Let Us Eat Cake!

Last year, I bought a King's Cake and some Champomy (sparkling apple juice) for me and CSI to celebrate Epiphany. No, I'm not turning Catholic. But I have gotten to where I do like participating in yummy tasting cultural traditions around me, and learning where the tradition comes from. If it's celebrating a certain saint, while I believe that every believer is a saint (saved by grace), I also think it's great to look at the lives of those who have gone before us. Learn from them. I can appreciate their testimonial life without worshipping them. And I can eat their cake.

So...January 6 is Epiphany. I know, I know, it's January 26 when I'm writing this. I'm a little behind. You can blame CSI. (Ha!) Epiphany is supposedly when the Magi (kings) arrived to bring their gifts to baby Jesus. (So, when you're setting up your little manger scenes next Christmas season, you should really put your three wise men off somewhere away from the manger. They're in route...not arrived yet. Camelridingcowgirl does this and I think it's brilliant.)

Since gold, frankincense, and myrrh don't taste so good, and we live in the country where good eatin' is a national pastime, why not bring baby Jesus a cake instead? Works for me! The king's cake is sold throughout the entire month of January in pretty much every bakery and grocery store in France. And I totally think it's acceptable to eat more than once.

Inside the cake is la fève, a little trinket. Or is supposed to be. That's where this year's king's cake comes into the story. Here's a picture of last year's king's cake.

A sweet little Japanese girl that would crack your tooth if you bit down on it. Whoever's slice of the cake has la fève gets to be king/queen for the day and where the crown that comes with the cake...And has to buy next year's cake. CSI got la fève, and thus had to provide this year's cake.

She brought the cake this year, and we were all hoping that the Artist would get la fève. CSI and Pantene will both be gone next January (sad, let's not talk about that), and so the Artist really needs to get la fève so that she can buy the cake. I suppose in French tradition, the youngest person at the party is supposed to sit under the table and call out who gets which slice, so as to ensure that la fève is given at random. For some reason...we couldn't convince CSI to get under the table?

When serving the cake, we realized that it was not apple (like the yumminess of last year), but almond paste. Count me out.

CSI bit into what she thinks is a giant nut, and exclaimed that it's all rubbery.

"Is it la fève?"

"No...it looks like a nut. And tastes like rubber."

She spit it back out, and we examine it. It looked like...a bean. Not a trinket.

WE GOT GYPPED!

I went over the computer and began to read from Wikipedia (the source of all true and correct knowledge for the information junkie), and it turns out...France has several kinds of king's cakes. I prefer the APPLE one, please. And down here in the South, it is more common to have the traditional bean in the cake than a trinket. Or a sweet little baby Jesus (as a popular blogger would call him).

We got gypped.

Pantene didn't seem to mind that we got gypped, since she got to wear the crown for a bit. What girl doesn't love a little diadem-al bling?

Later, CSI went back for a second slice, and it turned out...there was also a little baby Jesus in the cake. Not or. And. If one person found the bean, and one found the little baby Jesus, who gets to be king/queen for the day and wear the crown? I suppose the one who found the little baby Jesus.

It seems a little weird to me to put a little baby Jesus into a cake. What if you bit Him!? Does it honor Him to have Him smothered in almond paste? How does He feel about you taking His rightful crown and wearing it, simply because you found Him? Should I save all my king's cakes' crowns from over the years to lay back down at His feet one day? What does it say about my faith in Jesus that I'm disappointed that there wasn't a little Japanese fève but instead a poorly crafted but appropriated covered baby Jesus in the cake?

My little French quilting store

I recognize that I don't live somewhere exotic like China or India, and that life for me in France is much easier than for those who do live in those type places. I don't have to make my own cheese or chase monkeys away from my laundry. But some days, it still isn't easy here. Well, it's not as easy as in America. In America, if I realize that my sewing machine is missing it's foot, I can go to Joanne's and buy a new foot. (Don't ask me how my machine lost a foot because I JUST DON'T KNOW.) In America, if I didn't have a Joanne's in my town...my town would be small enough to have its own homegrown quilting store and everyone would know everyone and I'd be able to find it. I recognize that in China or India, it wouldn't be that easy. Well, it's not that easy in France either.

