Pat yourself on the back!

As I was thinking about what to write (so many unfinished and overlapping thoughts in my head these days!), I read a couple of the older posts I wrote about my kids and their bilingualism. And it came to me...

I used to be so worried (and still am to a certain extent) about how to make being American part of their daily lives, not just the language but also the culture. Over the past week, I've realized how much English and being American has become and IS an integral part of who my children are and of their daily experiences.

I mentioned that I am going into Suzanne's class to do some "American" lessons. Since one of her teachers already does English lessons with them, I decided not to teach English but to do lessons on American culture (also since that's the only guidance I got from the teacher). Last week during the lesson on Thanksgiving, some of the kids remembered my Thanksgiving lesson from a couple years earlier. And when I took out the cranberries for them to taste, one of them even said, "oh c'est pas bon ça!" because she remembered tasting them. Suzanne continues to be unfazed by speaking English in front of her entire class and even wants to get up in front of the class with me to help. I actually had to translate what she was saying to me so her class would understand. The other day, after taking my kids to the Hanukkah party organized by the Lille synagogue (for another post), she said to me with great pride, "I"m French, English and a little Jewish.". American, not English...she still has trouble with the whole English language versus English person thing. 

Then on Saturday, Max's school had their annual Christmas party which starts with the kids all singing Christmas songs (so NOT politcally correct) and ends with the parents taking home some useless object made by their kid in class (this year I got a tree made out of cotton balls and a paper tube and a framed picture of Max). As the songs went on, the principal introduced a song by saying"initiation aux langues étrangères" and the kids started singing "Jingle Bells". I lit up. Why? Because that song is my legacy! When Suzanne was in her first year of school, I came into her class everyday for 2 weeks to teach them that song so they could sing it at the Christmas party. And the song lives on even though I didn't teach it. As I continued on my American high, while helping sell the baked goods, a mother asked me what I'd made...because she wanted to eat my cakes because they are so damn good. My American baked good are a staple of the weekly bakesale.

When I got home from the school party, I realized that this whole bilingual and bicultural thing is normal for my kids and for everyone around us. Yes, people are sometimes insensitive or uneducated about bilinguals and/or Americans, but mostly, people see it in a positive light and accept that this is how our family functions.

So please, bilingual parent, take a second to pat yourself on the back. You are doing a great job!

US Consulate 2012, Joseph's overcoat and me.

Yesterday I made my quasi-annual trip to Paris to visit the Americans. At one point, I actually dreaded the Consulate because of a run-in with a rude French woman who poissoned the American atmosphere for me with her French administrative ways. But now that I have two kids, the Consulate seems to be old hat (although I'm always scared they'll refuse me a passport because I'm not American enough or something).

Since my mom's visiting, I turned it into a family outing, dragging tow kids and my mom down to Paris along with everything possible to prove Suzanne's American-ness as well as my own. when we arrived at the security gate, the guards emptied our bags with smiles and jokes. I began to wonder if they had been briefed on American courtesy and customer service. Max was not amused when they confiscated the lollypops from my bag and told him they were going to eat them. After they'd checked us out, they said "Welcome to the United States" at which point I realized that, actuality it technically was the US. Suzanne asked why there were guards and I tried to explain in 5 year old terms about global terrorism. As we walked into the Consulate waiting room, Suzanne asked me in her not-so-soft 5 year old voice if Obama was dead.

While we waited, Suzanne, my mom and I played "I spy" while Max slept in his stroller. "I spy something brown," said Suzanne. "The man's hair? The woman's shoes?" "No, Mommy! It's Obama," she said as she pointed to the picture of Obama looming over the Consulate's waiting room alongside a huge TV tuned into CNN and a picture of Hillary Clinton.  I tried to explain to Suzanne all about Hillary Clinton but I don't think she got it. I also tried to explain what the Consulate was (ie Obama's friends in France) but she didn't seem to care.

Once I'd given all the paperwork to the nice French man who processed our papers, I went back to sit mulling over the display of IRS documents. I eventually stood up and grabbed a copy for a rainy day(any readers know about filing taxes?). Interesting indeed but for another time.

