the lamb of God, so we should go massacre an actual lamb and serve it with flageolets”? Seems arbitrary. And mean. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 28</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Our washing machine starts to make strange noises. I wonder what exactly the protocol is when one’s appliance breaks down in the middle of a national quarantine and very quickly decide that that’s one thing I really don’t want to learn more about. I add “washing machine” to my prayer list.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>March 29</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">I’ve been having strange dreams that leave me even more disoriented upon awakening than I usually am. In the pre-Corona days, my first thought used to be <i>how can my alarm be ringing already?</i> But that has been replaced by <i>where the hell am I and what</i></span></span><i>’</i><i style="font-family: inherit;">s my name again? </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Anyway, my latest dream is an old favorite, right up there with missing a flight or falling into a bottomless pit: I’m in some kind of major trouble or am trying to warn somebody about something terrible, except that when I try to scream I realize I’ve lost my voice. I try again, and nothing comes out but a whisper. I try again, and usually at that point I’m so truly distressed that I <i>do</i> scream and thus wake myself up. According to Google, the bottom line in such dreams is a </span>“<span style="font-family: inherit;">loss of control.</span>”<span style="font-family: inherit;"> GOSH I DON’T SEE WHERE MY SUBCONSCIOUS GETS THAT IDEA FROM.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><br /></b></span></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>To be continued!</b></span></span><br />
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-73840168744820081132019-11-12T22:15:00.001+01:002020-03-30T18:26:05.741+02:00And a little child shall lead them<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify;">One of the things that I love the most about living in France is its proximity to other countries, which makes international travel a breeze. Thus, we do a lot of it. Our latest trip took us to Bavaria, a very reasonable 6-hour drive from Paris. </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify;">Le Mot Juste </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt; text-align: justify;">is not an adventure blog, so I won’t delve into the delights of the region (which are many). Instead, I’d like to focus on one particular aspect of travel that has been part of our experience since 2013 and will continue to be part of our experience until we lose our minds and give up altogether: travelling with small children.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Now, I will admit that I once used to be somewhat child-intolerant, but a) that was pretty much limited to screaming babies on public transportation, and even then they had to REALLY be screamy, and b) as the French say,</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">il n’y a que les cons qui ne changent pas d’avis </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">(</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">only idiots never change their minds). I am not an idiot, generally speaking; therefore, I am not averse to changing my mind. With regard to children, I have definitely changed—for now I am on the other side of the aisle, as it were, and find myself frequently confronted with varying degrees of child intolerance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">But this most recent trip took it to a whole other level.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">I was not prepared for the amount of blatant anti-child nastiness we encountered on our journey. Blank stares, outright glaring, impromptu lecturing, knocking on our hotel room door to tell us to pipe down…. At one point, we had just arrived in a crowded restaurant whose decibel level was off the charts, and yet we STILL managed to piss off a couple seated at a table next to ours, simply by our encroachment on “their” sphere of existence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Are we unnaturally obnoxious? We make more noise than a couple, that’s for sure. But we are not insane, shrieking, out-of-control freaks, either. We’re what one might call a “family,” with these things called “children,” which, contrary to what many folks apparently believe, are</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">not </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">in fact miniature adults whose primary goal in life is to conform to other people’s unrealistic expectations. They make noise, and cannot understand why everyone keeps telling them to shut up—or better yet, go away—in a more or less aggressive fashion.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">My little girl, who is three, was</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">“shhh’d” </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">at with irritation in a church in Munich, simply because she was running. Not racing around screeching and knocking statues over, mind you. Just pitter-pattering her little feet as three-year-olds are wont to do. You know, because she was feeling joyful. Did Jesus not say, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these”? I should have said as much to the</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">shhh</i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">-er, except my German is limited to</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">dankeschön</i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">—and this was not a</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">dankeschön </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">kind of moment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">But lest anyone think that I am singling out Germans, don’t worry; our ability to aggravate is truly without borders.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">We have been scolded and scoffed at on the TGV in France on many occasions, simply because our kids were existing too loudly in the library-like silence of the “family” coach.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">We travelled to Scotland two summers ago and were dismayed at the number of cozy, welcoming-looking bed and breakfasts that formally refused families.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Italy is the exception that proves the rule: our kids are treated to a chorus of</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> <i>C</i></span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">he bello! Che b</i><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px;"><i>ella</i></span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">! </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">at every corner and so UNUSED are we to warm smiles and spontaneous displays of affection from perfect strangers that it often takes us a few days to acclimate. Do Italians have bigger hearts than everyone else? I think they just might!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Contrast that attitude with all the “anti-stroller” restaurants (I’m looking at you, NYC), kid-free zones on trains, and the very real demand for childless flights. Never mind how demonstrably loud modern living is; apparently the sound of a disgruntled baby is so disturbing to some that they would happily pay a premium, just to shield their delicate senses from the nuisance.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">What does it say about our civilization as a whole that we are ready to go to such lengths to exclude entire swaths of it, simply because we find something about “them” insufferable? If we had any sense left in us, we would recognize and cherish the very old and the very young for what they are—our greatest treasure and our greatest hope. Instead, we have turned them into pariahs. The elderly, the sick, the weak: we don’t want to see them. The young, the high-spirited, the willful: we might </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"></i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">be okay with seeing them, but we sure as hell don’t want to</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">hear </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">them. We’d rather embrace the insanity of imagining that it was never and will never be our turn—that “they” are nothing like “us.”</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">How many so-called </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">woke </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">people who pride themselves on their open-mindedness and inclusive attitude toward other cultures, ethnicities, and religions see no hypocrisy what-so-ever in turning up their noses at children? Today, being blatantly intolerant is uncool—unless your intolerance is directed at a child, that is. Then it’s justifiable, for how dare that child not comply with</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">your </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">idea of what she should be?</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">You do realize that hating someone because he has ancestry that you don’t like is EVERY BIT AS LUDICROUS as hating someone because she’s a child acting how normal children act, right? Saying “I don’t like children” is NO BETTER than saying “I don’t like short people” or “I don’t like foreigners” or “I don’t like redheads.” All of it is intolerance, and all of it is unacceptable.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">How does this even need to be said? And yet clearly it does.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Meanwhile, look around you the next time you’re out. How many couples and even entire families sit together in absolute silence, eyes glued to their telephone screens? The art of human interaction is rapidly fading away; we appear to be more at ease with Siri than we are with one another. And yet we find that normal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">We invite dogs into our restaurants and no one bats an eye. Quite the contrary!</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Oh, how sweet. Can I pet him? </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">But a child—or worse, a baby? Immediate wariness. Nine times out of ten, when my husband and I enter any restaurant other than a fast food joint with our kids and are shuffling around getting ourselves situated, there are multiple pairs of eyes staring disapprovingly at us. I swear I can</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">feel </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">the judgement like hot coals on my skin.