I needed to find a foot for my machine. "Foot" is one of those words that you can't just put into the google translator and hope it gives you the correct word for the mechanical part that attaches to the machine. It's sort of like trying to look up the verb "to snake," (as in a drain). Not so easy.

Pantene suggested that we go to Eurodif, a nifty little store that has a sewing section. They did sells needles and thread and bobbins and zippers and buttons and pins. But nothing hanging on the wall looked like a sewing machine foot. Oh boy. Here goes my daily dose of humbling myself to look like the village idiot.

"Excuse me, ma'am? Hello. I'm looking for something that I don't know how to say in French. It is part of the sewing machine, is shaped like this, the needle goes through it like this, and in English we call it a 'foot.'" She stared at me for a minute like I was the village idiot until everything I'd said sunk in.

"Oh! You mean 'a deer's foot?' We don't sell those."

"Well, do you know where I could buy one?"

She (and the woman hanging out nearby us who decided to just join in the conversation) explained how to find this sewing store. "Head to the big square just off the port, climb the stairs, and turn right down the first street. You'll see it off one of the streets up there." (Reminded me of my UAE days when people would tell me to head to the "big round-a-bout" and turn at the mosque, and it's the building by the two palm trees.)

Pantene and I headed in that direction, figuring maybe we'll find it. Once we got on the first street at the top of the stairs, we walked for a block or two until we saw a seamstress' shop. It wasn't what we were looking for, but maybe she would know. We went in there, and I explained, "Hello ma'am. I'm new in town and I'm looking for a store where I can buy a deer's foot for my sewing machine. Do you know where there is one near here?" She grinned at us with a "bless their hearts" grin and gave us directions. "Head back down this street a bit, and after the Lidl, don't turn down the first little street, but the second one. You'll find it there." I noticed her antique Singer machine and my heart warmed from the connection I shared with her over it.

We followed her directions, and sure enough, there was a sewing store. They sold all sorts of stuff for sewing machines, and looked like they did their own sewing in house as well.

They sold beautiful fabrics that made my heart soar (not sore, but soar). And they repaired regular sewing machines AND antique sewing machines. But I'm getting ahead of myself. They also sold...quilting materials!!! Boards, rotary cutters, measuring sticks, hand-quilting thread, patterns and more! I was in my own little quilter's heaven.
I went to the back to ask the repairman about my sewing machine. I explained that I really didn't know most of the terms that go with a sewing machine, and he told me to sit down, we'd figure it out! So I explained, as best I could, the ways my machine was being persnickety...missing a foot and not having been used for 2.5 years can do that to a machine. He told me how to detach the whole needle arm, and to bring that in, and he'd find the right foot for my machine. (Which, by the way is a Toyota! Who knew that Toyota made anything besides cars?!) As he was talking, I noticed all the antique machines behind him in his repairman's work area. Maybe I could bring Jasmine to him?

As I went to pay for the fabric I bought, I found yet another reason to love my little French quilting store. They use an antique cash register from America!
Look at those fun buttons! And the change drawers inside are beautiful wood.

It even has the awesome little tabs that pop up with the price like something from long before the Price is Right ever came up with pricing games to showcase something cool like this.

I walked away from my little French quilting store with a happy heart. Happy that while it wasn't as easy as Joanne's, and it took asking in two other stores first, I found what I was looking for without that much difficulty. I found something in France that can help me keep being American me...in France. Another step towards adaptation. Another step towards settling down. Another step towards being content to just live life here.

Chair Delivery

Within an hour of writing my previous post about feeling more confident in my language abilities when speaking outside of my comfort zone, I had a foreigner moment that pushed me to angry tears and a call to the Superhero to see if I could have handled things better.

A few weeks ago, I ordered my first real piece of furniture from a store's website. I decided to order it online and pay for it to be delivered to my home so that I wouldn't have to inconvienence any of my friends to have to lift it from the car to the elevator. As much as I love my kung-fu chiropractor, I don't want to send any of my friends to her because they helped me move a chair that could have been delivered for a small fee of 35 euros.

After a week, I received an email from the store that the chair was ready to be shipped, and that they use a moving company to deliver their goods. I could trace the status of my chair with a particular ID number.