When the consular officer finally called us over, he took my paperwork, including the consent form my husband phinageled the Mairie to sign (note: the city hall will no longer sign documents for you like they used to do. Before, they would notarize things for you. now, they can only notarize your signature but not the content of the document). I had to hold up my right hand (I held up my left) and take an oath that this little girl clinging to me was indeed my daughter. The officer then asked Suzanne if I was really her mother. His way of asking was so nice, but yet so serious. It made me realize that he was doing a security check. He then asked if I had an pictures of Suzanne since her expired passport had a 6 week old on it and now there was an almost 6 year old standing before him. He nicely explained to me that you can already see certain facial traits from a young age. Luckily Suzanne passed the test and he even called her adorable.

After the consulate, the kids chased pigeons in the Tuillerie in a very non-French (read noisy way). As my kids ran around roaring at the pigeons, I had a Pamela Druckermann moment realizing that all the other kids around us were composed and quiet.

We then moved on to the Marais to eat falafel, visit the Jewish bakery and the Jewish bookstore where Max pointed to most of the books telling me he had them at home. I was surprised to see Sammy Spider in French and even more surprised to see Joseph Had a Little Overcoat, my favorite book from when I was little.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in a park watching the kids play. In fact, the day was more American than Parisian.

And as I got off the train in Lille last night and my kids ran down the platform to meet their father, I realized something: this is a really cool life.

Mother tongue

"Moi, je parle anglais et français. Je parle anglais parce que ma maman est anglaise". This is how Suzanne, my 4 and a half year old, explained our communication to a friend of my husband's.

Suzanne knows that I'm American. She knows I'm from New Jersey. She even knows the name of my town. But since so much of her (and our relationship) is defined by "English" , I understand that she has come to the simple conclusion that Mommy speaks English therefore is English.

It doesn't bother me. But it got me thinking about what is most important to a bilingual 4 year old. I think that my husband and I have created a balanced bilingual and bicultural home. I think we are able to provide a more or less balanced view of her dual world. And I think that Suzanne understands that our home is not "typical". Suzanne seems to have accepted that everyone is different in some way.

When I first started visiting the library with Suzanne, I remember one book in particular called What Faust Saw by Matt Ottley. In the front flap it said traduit de l'australien which made me laugh. I soon found books translated from américain which just plain annoyed me. The ex-English teacher in me always resisted the idea that American and English were different languages.

But now that my children are becoming more aware of the multilingual world around them, I see that maybe the difference between American, English, Australian... is kind of important. I see it when Suzanne speaks to me. Sometimes a perfect American sentence will come out of her mouth like, "I'm gonna eat some zucchini." And then she'll turn around and speak Charlie and Lola to me (between the ages of 2 and 3, the wonderful Lauren Child characters were kind of a fetish to her).

For the past couple of months, I've become hyper-aware of how Suzanne speaks English (or American as it were). I've realized that her English is very American which is normal since I am her main source of English. Having a little brother has given Suzanne more impetous for speaking English because she is aware of her essential role in Max's language development.

Max has a huge advantage that Suzanne did not have : conversation. Suzanne grew up hearing disjointed and disconnected conversations since I always speak English and my husband always speaks French (and we do not stray from that). Max has the two-way conversation on both sides. I have to admit that it makes me happy to hear Suzanne speaking to her little brother in English when no one's around. As with Suzanne, Max is speaking more English than French despite markedly less exposure to English than French. I guess there is a reason it's called a mother tongue. I just never realized that my children would rely so much on my own tongue.

A look back at Thanksgivings past

The first time I celebrated Thanksgiving in France, it was a sad sad day. I remember crying. See, back in 1997 not only did I not know how to make cornbread out anything but a mix, but cranberries hadn't yet hit the hexagone. Imagine a world pre-cranberries. We did get turkey breast though as far as I remember. And there are always potatoes.

1998, I participted in the American community Thanksgiving in Aix-en-Provence so that was that. Someone else did the cooking and I brought an apple crumble, the only dish I had perfected at that point.

1999 was spent with an american girl whos name I can't remember and our wannabe American boss from the news bureau we were both interning at. Turned out a friend from high school was passing through Paris so we tried our best. Our boss got a Christmas turkey stuffed with chestnuts. I can't remember the rest so that's that.

2000...was my in between period so I was back in NJ with my mom's kickass cooking.