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">C’est in-sup-por-ta-ble.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">How bad is it for you really, childless person? Is someone else’s kid (mine, for example) doing a tap dance in the middle of your dinner plate? Knocking over your cocktail? Setting your hair on fire? Probably not. His PARENTS, on the other hand, are undoubtedly exhausted in every sense of the term. Why? Because nothing—NOTHING—is harder than parenting. It is, to quote Jerry Maguire, “an up-at-dawn, pride-swallowing siege that I will NEVER fully tell you about.”</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">On behalf of all parents, try to have some empathy. We are fully aware of the disturbance that our kid(s) can cause, and are trying our best to keep things as calm as possible. We do not need your dark looks, your audible sighs, your eye-rolling, or any of your other insensitive, self-superior, and frankly</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">childish </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">theatrics. You don’t like kids? By all means feel free not to have any. But leave your reverse ageism at home. Better yet, stay at home yourself: it is guaranteed to be quiet and totally free of those small creatures you seem to loathe so much—who, incidentally, also represent the survival of your own foolhardy species</span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">.</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">I was on a plane not that long ago from New York to Paris. A baby cried intermittently throughout the 7-hour flight. It wasn’t</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">fun </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">for anybody—but do you know who it really wasn’t fun for? The mother. She spent the entire time rocking her clearly suffering child, singing to him, and trying to soothe him as best she could while</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">also </i><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">caring for his sibling seated next to her. When the plane finally began to descend toward the runway, and the ill child’s whimpering intensified, one woman seated two rows up distinctly said, without a shred of irony, “Decapitate him.”</span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Decapitate him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">That’s where we are today. And we should be absolutely ASHAMED to have let our “enlightened” values sink so low as to justify pointing our finger at a beleaguered single mother and her sick baby instead of pulling our heads out of our own cold, disdainful asses and going over to ask her what we can do to be helpful.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Naturally, no one took the mother’s defense. So I did. And my husband did. And together we told that passenger and her bloated ego to STFU or go buy herself a spot in first class instead of on a low-cost red-eye that only the heavily drugged would ever have managed to sleep through in the first place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">Tell me this: is it the child whose behavior is truly destructive? Or is it yours, the so-called adult who refuses to accept the nature of children and would rather condemn them for somehow offending your over-privileged sense of decorum?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">As we head into the Christmas season, a season that still smiles fondly on children, let us remember why we celebrate it in the first place: because God so loved the world that He took the form of <i>a tiny child</i> in order to save us from ourselves.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;">But we’d rather smirk at such a notion and write it off as myth, all the better to justify our refusal to love one another in return, whether adult or child—even when deep down, we know better.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span>Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-5428973807676738962019-09-18T20:11:00.003+02:002019-09-19T00:02:21.489+02:00We don’t need no education<div style="text-align: justify;">
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Ah, September. Its sweet blend of nostalgia and anxiety, guilt and deliverance, foreboding and euphoria … no other time of the year can quite compare.</div>
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Personally, I love September. Not only is it the one month of the entire year in which I am neither too hot nor too cold, but it carries with it a sense of infinite possibility akin to that of the New Year, only without the bleakness, darkness, and freezing rain of January. Also, Paris in the autumn is one of my great joys, perhaps because it was autumn when I first arrived here <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" target="_blank">many moons ago</a>.</div>
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As a mother, my fondness for September has been exponentially amplified, for it also heralds the end of summer’s reign of terror and the restoration of civilized routine. In France, this time of the year is known as<i> la rentrée,</i> when the vacationing season winds down and French adults return to their jobs, tanned and rejuvenated, while French children return to school, where they resume being psychologically pummeled into obedience by the national education system.</div>
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Mandatory schooling in this well-educated country begins at age three with<i> <i>m</i>aternelle,</i> which is roughly the equivalent of the preschool, pre-K, and kindergarten years. <i>Maternelle</i> takes place on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays from 8:30 am to 4:30 pm. That’s a long day (says my mom), yet somehow not long enough (says every parent I know).</div>
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When our son <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2017/09/the-plight-of-working-sahm.html" target="_blank">began <i><i>m</i>aternelle</i></a>,<i> </i>I was an emotional wreck. On his first day, we trotted him off to class wearing his little orange penguin backpack, and I proceeded to spend the entire week crying harder than our two-month-old daughter. However, by the time it was said daughter’s turn to enter school three years later, believe you me I did not spend more than 10 minutes wiping my eyes—a substantial improvement. I have come to embrace, nay, ADORE French school.</div>
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I mean look, over the course of <i>maternelle</i> alone, our son has learned more than I think I knew when I was twice his age: The kid can count past 100 in two languages, write the alphabet in print and in cursive, read short words, and do basic mathematics. He knows about the solar system, the life cycle of trees, the music of Mozart, and the art of M.C. Escher. He’s been on field trips to several châteaux, the zoo, and multiple artsy movies. He’s even learned how to swim. <i>At school.</i> Oh, and table manners! He’s learned how to hold his silverware, how to eat multi-course meals properly, and how to get along with his peers—sort of.
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School is fabulous.
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Now, it’s not <i>all</i> a bed of roses. <a href="https://www.mot-juste.com/2017/09/the-plight-of-working-sahm.html" target="_blank">Certain teachers</a> can be quite strict with the rules, which does not necessarily mesh well with the whole positive parenting philosophy. However, for children who tend to be among the more obedience-challenged <i>(<i>eh-hem)</i></i>, it’s a damn panacea. In fact, the school system is one of the keys to that oft-noted good behavior demonstrated by French kids that Americans find so fascinating: Right about the time when a child is reaching his maximum exasperation-inducing capacity, i.e., age three, in swoops public school to iron that right out. It has been relatively successful in our home; I figure his American heredity is what’s keeping our son a tad naughty, but then maybe that’s part of his charm? I guess?
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Also, potty training—yikes. If your child is not <i>propre</i> (literally “clean”) then he is not allowed at school. The end. This is a major stress factor for parents desperately awaiting their child’s turn to be <strike>tamed</strike> educated. Try as we might, our little guy was not quite ready on time; when we picked him up at the end of that first day, he had a tell-tale plastic bag tied to his backpack. Its contents were wet clothing that reeked to high heaven: “WTF IS THIS?” I believe were my exact words. I suspect the unspoken goal of the exercise is to shame the child into obedience, or rather, shame the child’s parents into stepping up their potty training game. In any case, it may be cruel and unusual, but it worked—he was 95% potty trained by the end of the week, as were his other reluctant classmates.
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This year, we are discovering the next step in the French educational adventure, which is to say first grade. In first grade, they mean business. This was immediately evident to us on our son’s last day of kindergarten, when we received a page-long list of supplies to be provided on Day One of the following year, along with a note specifying that every last item, right down to each individual crayon, would need to be labelled. It took me roughly three hours to create, print, cut out, and label everything—and an additional hour to Scotch tape it all when my lovingly-made labels began to peel off.
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Then there’s the backpack. For years, I had noticed French children dragging theirs along the ground on little wheels, suitcase-style, and kicking up an insane amount of dust in the process. <i>What is the point of that?</i> I often wondered. Now I know. Normal-sized children’s backpacks simply cannot contain all the crap that French schoolchildren are expected to haul around with them. So we had to go out and buy our son a backpack twice his size, just like everybody else. At least he can wear the thing—I draw the line at wheels. I mean come on, the kid is in FIRST GRADE. What happens when he reaches middle school? I see trunkfuls of office supplies in our future, along with a full range of personalized luggage in which to carry it all.