2001 was the first Tday in Lille. My mother-in-law bought us a capon, the largest bird she could find. I hoarded baguette heals for weeks to make stuffing. I used the New England cookbook I'd given my MIL as a gift so I had it made...except the cornbread. I used forzen airelles (smaller than cranberries) to make sauce and discovered yams and double-crust pear-cranberry pie.

2002 is the year I did a buffet dinner for 20 French people. It was also the first time I made rodanchos. It was sad to be the only American there and to spend Thanksgiving explaining the whys and whats of it all...and sticking up for the holiday despite everything the Europeans did to the Native americans.

2003 is a haze. I may have been in NJ or I may just have been dtunk the whole time. Who knows. It's the year I got married.

2004 I think is the year I brought Jerome to the US for his first Thanksgiving since his mother had just lost her battle with cancer. I think he still hasn't forgotten how much Americans can pack away. Or the high school football game and marching band...

2005 was the year cranberries hit France and my parents came to visit me since I was pregnant. We went to the farm to get turkeys, my mom brought over cornbread mix and stuffing bread! We had an amazing meal with my entire family in law. It was great to be able to spend the time in the tiny galley kitchen in my apartment with my mom. And thank God my brother-in-law was there to help chop the birds.

2006 I did attempt the American Club Thanksgiving but it just wasn't right. I missed my mom's rodanchos and didn't like the sausage stuffed turkeys.

2007 was once again spent in NJ with Suzanne who got to eat an entire kosher-organic turkey leg and a half dozen of my mom's rodanchos.

2008 was a lot of work but well worth it. I finally feel like I've come into my own, not only as a cook but as an expat And I've mastered most of the Joy of cooking, especially the cornbread stuffing and the cranberry-orange relish. I will admit though that I had to call NJ to get my mom's advice on roasting turkeys. I had a nice mix of French, American and English around the house. The kids played, the anglo-saxons gorged themselves and the French drooled while the tried to restrain themselves. Since today is actually Thanksgiivng, Suzanne and I also had a Thanksgiving lunch which looked like this and included leftover turkey pot pie, cranberry sauce purchased at the supermarket, and some corn on the cob from the market.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

The cookie conundrum

This has been written about many times before me. I came across Poppyfield's (whose blog I read from time to time) post on the subject while googling for answers. But this subject still warrant to be addressed for the good of all American expats in France craving chocolate chip cookies.

Why do my chocolate chip cookies lack their chocolate chip cookie-ness?

I've been in France for over 10 years, been making chocolate chip cookies for most of my life. Yet, whenever I make them using the Tollhouse recipe from my stash of Nestle semi-sweet morsels, my cookies either crunch too much or spread, but they NEVER rise and they are NEVER gooey. My cookies are flat, boring and greasy (kind of like my hair these days, except my hair's not greasy).

I've tried increasing the flour, decreasing the butter, freezing the dough (come to think of it, the cookies I made with the frozen dough from my nesting period were not so bad), and they are always just a little off. On top of it, the baking soda and baking powder seem to leave a weird taste.

And it's not the oven because it's the same in every oven I've tried.

Is the butter too creamy? French butter is special - apparently it's all the rage in the US these days.

Does this mean that not only do I have to import chocolate chips, Arms and Hammer baking soda and Davis baking powder, but now I have to smuggle in American butter too? Can you imagine the shame at customs? It's bad enough that I drag Cabot's Seriously Sharp Cheddar back with me (did I mention the 5 pounds I had in my suitcase?)

At least what passes for "cookies" in France is still sub par to my sub par Tollhouse cookies so I'm safe from embarrassment. But still, it hurts the American pride.

Now all of this isn't a big deal and normally wouldn't make me panick but...I've promised oatmeal-cranberry cookies for Christmas gifts. I'm now taking suggestions...

Who needs basket weaving?!

I don't like the French education system, having been through it and been through public shamings for low grades.

Here is an example of why the US education system is so great. Besides the fact that you are taught to express yourself and be an independent thinker, I think this course at Georgetown (one of America's foremost universities) speaks for itself. Definitely would provide more food for thought and incite more interesting debates than I ever had at the French university since French students are taught to listen and not be heard unless they can regurgitate the answer word for word:

The Law of "24"
Professor W. Sharp
LL.M Course 853 (cross-listed) | 2 credit hours

The award winning Fox Television drama series 24 explores America’s fictional response to international terrorism through the eyes of Jack Bauer, a U.S. counter-terrorism agent. Oftentimes without remorse or regard for the law, Agent Bauer is willing to do what has to be done when faced with the threat of kidnappings, assassinations, nuclear detonations, and bioterrorism on U.S. soil – despite traitors in his family, his unit, and the White House; partisan politics; sleeper cells; and hidden agendas. This course provides a detailed understanding of a very wide-range of U.S. domestic and international legal issues concerning counterterrorism in the context of the utilitarian and sometimes desperate responses to terrorism raised by the plot of 24. Course requirements include active classroom discussion and a paper of approximately 25 pages.

911

This isn't at all what I planned on writing but let's see where this goes.

Everyone has their story of what they were doing when...

I was in Paris, just having moved back after temping in New York City for the summer. I got to know the Wall Street area for the first time as I worked, went to bars, took the ferry from Hoboken every morning. Looking at the Manhattan skyline from the Hudson River was like looking at a movie backdrop. It always seemed unreal.

On 911, I spent the morning with the 17th arrondisement tax people trying to straighten out the taxes I hadn't paid before leaving France for what I thought was forever. I needed some documents from home so I called my father around 9am NY time and he said there were strange things going on, reports of an attack at the Pentagon or something like that but he didn't seem concerned.

At 4pm, I went to pick up the kids I was babysitting for and overheard some mothers talking about something in NY, but still nothing clicked. Then I turned around and saw the father of the children I'd been babysitting for - a family from back home who'd I'd known for a long time - and he looked awful. He said totally panicked, "ok, you're here. Do you know what's happening? Get the kids and bring them home. D's brother works in one of the buildings". That's when I realized what was going on. We hovered around CNN until late in the night.

When I got back to Lille, I was shocked that no one in my French family would watch the news with me. No one could understand why I needed to watch the scenes over and over. For the first time, I felt I couldn't just get on a plane and go home. I felt isolated, misunderstood and violated. NY was my place and no one could or wanted to understand. French journalists seemed to be saying we deserved this...but did we? I tried to connect with the Lille American community but didn't find much comfort there.

About a year later, I went home for the first time. We went up to the reservation in my home town where you go to see the Manhattan sky line. As a kid, before I knew anything about highways, rivers or marshes in the Meadowlands, I thought I could just run down the hill and would end up at the foot of the Twin Towers. So looking out on Manhattan, I felt void.

The next day, my sister and I took the ferry from Hoboken to World Financial Center. Only, the movie backdrop was changed, like someone has erased part some of the scenery. We got off the ferry, headed towards Century 21 (funnily the only thing that survived around there) and I began to cry totally unexpectedly. It shouldn't be that way. There was a great emptiness, a void, and the feeling of death that I'll never forget.

The 10 year turkey itch

I've lived in France for just over 10 years now. To be even more precise, I've spent most of the past 11 years here.

I've been through the entire expat cycle of ups and downs many times. I went from wanting to fit in to wanting to be American to hating the French to hating the Americans to wanting to not be anything to just being a foreigner wherever I went. I think I can safely say, after 10 years that I am neither here nor there and most of the year, I'm fine with it.

But around this time every year, as the leaves in Lille turn brown and the sun doesn't come up until 7:30am, I start to get nostalgic for North Eastern falls. The sound of crackling leaves under my feet as I run. The beautiful red and orange trees down the street from my parents' and the smell of the chestnut trees on an Indian Summer day. I can safely say that I get downright homesick at Thanksgiving. Systematically.

I remember practically being in tears my first Thanksgiving away (and I don't think my bout with depression at the time helped or the fact that my only "friend" was a girl I'd been in college with whom I never got along - it was mutual - and ended up being in Aix -en-Provence at the same time as I). And although I've tried to do Thanksgiving most years, last year with the American club of Lille, it's not the same. I love sharing the wonderful food and warmth with French, English, St. Lucian friends. But I just want to relax and stuff my face and not have to explain why and hear," oh so you killed all the natives and now you thank them." I miss spending all morning in the kitchen with my mother and hearing my father raking the leaves outside and I miss my big sister.

People seem surprised when I still say I need to go "home" after 10 years in France. It's a bit of a puzzle really since France is home after all. My husband and daughter are here. My job, my entire adult life...