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This is not to say that there is no room for <i>fun</i> in the French curriculum. Anyone who lives in proximity to a schoolyard will tell you that the kids have ample time to (loudly) ram around outdoors, play sports, and blow off steam. Honestly, French public school is the gift that just keeps on giving. My kids are receiving a high-quality education for free, and are bringing home the artwork, reading, writing, and arithmetic to prove it. Most importantly, they seem to honestly be enjoying themselves; they’re happy when I drop them off in the morning and happy when I pick them up in the afternoon.</div>
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Which means I have 8 hours per day sans kids, and that, my friends, is the true beauty of French schooling.</div>
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<br />Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-78729506061015212592019-05-09T17:04:00.001+02:002020-04-02T11:55:10.749+02:00Grin and bear it<br />
I have a complicated relationship with my teeth. It was clear pretty early on that something was up; my 7th grade class photo sets me squarely in the “werewolf” category. Those <strike>freakish</strike> prominent canines must have given my parents pause, as the following year’s portrait proudly features the iron grid that would become my constant companion for the next five-odd years.<br />
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I hate visiting the dentist. I have <i>always</i> hated visiting the dentist. When I was growing up, I remember sitting in our family dentist’s waiting room facing a giant cardboard cutout of a smiling tooth reminding patients to floss, which inevitably prompted pangs of guilt for not flossing more often (floss is gross. Always has been, always will be). This was before I discovered the water pick, which was finally a dental hygiene product I could get behind. Our dentist also had a strange wheeze, which made each visit all the more unsettling. I’d be in The Chair, gazing up at the “calming” seagull mobile he’d thoughtfully attached to the ceiling, listening to him kind of wheeze-chuckle as he poked sharp whirring objects around in my mouth, and counting the seconds until I could get far, far away from there.<br />
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If a culprit must be named, it would have to be my mouth size to tooth size ratio, which surely places me in the upper echelons of “holy sh*t those are some big teeth.” My orthodontist, a gold-chain wearing, hairy chest-bearing Fred Ward look-alike, wasted no time in removing eight of them before binding the rest in metal and wire, which come to think of it MAY explain the near-total lack of male attention I received throughout high school, despite being a cheerleader. Either that or the boys were all intimidated by my superior intellect. Surely it’s the latter.<br />
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For whatever reason, “Fred” placed various intermediary steps along the rose-strewn path to hard metal. I distinctly recall headgear. Whoever invented the headgear was one sick mofo, is all I have to say. My orthodontist was kind enough to allow me to wear the blasted thing only at night, thus somewhat sparing my tender ego, however—<br />
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Go ahead and Google “headgear.” I’ll wait.<br />
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If I close my eyes, I can still feel the metal-on-metal grinding caused by sliding those weird little wire ends into the attachments around my back molars (*shudder*). To make matters worse, this was during my “ringlet” phase, which required sleeping with a full head of curlers, most of which were made out of plastic. In other words, self-inflicted torture in addition to imposed torture. I must have been insane (or a teenage girl).<br />
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There was also a little stint with a splint. A splint is yet another orthodontic torture device, made of some plastic-like substance with a decidedly chemical taste. I hated mine. I hated it so much that my subconscious moved me to throw it into the trash along with my half-eaten hamburger one fateful evening when a friend’s mom took us to McDonald’s on the way home after a day at the mall.<br />
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Twenty minutes or so after leaving, I realized my mistake and sheepishly asked whether we could turn around and go back, which we did. But then I couldn’t remember which trash can I’d thrown the accursed appliance into, so I had to go to the order counter and ask the cashier if I could please <i>empty all the trash bags,</i> which to her credit she said OK to, as long as I would empty them somewhere other than inside the restaurant. Long story short, I took about four full bags of garbage out of McDonald’s and crammed them into the trunk of my friend’s mom’s Mercedes. Once home, my own mom looked on in bemusement as I proceeded to dump said garbage all over the driveway and rummage around in it with a flashlight until God only knows what hour.<br />
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Yes, but did I find my splint? Of course not. But on the up side, my parents didn’t bother getting angry about the loss, as I had clearly suffered enough as it was. After that, my orthodontist informed us in no uncertain terms that there were two remaining options: braces or jaw surgery. I chose braces. Wearing them, caring for them, and having them checked/aligned/tightened every month hurt. A lot. The blessed day I got them taken off I couldn’t believe how good it felt, regardless of how Bugs Bunny humongous my teeth suddenly looked.<br />
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Oh, but then came the retainer part. No one tells you about this. You undergo the pain and humiliation of harboring a miniature railroad inside your mouth, right at the apex of adolescent self-consciousness, only to be told upon your day of liberation that in fact, no—you have to wear this retainer thing for an unspecified period of time. In light of my splint incident, a retainer sounded like a terrible idea. So I didn’t wear it much. Result: my teeth are just this side of straight.<br />
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My five-year-old son said as much the other day. He wanted to play dentist, and, taking his role very seriously, he said, “Mom, some of your teeth are kind of crooked.” I said, “Yes, that’s because Mommy didn’t wear her retainer.” “Her what?” “Never mind.” What he failed to notice is that I barely have more teeth than he does.<br />
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Since I had my annual dental check-up this very morning, I asked my French dentist about whether perchance there might be any newish solution for straightening just a couple of teeth without full-on transforming back into the Iron Maiden. She said that in fact, yes, there was a solution that was “very discreet,” as well as fairly priced—a splint.<br />
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I’mma have to think about this.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFjH5VOGqvVQzsecKRbF0dk7301JbcYVEPHPjHUpxPi145E6G3XfFx8kmRTKTNnh7mStATTHY5hgDDFkaazgYmrZ76bJ-o1-DdhAUpxX2Qvu6laqvRkDRGCgMDBpT9x4w93kvzLaY3oAZ/s1600/Graduation+photo+1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1028" data-original-width="689" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFjH5VOGqvVQzsecKRbF0dk7301JbcYVEPHPjHUpxPi145E6G3XfFx8kmRTKTNnh7mStATTHY5hgDDFkaazgYmrZ76bJ-o1-DdhAUpxX2Qvu6laqvRkDRGCgMDBpT9x4w93kvzLaY3oAZ/s320/Graduation+photo+1.jpeg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Class of '97 (go Dawgs!), still rocking the metal look 😬 </td></tr>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-91973472432782526662019-03-27T11:48:00.000+01:002019-03-28T10:40:40.415+01:00But let us cultivate our garden<br />
Today a tree was delivered to my front door. I bought it online for 24 euros and had it shipped to me from across France for an additional 27 euros. You might be thinking, “Wait, you paid more in shipping than you did for the tree? Are you some kind of moron?” To which I would reply, “Perhaps I’m a moron, but I’m a moron with a pretty bitchin’ tree.”
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Let me back up about 40 years. I was raised in a house with a garden. I fully expected to one day have a house with a garden of my own. But then I moved to Paris, and began a long period of renting decidedly garden-less apartments. I thus contented myself with decorating the balconies of my various abodes with potted plants, realizing along the way that I’m pretty bad at keeping green things alive. <i>Huh.
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Many years later, when I had acquired a husband and birthed a couple of tiny people, the day came when we decided to empty our bank accounts into a place of our very own—obviously an apartment, because this is the Paris region and we are not Bill Gates. But apartment or not, I wanted a real garden. First, a garden means that one is on the ground floor, and that means no balconies or windows to worry about one’s children falling off/out/through. Second, a garden means outdoor space for one’s children to ram around in without the risk of getting lost/kidnapped/run over. (I’m not unnecessarily anxious; YOU’RE unnecessarily anxious.)
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A garden is also an end in itself—a garden! Yay! At last a chance to plant more exciting things than doomed-to-die-in-August €3.99 specials! I made lists of plants, did sketches (indeed), and read up on local species. We hired a gardener, for Pete’s sake. He came <i>this close</i> to covering half the surface area in gravel, but we don’t talk about that.
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With time, effort, and many trips to nurseries across the northwest Ile-de-France, we now have quite a cute little garden. I have managed to cram every kind of pretty flowering plant I can think of into it somewhere, while leaving enough grass for our kids and the occasional hedgehog to scamper about in.<br />
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Also, and this is very exciting: I haven’t really killed anything so far. I was semi-convinced after years of desiccating/drowning vast quantities of potted plants that I was hopeless as a gardener. I remember saying as much to a few people I’d just met at an expat gathering a few years back. I believe my exact words were, “I don’t have a green thumb; I have a <i>black</i> thumb!” One of the folks I was talking to happened to be African American. She gave me an odd look; I turned beet red. And that is another reason to have a garden, i.e. a hiding place for the socially inept.
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It being March now, our garden is beginning to awaken. This makes me happy. I spent all last Tuesday yanking out weeds, snipping dead branches, planting seeds, and lobbing snail shells as far as I could get them. You might say, “That’s cruel!” To which I would reply, “No; eating my plants is cruel.” I’m a pacifist, except when it comes to nasty little creatures nibbling on my plants or on my children—then I am merciless. Show me a slug sliming its way toward my tender green shoots and I will show you a kitchen knife that has no moral compass.
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My new tree is a Coralcole dwarf ornamental crab apple. You heard me. Finding it was a pain in the ass, which is why I ultimately shrugged at that hefty delivery fee. I mean, I could have DRIVEN for several hours to the like <i>one place</i> in France that seems to stock these things, but would that have been time, energy, or cost-efficient? Clearly not. Anyway, it is now here, and I will plant it this weekend, and my husband will eye me warily and wonder why I’m so hell bent on filling up the garden with such highly specific plant life.
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WHY? Because <i>God is in the details, </i>damn it, which is about as close to my entire life philosophy as one pithy saying can get.
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watercolor by yours truly.</td></tr>
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<br />Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-7678375000572697602018-12-23T19:48:00.000+01:002019-01-04T15:51:29.969+01:00Visions of sugarplums<br />
I’m not really a dessert person. Oh, I love<i> tarte Tatin.</i> And <i>macarons.</i> And the occasional <i>moelleux au chocolat.</i> But I cannot<i> make </i>any of these things. I can make pumpkin pie; everything else turns out either too thin, too flat, too dry, too crumbly, too dark, or some unfortunate combination thereof.<br />
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Lacking any kind of talent in this area never really mattered until I became a mom. Living in France and all, where children’s 4 p.m. snack-time is a cherished tradition with the potential to call forth almost Proustian nostalgia later in life, I kind of feel obligated to provide my little ones with a warm home that smells of sugar and spice—which is why I buy scented candles.<br />
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But this is Christmas. Christmas is different. Christmas means turning on the oven and baking sweet things. More specifically, my American psyche says that Christmas means baking COOKIES. I suck at baking cookies. However, this year I felt like family cookie time would be a nice festive bonding opportunity that we could all share, while listening to Nat King Cole and smiling lovingly at one another. I have these moments of insanity now and then, where I forget all past experience or intuition and just dive headlong into clearly doomed projects. This was a fine example.<br />
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It didn’t help matters any that my Christmas cookie culture is more inferential than empirical. My mother being an enthusiastic devotee of the holistic, organic SoCal lifestyle, my brother and I didn’t grow up eating chocolate chip cookies; we grew up gnawing on whole wheat-sesame-raisin-nut-honey mounds with a somewhat blackened underside. <i>Real</i> Christmas cookies—the white flour, white sugar kind—were something the neighbors gave us once a year, probably out of pity.<br />
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I obviously don’t own any cookie recipes, but that is why we have the internet. So I hunted down some <i>Better Homes</i>-worthy candidates, printed them out, made a shopping list, and figured I was off to a good start. What I neglected to factor into the equation was that THIS IS FRANCE, NOT AMERICA. One would think that after 17 years of living here, I’d stop assuming anything, especially when it comes to Christmas (CANDY CANES AND EGGNOG—FORGET THEM), but nah.<br />
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We do our shopping at what the French call an <i>hypermarché,</i> which supposedly translates as “big box store,” although I don’t buy it. Really? That’s the best translation anyone could come up with? The place doesn’t sell <i>shipping supplies</i> for Pete’s sake. An <i>hypermarché</i> is where you can buy pretty much anything: oodles of groceries, tons of toys, mountains of clothing, piles of housewares, etc. Ours is called Carrefour Planet, but I affectionately refer to it as “the Vortex,” because time seems to mysteriously speed up as soon as we’re inside; instead of taking 1-2 hours, the average visit takes us 5. In other words, I figured that the Vortex would have all of my cookie-baking needs covered.<br />
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Ah, but this is France, <i>mes chéris.</i> France has its own proud traditions and is under no obligation to embrace <i>your</i> inferior ones, thank you very much.<br />
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Let’s start with molasses. Seems simple enough. The word exists in French—<i>mélasse</i>—and is a known ingredient (I mean it probably is); therefore I imagined it would be a supermarket item like any other. Except that no, it’s not. I scoured the (very large) baking aisle, the jams and honeys aisle, the organic aisle, and even the imports aisle (lost time: 45 minutes). <i>Rien.</i> As my dad pointed out, France’s colonial past would indeed lead one to expect molasses to be a readily available commodity. France also has quite a few overseas territories that cultivate what? SUGAR CANE. Rum, for instance, is not lacking here. So where’s the (damn) molasses?<br />
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<i>Fine. </i>I scratched <i>mélasse</i> off my list and figured I’d find a workaround. All the basics were there aplenty: butter, sugar, eggs, flour. No ready-made frosting, but so what—that stuff will kill you anyway. All that remained to be found were the decorations: red and green sugar, holiday M&Ms, Hershey’s Kisses, and possibly red and green candied fruit. Oh yeah, and cookie cutters.<br />
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Red and green sugar: did the Vortex stock any?<i> Non.</i> In fact, the entire baking aisle looked much like it does the rest of the year, i.e. nothing particularly Christmassy about it. There were the usual confetti sprinkles, chopped nuts, chocolate chips, vanilla extract, and a lot of marzipan, but that’s it. I looked, believe me. Up the aisle and down again. Crouched. Stood on my toes. Oh, there was colored sugar all right: gold sugar, pink sugar, <i>pearled sugar.</i> I even found candied fruit, but only YELLOW candied fruit, because <i>ha ha ha</i> is why.<br />
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Could one<i> make</i> red and green sugar using food coloring, I wondered? Probably. On to M&Ms. Do you think the French stock holiday M&M’s? Because if you do, you’re wrong. So I bought a normal bag and figured I’d just <i>pick out</i> the freaking red and green ones. Hershey’s Kisses I pretty much expected not to find. I mean come on.<br />
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By this point, my bitch-o-meter was at about a 6 out of 10, so it was time to move along. Cookie cutters—<i>ugh.</i> I had to backtrack to housewares. And what did I find there? NO GINGERBREAD MEN is what. Not one. I found plenty of tree shapes (yay!). And lots of festive cake molds. But no good old-fashioned gingerbread cookie cutters. Why <i>THE HELL</i> not? French Christmas décor often features gingerbread men! So where were the cookie cutters TO MAKE THE #@$&!! GINGERBREAD MEN? My bitch-o-meter inched up to 7. I needed a drink.<br />
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In the end, we had to go to an arts and crafts store the next day for that elusive gingerbread cookie cutter. Obviously, they weren’t sold separately; I had to buy a pack of three in various sizes. Oh well. They ALSO had green and red colored sugar! Granted, the red was actually fuchsia, but it was labelled <i>rouge,</i> which was good enough for me. Total cost for sugar and cookie cutters: 19 euros. Yeah.<br />
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When cookie baking day rolled around, I pulled out my recipes, organized my ingredients, summoned my children, and got to work. They enjoyed it. Eggs were cracked; sugar was measured; batter was beaten. Seeing as how I own exactly ONE cookie sheet, but had about 12 dozen cookies to bake and decorate, the operation sort of took all day. The kids finally got bored and retired to the living room.<br />
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But how did the cookies TASTE? I offered one to my son, who answered, “No thanks, Mom.” I tried my daughter, who picked off the M&Ms and left me the rest. Kids don’t<i> like</i> gingerbread apparently. No matter—I proved to myself that I can make cookies after all, and the three of us managed to have a wholesome holiday moment without any crying or screaming (my own notwithstanding), which is a <i>biiiiig</i> win in my book. Maybe it wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.<br />