I'm often asked if I prefer France or the US. The answer isn't so straight forward. There are certain things I prefer in France like affordable universities, universal health care, job protection, etc. And certain things I prefer in the US like customer service for one! But if I went to live in the States now, I'd be like a 20 year old again. I wouldn't know the first thing about renting an apartment or paying my utilities.

It's been almost a year since I was last "home", the longest time span in 11 years. It's been 4 years since I've been home for Thanksgiving. So I hope no one will reproach me if I stuff my face in NJ this year. As Suzanne would say, "wowooo wowoo wowoo." Can't wait to be home! And now all I have to do is worry about traveling with a toddler.

French anger management

Apparently my trigger happy middle finger isn't so much of a problem after all...and I still have a lot to learn about insulting people.

As I was riding home on Friday, I crossed the main boulevard right before the light changed. Half way across, this hung over greasy gigolo looking guy in a fancy BMW almost hits me (made even worse by the fact that my brakes don't work so well). He's going left around the place and I'm going across it so we're within screaming distance so I yell "Watch out jerk!" in the vous form of course. He screams back something incomprehensible. I'm so wound up by another near death bike experience and by trying to control my middle finger so I scream "I had the right of way - you ran the light!" and he screams back "something something salope!" I stop my bike and scream louder and louder since he's in a moving vehicule "va te faire foutre enculé". As I slow down to hide among the people on the place, just to make sure he's not gonna come after me, I am greeted by a round of applause from the resident drunks.

So when I recount this to Jerome, me being so proud I was able to not flip someone off for once, he shakes his head in disbelief and says "I think I'll have to explain the intricacies of cursing people out." "But I thought the finger was really bad." "No, some people have been shot for less."

Oops. I guess I still have a lot to learn about being French and anger management.

Just like home...kind of

Damn, I was drunk when I last posted. anyway...

I used to think the UK was really weird and uncomfortable. It was so much like the US but twisted in a strange way that made it unnerving. It was like Boston on drugs : people sound funny, cars go backwards and you don't understand the jokes.

At first, I also thought the English were weird -reinforced by the English camp councilor who I've been in touch with since I was 10. We spoke the same language but didn't go much further than that...well, there was the beer and taste for cheddar cheese. But things have started to change...

The past couple times I've gone to London, I've had this feeling that London is home. The longer I'm away from home, the more London feels American (or do I feel more English?). Maybe my idea of what the US is is fuzzy or maybe London has changed, but I actually look forward to going to London in some of the same ways I look forward to a trip to the US.

I look forward to not having to make an effort to speak (although I do to understand), I look forward to the supermarkets and their cheddar cheese and cranberry juice, take out coffee, muffins, bagels, Indian food, nice English cuisine (yes, I said nice) very much like what I'd get at a typical American restaurant in NYC, people who don't look you up and down, being rude in stores and no dog shit in the street, Boot's (like CVS), Waterstone's (like Border's), strange flavored potato chips, Whole Food's, runners everywhere, houses with front and back yards and my new favorite, Wagamama which is as good as Republic in Union Square but without the wannabe actor attitude (I actually think they are connected)...shall I go on?

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside and a little homesick.

Then I realize how much money I've spent in 36 hours in London and realize, it's not quite like home...

Class of '97

As a mother's day gift, Jerome got tickets to the big track met that happen in Lille every year. I haven't been to a track meet since I last ran one in college over 10 years ago.

I can't believe it's been 10 years since I graduated from college. I always imagined showing up to reunion with my family, showing them where I lived, meeting my professors (who are all retired now!), where I got drunk, and where I led naked runs...and where I studied of course. Ironically, I haven't set foot on campus since graduation day.

When I graduated, I was "supposed" to go to France for 3 months and then come back to the US and follow my then boyfriend around the country for 2 years while he completed an internship. Instead, I stayed in France, slept on couches, ran a marathon, worked on the Champs Elysées, waited in line all night for papers on various occassions, became French, ate lots of cheese, found a wonderful husband and had a beautiful little girl...

With hindsight, I won't say that college was the best time of my life, but it definitely paved my path. Or rather, opened my eyes to the fact that my path was not paved in a straight line. Don't you love liberal arts?

When, I got my "Forever a Bobcat" :class of 97 directory" in the mail, I regretted not having sent in my page. I poured over it and actually found 2 people who mentioned me.