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<br />Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-85687662579390301132018-10-05T11:38:00.000+02:002020-04-04T14:42:54.955+02:00A life uncommon: part V<div style="margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I followed my bliss all the way to Paris on September 7, 2001, </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";"><i>arriving</i></span><i> with an overstuffed suitcase and a heart full of hopes, dreams, unavowed fears, and the inexplicable assurance that I was where I was meant to be. In honor of the 17th anniversary of that leap of faith, I have decided to write a short series of posts recounting the little-known tale of my love affair with France. </i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read part I <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>, part II <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, part III <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and part IV <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-iv.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Fraternité</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.5pt;">When I think back on those first few years in Paris, I remember feeling as though I were walking on air, buoyed by the delight of seeing my dreams materialize ... but I also remember the deep and incessant anxiety that those dreams would be torn away from me. I used to fear that I was nothing more than a stowaway aboard a luxury liner, a kid who’d managed to sneak inside Disneyland after hours, a lottery winner with an erroneous ticket—it was all too good to be true; someone was bound to find out sooner or later and that would be the end. Every immigration-related trip to the Préfecture de Police, appropriately situated within the complex of the Palais de Justice-Conciergerie—where thousands of prisoners under the Reign of Terror, including Marie Antoinette herself, spent their last moments before meeting their fate at the foot of the guillotine—left me quaking in my faux leather boots. Each visa renewal, each request for a status change, each interaction with an immigration officer engendered an icy knot of dread in my chest that seemed to be the price to pay for waking up in paradise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">As the years passed, I learned to combat that truly existential fear—the fear of losing the existence I so cherished—by carefully stringing together little pieces of legitimacy like so many precious pearls: a job, a renewed visa, a successful status change, a Master</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">s degree, a husband, a baby, a business, another baby ... until at long last, nearly 20 years after the soft autumn breeze of Paris first caressed my face, carrying the whispered promise of a life uncommon, I no longer question my right to live it; I no longer question my right to live here. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.5pt;">As for feeling accepted—my other bugaboo—I ultimately gave up trying to perfectly emulate the French, figuring that any sense of being an outsider was mostly in my head, and deciding not to care about the part that wasn’t. And yet, when it came to seeking French citizenship, I long remained surprisingly ambivalent. After all, <i>was</i> I French? Would I ever be? And then the tragedy of November 13, 2015 happened, and with it came the realization that living among the French was no longer a question of “them” and of “me,” for the unmistakable feeling that flooded my heart that day was one of unity, of family, of … <i>fraternité.</i> These were my people. Period. It was a wake-up call if ever there was one: <i>stop agonizing over where you belong.</i> I began filling out my request for citizenship three days later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">When it came, the news that my request had been accepted struck me not as it would have in previous years—as a blessed relief—but rather as a formality whose smoothness and rapidity left the distinct impression that France had been expecting me to ask all along, and had been wondering what on earth I was waiting for. Citizenship was the last pearl on my strand of legitimacy and, as such, it prompted me to wonder whether I had reached the end of the road. Was that really it? Was I at last <i>bona fide?</i> The citizenship ceremony came and went, and as irony would have it, my only memento is an out-of-focus photo of myself flanked by two blurry officials, snapped in haste by a fellow new citizen. Something about it felt strangely anticlimactic, as though I’d just crossed the finish line of a marathon</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">—</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">only to turn around and realize that I was</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> alone. The world went on as before; I remained for the most part unchanged. Perhaps the full significance of the moment was too much to wrap my mind around. But I suspect the truth to be somewhat more poetic: despite my latent sentiment of eternal otherness, France had wholly accepted me long before that ceremony. For all intents and purposes, I had been French for years.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">I used to wander through my neighborhood Monoprix, just for the pleasure of looking at the things on the shelves. Everyday things. Shampoo bottles <i>(their shapes and colors are so much prettier than American ones!),</i> hair clips <i>(look at the beadwork!),</i> scarves <i>(such elegance!), </i>the produce aisle <i>(is this a grocery store or is it </i>Babette’s Feast<i> come to life?).</i> Even in its humblest incarnation, the French aesthetic contains something of the sublime, something of the fundamentally beautiful. Beauty. Beauty is perhaps what resonated the most with me upon my arrival here. Beauty was everywhere, woven throughout everything. It shone forth from the mundane as well as the marvelous, allowing me to see the world in a new light. Joy found me in France. Love found me. Grace found me. And yes, while it may sound hackneyed, I found myself. I didn</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">t come here expecting</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"> a revelation, but a revelation is what I received. </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">France introduced me to a sensory universe I had never imagined; France filled me to the brim with history, art, and art history; France spoke to me in the language of the soul.</span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">The awe, the pure wonder of those first few years was so overwhelming, so intoxicating, that it formed the bedrock of my determination to make this country my permanent home. I have tried not to lose touch with that sense of wonder—which is never far off if I’m only willing to pay attention. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">France and I have not always been on the same wavelength, and I do recall threatening on a few occasions to “LEAVE and be done with it!” But, as in any marriage of love, we have worked through our difficulties and our differences, and matured hand-in-hand along the way. Today, I am a proud French citizen, wife to a Frenchman, and mother to two beautiful little Franco-Americans who skip from English to </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">French </span><span style="font-size: 10.5pt;">and back again with delight. I will always be an American, and will probably be handed the English menu by well-meaning French waiters for the rest of my life, but in the end, my goal in moving to France was never to cease being myself—it was to be my best self.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 10.5pt;">FIN.</span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-49017206388077045302018-09-28T11:02:00.000+02:002020-04-04T14:42:36.473+02:00A life uncommon: part IV<div style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>I followed my bliss all the way to Paris on September 7, 2001, </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";"><i>arriving</i></span><i> with an overstuffed suitcase and a heart full of hopes, dreams, unavowed fears, and the inexplicable assurance that I was where I was meant to be. In honor of the 17th anniversary of that leap of faith, I have decided to write a short series of posts recounting the little-known tale of my love affair with France. </i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read part I <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>, part II <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>, and part III <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-iii.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The long and winding road</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Business school it would be. Ever the perfectionist, I buckled down and gave the admissions process all I had. I asked a couple of alumni to hook me up with some advice; I read several books on <i>culture générale</i>, which is key to French exams of all stripes (realizing in the process that my education had some rather large holes in it); I bought a severe-looking suit and practiced my “business voice.” </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">In the end, I wasn</span>’<span style="font-size: 14px;">t accepted by one <i>Grande Ecole</i>—but by two. So I said a fond farewell to my boss, who had done everything in his power to help me gain admission, and went off to buy some cool French school supplies, including plenty of that liney lined paper (why ever </span><i style="font-size: 14px;">does</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> it have so many lines?), certain that this would finally be</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> my big break.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">I suppose disappointment was inevitable. My undergraduate years remained decidedly rose-tinted; there was little chance I could ever relive them. I had imagined that this elite French institution </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">would be the equivalent of Harvard, that I’d be rubbing elbows with the intellectual aristocracy, that classes would be as fascinating as they were inspiring.... In short, I wanted graduate school to be more than a means to an end; I wanted it to be an end in itself. Alas, <i>non. </i>My classmates were indeed brilliant, but the reigning atmosphere was hardly scholarly. The first week, I stepped into the school</span>’<span style="font-size: 14px;">s s</span>tately cobblestone courtyard only to be met with a scene worthy of a carnival. An inflatable fun house crowded the entrance; music blasted over loudspeakers; students in giant chicken costumes waddled about, distributing rolls of toilet paper. I feared that I’d unintentionally slipped into a parallel universe.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Unfortunately, that was only an introduction; the carefree attitude that reigned in the courtyard seemed to reign in the lecture hall as well. Students would meander into class oftentimes well past its start, strolling right beneath the professor’s nose without eliciting so much as a grumble. Many of those seated were hardly any better: some blatantly perused the morning newspapers; others texted sweet nothings on their phones; still others surfed the web on their newfangled laptops. Many didn’t show up at all. Yet the lecturer would continue lecturing, not seeming to care one iota. If anything, the lack of respect appeared to be mutual: one professor quite simply <i>fell asleep</i> during a series of (clearly unimportant) student presentations. I know that turnabout is fair play and all, but COME ON. <i>What is actually happening here</i></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><i>?</i></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I wondered, unable to</span> shake the sense that somehow, somewhere, somebody had made a mistake.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In hindsight, it’s obvious that the mistake was mine. I embarked on the graduate school adventure believing that I had an open mind, when in truth I had a very fixed notion of what the experience should be like, and was profoundly disappointed when reality did not live up to my lofty expectations. That’s on me. But in my defense, I know what superior education looks like—and that wasn’t it. Anyway, things kept on keeping on for months, and then suddenly coursework was over. We took a whirlwind trip to India, zeroed in on a thesis topic, and <i>poof!</i> We were granted the right to brandish the school’s hallowed name and watch the internship offers roll in. By that point, I’d set my heart on going into wine and spirits marketing, but in light of all that I had witnessed that year, I was highly skeptical of the school’s reputation, however illustrious, being able to work its magic and land me an internship … until it worked its magic and landed me an internship—in marketing; in the wine industry. Mind. Blown.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">As it turned out, I rather enjoyed wine marketing. Plus, the start-up I went to work for decided it rather liked me back and, heaven be praised, after proving my mettle as an intern, I was offered a full-time position</span>—<span style="font-size: 14px;">and along with it A NEW EMPLOYEE VISA! Betting everything on a business degree had actually paid off;</span> I couldn’t believe it. My graduate school had not given me what I wanted, but ultimately, it gave me what I needed. Perhaps I had been too quick to criticize (I said <i>perhaps)</i>. In any case, I ended up remaining in wine marketing for a little over three years. The company met a sad fate, but it taught me invaluable lessons about management, mismanagement, wine, and most importantly, copywriting. My boss—and I will forever be indebted to him for this—recognized a certain affinity I had for the written word, and often gave me copywriting projects. With time, I couldn’t help but think that perhaps I was meant to take up my pen and make a living out of it. <i>Hmm.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Meanwhile, that other quest of mine, <i>l</i></span>’<span style="font-size: 14px;"><i>amour, </i>remained frustratingly out of reach. Then, in the autumn of 2007, j</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">ust when I was beginning to think that the love of my life might actually literally </span><i style="font-size: 14px;">be</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> France, and was imagining what kinds of crazy hats I would wear as a spinster, it happened—I met someone. A human! Who liked me! And whom I liked back! I’d been single for 95% of my six and a half years in the so-called city of “love,” and then all of a sudden, here was this tall, handsome, <i>French</i> guy with beautiful eyes and really nice shoes, who was neither a sociopath nor dating someone else nor related to any of my bosses in any way. I pounced (and by that I mean I batted my lashes a lot and hoped for the best). And lo and behold, sparks flew. We moved in together the following year, were engaged a year and a half after that, and married in a picture perfect Franco-American ceremony in my hometown in the spring of 2011. What is it they say about good things coming to those who wait (and wait, and wait, and wait...)?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">After jumping ship from the by then rapidly sinking wine company, I switched gears and joined a mid-sized design and communication agency. Over the next several years, I put my newly acquired managerial skills to the test—and realized I just didn’t have it in me to be a manager. In fact, I seemed to be singularly ill-suited to the entire open-plan paradigm. It was a sobering realization, but it was unavoidable. Much soul-searching ensued. And in the end, I came to the conclusion that while each stepping stone in my professional journey thus far had served a purpose, if I ever wanted to find the Holy Grail, I couldn’t simply take another step—I would have to take a leap. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">So I quit my day job, moved to the suburbs, opened a copywriting business, and had two children. </span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-83625942530325046292018-09-21T09:43:00.001+02:002020-04-04T14:42:16.724+02:00A life uncommon: part III<div style="margin: 0px;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">I followed my bliss all the way to Paris on September 7, 2001, </i><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"><i>arriving</i></span><i style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"> with an overstuffed suitcase and a heart full of hopes, dreams, unavowed fears, and the inexplicable assurance that I was where I was meant to be. In honor of the 17th anniversary of that leap of faith, I have decided to write a short series of posts recounting the little-known tale of my love affair with France. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"><br /></i></span>
<i style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read part I <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a> and part II <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-ii.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Egalité</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">After a two-year honeymoon period, a bit of disenchantment slowly began to creep into my French utopia. Taking stock, I was 23, earning scarcely more than minimum wage, still single and not making any headway in <i>that</i> department.... But mostly, I was fed up with feeling inferior. I’d worked assiduously in college and had graduated with high honors</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">—departmental distinction, </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Phi Beta Kappa, </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">Summa-Cum-freaking-Laude</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> for Pete’s sake! What was I </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">doing</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> fetching coffee and fielding angry phone calls from people I only barely understood? Where was the appreciation—and the salary—I felt I deserved? And where in blazes was</span><i style="font-family: garamond;"> l’amour?</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I had had enough of playing the endearing but inconsequential American ingénue. But then, what was the alternative? Quit? Go back to the US with my tail between my legs? Prove the naysayers </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">right?</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> No way, André.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">My non-renewable work permit was drawing dangerously close to its expiration date when my boss invited me into his office and said that he would be willing to sponsor me if I wanted to stay. <i>WHAT?!</i> Sponsorship was the only way I could keep working legally, and it was a big deal. From the very beginning of my quest to live in France, people warned me how difficult it would be to find a sponsor—essentially a French company both willing and able to prove to the government why <i>I</i> should be hired and not one of the country</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’s many native job seekers. With unemployment a perpetual hot-button issue, a foreigner like me being given the go-ahead to “take” a position at a French company was far from a foregone conclusion.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Suddenly I didn’t mind fetching coffee quite so much.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Being sponsored for an employee visa meant going home to California for four months while the paperwork was being processed. It also meant explaining myself to my parents, who had never intended for that one semester of studying abroad to morph into my life’s calling. </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">God works in strange and mysterious ways,</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">”</span><span style="font-family: "garamond";"><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I airily reminded them, promising that if one day France rejected me, then I’d move back to the US</span></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">—</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">but so far that hadn</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">t happened; on the contrary, everything seemed to be falling into place. Being in California in the autumn of 2003 also afforded me the extremely unpleasant opportunity to experience the great Cedar Fire, a conflagration of epic proportions that destroyed thousands of houses and very nearly wiped out my entire hometown. My parents and I had to evacuate for 10 days, returning to a charred, nightmarish landscape steeped in smoke. That was not the high point of my visit home.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">I flew back to France, chastened, in January of 2004—and proceeded to have my heart stomped good and flat by my first French boyfriend, who also happened to be my boss’s eldest son. <i>T</i></span><i><span style="font-family: "garamond";">h</span><span style="font-family: "garamond";">at</span></i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> was not the high point of my return.