I've been thinking a lot about what I would have said if I had filled out my "then and now" page. I didn't do it because I thought, well, I am in touch with the people I want to be in touch with and the rest of them...who cares?

But now that I've looked through the directory (over and over) I feel a little guilty. Not only did it bring back lots of memories (like the guy who was in all my Buddhism classes who I secretly had a crush on) but I don't even remember half the people (who was Tex?)? I also feel kind of like a voyeur. I guess that's why I didn't send my page in.

Who wants 500 people who you don't remember looking at your page saying, "look how bad she aged" or "how'd he snag such an attractive wife?" or "That's the b*tch who tried to steal my boyfriend".

Maybe I'll make it to my 20 year reunion. And I'll make sure I keep running races between now and then so I can lead the class naked run. I wonder if they do that at reuion?!

Things I miss

• pints and pints of fresh blueberries all blue and firm.
• black russian bagel with chive cream cheese
• real buttermilk pancakes, just half a stack will do.
  
• Whole Foods. Do you think I could open a franchise here?
• juice sweetended cranberry juice - none of that oversweet Ocean Spray junk
• Target. Need I say more?
  
• mud pie ice cream from Emack and Bolio's.
• Cabot's private stock vermont cheddar (and their habanero cheddar too)
  
• All you can eat salad bar salads
• honey-mustard pretzels
• non-smoking restaurants, cafés, etc. But I'll get my wish in 2008.
  
• Century 21 - but the one in NJ please (no tax on clothing!)
• corn on the cob - the bread and butter variety.
  
• my amazing record collection (collecting dust and possibly melting at my parents' house)
  

I guess I also miss friends and family too sometimes.

Funny thing about the subconscious...

Guess Suzanne's outfit today was a subconscious reaction to yesterday's events...

Ugly American?

We finally went to apply for Suzanne's French passport this morning. And as we waited in line, I tried to entertain my daughter with her beloved books. As I began to read to her, Jérôme shot me a warning look. I asked what and he said we'd discuss it later.

It began to boil inside of me and 10 minutes later as we were leaving the city hall, he explained to me that I need to be careful of the people around me when I speak to my daughter in English. Jumping to conculsions as always and my pride hurt at the idea that my husband is questioning my mothering skills, I asked why I should be ashamed of speaking English to my daughter, especially since no one would be able to know where I was from anyway. I could be Canadian or Irish or Australian. Is he suggesting I speak only French to her in public? Should I be ashamed of being American?

After I calmed down, I finally understood his point: many many people don't like the US and to be honest, I wasn't exactly quiet when I started reading a poem to Suze. Jérôme is one of those hyper-sensitive people who can easily (and too often) put himself in other people's shoes, which is good and bad. So I see what he was getting at - here is a loud American in a very North African neighborhood so let's not call attention to ourselves.

So, it's making me wonder : should I be more discrete? Am I too loud with her? Should I be scared to be an American? And what kind of message will this send to Suzanne?

Renewed faith in the US Embassy in Paris

I had to renew my US passport (thank God because the photo was terrible! Taken in the dead of winter in Maine while I was doing my senior thesis...just imagine!). So I had to send it to the US Embassy in Paris.

I'd lost faith in them a couple years back when I was trying to get my papers together to apply for French nationality. I had dealt with the typical French administration, had cried many times and had already spent hundreds of € and $ on getting originals from the towns where my parents were born, married, where I was born and then getting it all translated. All for naught because this jack*** at the Lille Préfecture told me I couldn't apply yet because the law had changed retroactively, etc etc. But he told me to go to the US Embassy to get apostilles on my original papers.

When I got to the US Embassy, imagining a haven of Americanness (ie customer service and friendliness), I instead got a bitchy French fonctionaire working in MY Embassy. She told me to shove it. I swear. She told me she could do nothing for me. So I spent a long afternoon in Starbuck's being pissed off at the French and reading "A Year in the Merde".

Back to the passport...I asked the embassy to include my married name on the new passport and included a photocopy of my livret de famille (official family record book) with the form. They sent me a letter saying they needed an original within 2 weeks or they would consider my request abandoned. I immediately got an original and sent it the next day. Phew.

But, then I got my passport yesterday and it didn't have the name change. I sent them an email thinking it couldn't hurt. And do you know what they replied?! I almost fell off my seat (must be because I'm so used to French administration).

Dear Mrs. G-J,

We are terribly sorry for the mistake in your passport. As you had a previous passport issuance record at this office, we must have used it without updating it.
We will issue you a new correct passport and mail it back to you by Chronopost free of charge as soon as we receive the wrong one, if you don't mind sending it back to us.
Are you travelling anytime soon? The processing should take about a week.

We apologize for the inconvenience and hope this arrangement seems satisfactory to you. If not, please let us know.
Our direct line is 01 43 12 46 32 should you wish to reach us.


I love the US Embassy in Paris...

how to recrute a babysitter

Go running in the park!

Yesterday morning, after my orthoptist appointment (fully paid for by French social security by the way!), I went for a run. I saw a trio of American looking students on the path ahead of me and I harrassed them. I told them I knew it was a strange question but would any of them be interested in babysitting this Friday.

Not only did I feel a strong kinship with these random American students who were doing their junior year abroad, but I felt an even stronger kinship with the random parents who used to come up to me in the Parc Monceau in Paris to see if I wanted to babysit. I used to think those parents were crazy since they didn't know who I was, but helas, I've become one of them and now recognize the importance of having an American babysitter for my little half-American.

Besides, I'm getting desperate here. I need a nice Thai dinner!

I flip therefore I am

I may now be legally French but my middle finger still says I'm all American (and maybe even got some Joyzy left in me).

This morning, as I was riding my bike down one of those streets that's too narrow for cars to be parked on both sides so people park on the sidewalks (I'm sure you know exactly what I'm talking about), I heard a car gunning its engine behind me. Usually, I'll put myself just a little over to the middle to make sure the car doesn't shoot past me and knock me off my bike. But this morning, I was still dazed from Suzanne's 3 wakings. Since I didn't react, the guy in his larger than most French car, shot past me barely missing me.

I proceeded to make a wild mediterrean-like hand gesture to which he responded with the same. So I flipped him off. A big ole middle finger. I saw his brake lights go on, so I panicked for a second, but then decided to race to catch him and hit his car or something. Good thing he got away. Not like the last time I flipped someone off...

The last time, the guy actually stopped. He actually went in reverse to where I was and said :"il faut pas déconner" loosely translated, what the f**k are you doing?
To which I responded that he was the one who was deconner-ing since he passed me with only a couple centimeters, practically grazing me and he could have hurt me. Good thing he was young with long hair and seemed kind of cool, 'cause I would have keyed his car or broken a tail light or something (yeah right).

Another time I flipped someone off, I was walking down the street and someone honked, so I turned around and these 2 girls were in their car laughing at me, so I flipped them the bird. They did a U-turn - I was about 20 feet from the entrance to my building so walked really fast and casually to the door. Just as I got the door open, a large woman grabbed the door. She said something to which I said something dumb like "I don't understand". So she bitch slapped me on the arm.

So, see, I have escaped being run over and beaten by a fat French woman and yet my finger still insists on doing its thing. I guess you can take the hand out of New Jersey but you can't take the New Jersey out of the hand...

not American enough

My mother's coming for her annual visit next week. I used to ask her to drag over lots of stuff from the US, but over the years, it's less and less. the basic list these days is a pair of running shoes and some deodorant. But this time, she's lugging over stuff for the baby. she claims she's coming to visit me, but not really. She's bringing English books, Osh Kosh and Carter's clothes (more childish than French baby clothes) and some toys.

My daughter is 8 months old now. And I worry about her being too French and not American enough. Since I had to go back to work fulltime when she was 3 months old ( and 4 days a week as of January thanks to the wonderful French social system!), not only do I miss her but I also worry that she won't hear enough English or see enough American culture. I'm glad my mom will be here to take care of little S for a week.

Since little S came, being American has taken on a new meaning. I want her to know her roots and to know where mom comes from. I want to see what I saw as a kid - she loves the old Muppet Show reruns! - and have some of the same typical American experiences like summer camp. But I guess she'll be more French than American despite the chocolate chip cookies, the Dr. Seuss books and the Osh Kosh overalls.

Over the years, I've gone from wanting to be French to wanting to be very American to finally just accepting the feeling of being a foreigner here and there. I guess little S will have to deal with that to an even greater extent. I just hope I can prepare her for that, just a little bit.