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Vowing not to cast any more pearls before any more swine, I soon resumed my lighthearted Parisian existence and tried to shrug off any dreams of professional grandeur. After all, even if I was confined to office work, how could I dare complain when I had the City of Light? Henri IV himself had had to make a sacrifice or two in exchange for her</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">—</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><i>Paris vaut bien une messe! </i>Still, that nagging voice in my head wouldn’t quit. “WHAT are you playing at</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">?</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">!” it hissed. “You have no money! Your career is going nowhere! You can’t bury your head in the sand forever! <i>TICK-TOCK.”</i> Finally, I had to admit that the voice was right. I couldn’t stay at that job any longer; it just wasn’t enough. And while it <i>had</i> enabled my French to reach heights I’d never imagined, and had certainly taught me the fine art of getting along in a French company, I was thirsty—very thirsty. I yearned to excel, to achieve, to stop scrubbing the proverbial floor and put on the damn proverbial glass slipper.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">But in a country where it is customary to name-drop one’s alma mater early and often, sometimes going so far as to include it <i>in one’s signature</i>, acquiring the proper academic credentials is nothing less than imperative if one is to entertain even the faintest hope of squeezing one’s foot inside the door of any major company. And as far as my American accomplishments were concerned, France neither recognized them nor cared; in the eyes of the Powers That Be, I was pretty much a nobody. I would be less than candid if I said that didn</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">t </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">hurt, since it did</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">—r</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">ather a lot, actually. But like it or not, I had to accept the fact that if I ever expected to achieve any semblance of <i>égalité</i> with the French, I would have to humble myself before the gods of academia and return to school, in France. Wounded ego notwithstanding, part of me was relieved: thinking about graduate school felt good. As the daughter of two teachers, the classroom had always been a second home of sorts; m</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">aybe returning to school would at last grant me the opportunity to shine in a country that I felt was still waiting for me to prove my worth.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: 14px;">So it was settled—I would trade in my highly coveted employee visa for a lowly student visa. It is difficult to express the magnitude of the</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> gamble that such a decision represented: I was essentially giving up my </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">“</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">safe</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">”</span><span style="font-size: 14px;"> status as a worker bee and betting my entire future in France on a <span style="font-size: 14px;">Master</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">s degree, or rather, </span>on my ability to persuade another French company to go through the whole employee visa sponsorship process <i>again</i> once I had completed said </span><span style="font-size: 14px;">Master</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">s degree (was I crazy? Yes ... crazy like a <i>renard!)</i></span><span style="font-size: 14px;"><i>.</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px;">Going back to school also meant assuming a fair amount of student debt, which only added to the already considerable pressure I was placing on myself to make this degree <i>THE</i> magic bullet. I</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">’</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">d lived in France long enough by then to know that the outcome of my wager would hinge on two factors: </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">what</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> I studied and (more importantly) </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">where </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";">I studied it</span><span style="font-family: "garamond";">. T</span><span style="font-size: 14px;">he highly respected </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">Grandes Ecoles</i><span style="font-size: 14px;"> (France’s Ivy League) were therefore the only acceptable prospects, but their admissions process was rumored to be draconian. To further complicate matters, it was fairly obvious that business school would be my best bet if I wanted to play ball with the big kids, but a business degree seemed somehow wrong for me. <i>Tricky.</i> Then again, I’d double-majored back in college: art history <i>and</i> advertising. Surely introducing some business acumen to either field would pry open a few sealed doors; I just had to pray that one of them would be the <i>right</i> door.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Photo by Lily Heise</span></td></tr>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-42030051534707117142018-09-14T10:55:00.000+02:002020-04-04T14:41:58.505+02:00A life uncommon: part II<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-family: garamond;">I followed my bliss all the way to Paris on September 7, 2001, </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";"><i>arriving</i></span><i style="font-family: garamond;"> with an overstuffed suitcase and a heart full of hopes, dreams, unavowed fears, and the inexplicable assurance that I was where I was meant to be. In honor of the 17th anniversary of that leap of faith, I have decided to write a short series of posts recounting the little-known tale of my love affair with France. </i></span><br />
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<i style="font-family: garamond;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Read part I <a href="http://www.mot-juste.com/2018/09/a-life-uncommon-part-i.html" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My life in France began in earnest when the United Airlines flight touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport on a perfect September morning in 2001. Destiny, it seemed, was on my side; I’d been offered a living situation that couldn’t have been more perfect if I’d dreamt it up myself. Once again, it had materialized out of nowhere at precisely the right moment. A mere few weeks earlier, I was at a theater in San Diego with my parents and some family friends, lamenting the fact that I had no housing solution for my Paris work abroad program. At intermission, a couple seated in front of us turned around—they <i>just so happened</i> to know my parents’ friends and had obviously overhead my whining. “We may be able to help,” they said. And before long, I was holding the keys to a beautiful Parisian apartment a mere 10-minute stroll from the Arc de Triomphe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">So, I had a place; I had a visa; I had a plane ticket. I just needed a job. The organization in charge of getting me to Paris kept records of every French company that had ever hired one of its participants, so I rifled through its binders and jotted down everything that seemed remotely interesting. But then came the moment when I had to actually </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">call </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";">some of these people. Summoning the courage to pick up the phone and speak, in mediocre French, to a bunch of perfect strangers </span><span style="font-family: "garamond";">in an attempt to convince them to grant me a face-to-face interview was just the sort of thing we introverts have nightmares about. </span><span style="font-family: "garamond";">However, it was also necessary, so I swallowed my pride and did my best to not sound like a blithering idiot. A few near misses later, I struck gold—an American expat who owned an art gallery on the exceedingly fashionable rue du Faubourg Saint Honoré, virtually next door to the presidential Palais de l’Elysée, agreed to hire me</span>—<i style="font-family: garamond;">ME!</i>—I about died.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">All that was left was to make some friends. And that prayer was soon answered too, in the form of a little group of Canadian kindred spirits pursuing dreams not unlike my own. Thanks to them, I finally discovered some of what Paris had to offer in the way of social life. I worked five days a week at the gallery and spent nearly every weekend travelling. Chartres, Amiens, Beauvais, Senlis, Laon…. I visited every great Gothic cathedral within a few hours of Paris, and then ventured further afield, almost exclusively by myself. I slept in youth hostels or cheap hotels, ate alone in carefully-researched restaurants, read my trusty guidebook cover-to-cover</span>—<span style="font-family: "garamond";">and </span>savored every minute. When in Paris, my friends and I dined out, took in movies and plays, and drank quite a bit of wine. I was happy once more. Exceedingly happy. But despite that, a nagging fear remained in the back of my mind: what would I do in December, when my non-renewable work permit expired?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">My first impulse was to level with my employer. As a fellow American and art lover who had moved to France in her youth, we had several things in common; surely she would understand my desire to remain in Paris. “Oh, everyone says that,” was her dismissive and frankly disappointing response. I bristled. This woman </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">clearly</i><span style="font-family: "garamond";"> had no idea who she was dealing with. Thankfully, one of my dearest friends, and a highly skilled problem-solver, pointed me to an 18-month “professional internship” program that would allow me to keep living my dream—just so long as I could find an employer willing to do the paperwork. Destiny went to bat for me again, and that elusive employer appeared in the form of a Franco-Russian publisher who had recently hired an Irish friend of mine and was looking for a bilingual assistant. Not quite the stuff of dreams, but hell, at that point I’d have accepted street sweeping if it meant I could stay.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "garamond";">And so my adventure was given the green light to begin a whole new season. This one was marked by another desperate search for an apartment, since my too-good-to-last rental agreement near the Arc de Triomphe had to come to an end. The Parisian housing market is notoriously difficult, and being a foreigner did me no favors. I visited something like 40—FORTY—different places. Many were </span>“<span style="font-family: "garamond";">reserved</span>” or off the market before I got there<span style="font-family: "garamond";">; most were too expensive to begin with. Some were shockingly small; others were shockingly decrepit. One of the more memorable visits was essentially a crumbling hallway overlooking a cemetery. Nonetheless, I kept at it. </span>In the meantime, I house-sat, crashed on the couches of friends and then friends of friends, hid out for a month in a bedroom in the suburbs, and tried not to lose hope. <span style="font-family: "garamond";">Finally, </span><i style="font-family: garamond;">finally, </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";">my new boss’s wife put me in touch with the owner of a one-bedroom just behind Montmartre, who agreed to take a chance on me. Sure, it was an 86-step hike to the top floor of a not-so-nice building in a so-so part of town, but it was <i>MINE ALL MINE!</i> A new coat of paint, a few unlikely furniture acquisitions, an oversized Robert Doisneau print to reign over it all, and <i>voilà! </i>One</span> happy, homey, truly cosy Parisian abode.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was elated. Forging ahead. Living the dream. What could go wrong?</span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4287134960147711283.post-30488089692461409942018-09-07T10:19:00.000+02:002020-04-04T14:35:23.964+02:00A life uncommon: part I<div class="ApplePlainTextBody" style="font-size: 14px; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="font-size: 14px;">I followed my bliss all the way to Paris on September 7, 2001, </i><span style="font-family: "garamond";"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><i>arriving</i></span></span><i style="font-size: 14px;"> with an overstuffed suitcase and a heart full of hopes, dreams, unavowed fears, and the inexplicable assurance that I was where I was meant to be. Today is the 17th anniversary of that leap of faith. To mark the occasion, I have decided to write a short series of posts recounting the little-known tale of my love affair with France. </i></span><i style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We American expats are not so numerous as one might imagine. Those of us who go abroad and remain abroad all have very personal reasons for doing so. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here are a few of mine.</span></i><br />
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<i><b><span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Liberté</span></b></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Their lined paper is so </i><i>… *liney*, </i>thought 8-year-old me, leafing through the French notebook I’d received from a friend who’d just returned from Nice following his dad’s short-term teaching exchange. Years later, in high school, I would choose to study French over Spanish, under the guidance of that very same friend’s dad (hi Mr. Johnston!). My parents joke that he is to blame for awakening my love for France, but really, the dream was there to begin with: I was certain that France was some kind of fantasy land graced by castles, cathedrals, and surely a bit of deep magic from the dawn of time. Attempting to master the language as an adolescent was a humbling experience, but after four years of grappling with irregular verbs and impossible strings of vowels, I was college-bound and had every intention of spending a semester studying abroad in Paris.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A bashful, hopelessly romantic, straight-A art history major like me never stood a chance of resisting France’s legendary powers of seduction. The flight from Dallas I shared with 39 fellow SMU students in late August of 1999 hadn’t even landed when already I sensed a shift in my personal space-time continuum. As the plane descended, I gazed down on a patchwork that looked nothing like the neat American checkerboard I was used to. This looked ancient. Mysterious. <i>Old World.</i> The airline lost my luggage; I barely noticed. I floated out of Orly airport and onto a bus, which took us to picturesque Fontainebleau. Everything seemed miraculous to me: the crisscrossed rattan of the chairs adorning every sidewalk cafe, the canary yellow mailbox adorning a street corner, the hardboiled egg slices adorning my first baguette sandwich. I wrote my parents a postcard from the gardens of the highly enchanting Château Vaux-le-Vicomte, looking out over a perfectly manicured lake dotted with perfectly manicured swan boats, and knew that some part of me had already decided. I wasn’t going back—this was True Love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have always preferred Paris in the autumn, perhaps because it was autumn when we first met. After a week of orientation outside the city, my classmates and I were driven into the heart of the Latin Quarter to enjoy a welcome cocktail with our host families. “See those leaves?” asked a visiting professor, motioning to the mottled foliage of the elegant chestnut trees lining Boulevard du Montparnasse. “That’s what we call <i>autumn.”</i> All of us descended from the bus, and I redoubled my efforts to resist gaping, open-mouthed, at everything inside Reid Hall, the stately 18th century former porcelain factory that would be our school for the semester. I clearly remember pinching myself, and then laughing under my breath because <i>who actually does that?</i> And then we met our host families. Mine was perfect, obviously. They were kind, and cheerful, and very forgiving of my pathetic language skills. Fun fact: I’ve remained friends with them to this day, and they still delight in reminding me how awful my French was so long ago. That’s what families do—even host ones.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">For four months, I lived in absolute bliss. Classes were held alternately at Reid Hall, alternately inside the Louvre (!!!). Or the Musée d’Orsay. Or the Musée Pompidou. Or simply out and about in Paris. My inner art historian was euphoric. I walked all over the city, rain or shine, scrupulously recording each day’s discoveries in my diary each night. I took trips across France: to the east, the west, the north, and the south. “Everything here is so <i>beautiful,”</i> I gushed. People just laughed. <i>She has it bad,</i> they must have been thinking. They were right—from the Chagall windows in the Metz Cathedral to THE <i>Impression, Sunrise</i> at the Musée Marmottan, from the Roman amphitheater in Arles to the Rothschild gardens on the Côte d’Azur, from my first encounter with the Eiffel Tower in all her glory to the sensory rapture that is a Provençal market, I was gone, gone, gone. Smitten. Love-struck. Over the moon.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Reality slapped me across the face, hard, when the semester came to an earth-shattering close in late December and I had no choice other than to return to “normal life.” My mind reeled. The flight home was a weepy blur. My poor parents didn’t understand what was wrong with me; why wasn’t I happy to be home? Didn’t I have a good time? <i>YES—FAR, FAR TOO GOOD!</i> Those first few months back in the US were a masterclass in pain. I felt so heartsick I didn’t know what to do with myself other than search high and low for some way—any way—to return to my beloved France. I was treated to a lot of <i>oh-everyone-says-that’s</i> and <i>oh-everyone-loves-Paris’s</i>—which only cemented my resolve to <i>not</i> be like “everyone.” Halfway through my senior year, while my entire graduating class seemed to have internships, job offers, and juicy MA programs all lined up, my standard response to the dreaded “What are you going to do after graduation?” remained a falsely confident “Move to Paris,” which always drew a raised eyebrow, an awkward laugh, or a condescending “Good luck.” Except for one of my favorite art history professors, that is, whose unexpected response was an earnest <i>“Take me with you!”</i> Those words were really all I needed to hear—why stay and go the academic route like everybody was pushing me to do, when this professor whom I admired so much was clearly in agreement with what my heart had been telling me all along?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In the eleventh hour, as has so often been the case in my life, a way was made where there seemed to be no way. Right behind my university, no less, were the modest offices of Council Travel, which offered none other than work exchange programs, including to France, for recent graduates. <i>EUREKA!</i> Letter of acceptance in hand, I graduated Summa Cum Laude from SMU in 2001, threw a shaky French résumé together, and promptly moved halfway around the world—where I had no job, no friends, and where no one gave a damn about my degree, my accomplishments, or my qualifications. But those were mere details to me at the time. What mattered was that I’d proven the naysayers wrong-—I was <i>libre</i> to pursue the love of my life—France.</span></div>
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Katrinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02762328002617431032noreply@blogger.com0