This was a little weird to me, but okay, whatever. I've never had anything delivered from a store before, so what do I know about how it works? The delivery company called me last week and told me that they would deliver it on Wednesday between 2-6pm. I asked if it were possible for Tuesday, since I already had plans on Wednesday at that time. "You don't get to choose when. It'll be there Wednesday between 2-6pm." Alrighty then. (One of my new cultural pet peeves here in France is every time they say, "Madame, you don't have the right to do xyz." The American in me gets all riled up being told I don't have the right. But that's a whole other blog post...)

So I missed my plans for today (they couldn't be changed) and sat here catching up on blogs while waiting for the delivery of my beautiful leather chair. My phone rang at almost 5pm, and the man told me he had a delivery for me. I said, "Come on up, it's the third floor." He interrupted me and asked if I could come downstairs.

I went downstairs and he says, "You paid for a ground floor delivery. Normally, if you want it delivered up the stairs, you have to pay another 50 euros."

I explained that I didn't understand that from the website when I purchased it. It didn't differentiate between a ground floor or higher-up delivery. I paid for a delivery already, I shouldn't have to pay for more.

"Yes, but you paid for a ground floor delivery."

"Well, that's ridiculous. Why would I pay for it to be delivered partially? You can't carry it into the elevator?"

He responded, "It's not heavy."

I looked at him with a look of incredulity, and exclaimed, "I'm a GIRL! I'm not going to carry that chair by myself! I paid for it to be delivered...to my apartment, not to just my building's front step."

His buddy bent over to begin picking up the chair, and they put it into the elevator, then brought it into my living room, and had me sign that it was delivered. I told them thank you, and hurried to get them out of my apartment.

The talkative one then turned to me at the doorway and said, "Madame, we had an arrangement."

"A what?" I asked.

"An arrangement."

"No, we didn't." The quiet one said, "She doesn't understand man. Let's go." (I probably should have shut up then.)

"No, no, I understand. I didn't understand downstairs nor did I agree to an arrangement. I told you, I already paid for a delivery. I don't think I should pay more for you to have put it the elevator and then carried it out of the elevator. That's ridiculous."

At this point, I felt very uncomfortable, as a single female with a guy I am perceiving to be sneaky, in my home. I wanted him to leave, and in the stress of the moment, decided that just paying him the 50 euros he wanted was the easiest way to do so. I couldn't think fast enough to demand a number to call, or even a receipt for the 50 euros. I just wanted him gone, and 50 bucks would do that. So I paid him 50 euros, shut (and locked) my door...

...and realized that I probably was just scammed.

About 10 minutes later, my phone rang. It was the guy! He'd accidently called me back, but since I had him on the phone, I asked if he could come back and give me a receipt.

"Madame, I gave you the receipt from the store."

"No, I want one for the 50 euros I gave to you."

"Madame, I can't give you a receipt for that...it was an arrangement. Between you and me."

Then I got mad. "An arrangement I didn't agree to! You...(and at a loss for the word for "scammed," "tricked," "duped,")...you lied to me!"

Well then he got mad. He began yelling at me into the phone that he was not a liar, that he never lied to me, that he was a worker doing his job, and he had not lied to me.

Still not able to find the word, I said, "You're right. You didn't lie...you stole from me!" Dagnabit that I couldn't find the word for "took advantage of" right at that moment.

Seeing that I was quickly loosing my temper and not reflecting Christ at all, I said goodbye and hung up the phone. I did a quick google translate, found the words I needed, and sent him a text, where I apologized for calling him a liar. I explained that it was the only word I could find at that moment. And that I felt he had scammed me, since I didn't understand nor agree to "an arrangement." Well played, mister, for taking advantage of a foreigner. He tried calling me back five times, to which I never answered. (Men round these parts always need to have the final word in a fight, and I wasn't going to argue with him anymore. Seeing how I wasn't going to get my money or a receipt, there was no need to talk to him again.)

I called the Superhero (who's been living in France forever), and recounted the whole story. Did I do right to pay him? What should I have done? What would you have done? Did I get taken advantage of? Besides losing my temper over the phone, how could I have handled this one better?

The Superhero said that seeing as I was a single female home alone with two strange men in my apartment, I did the right thing to just pay them the money. I expressed my frustration at being a foreigner and not fully understanding what was going on. He said, "bettercountry...your French is good enough that I am fully confident that you understood what he said to you. He took advantage of you, as a female, yes; as a foreigner, maybe; but it was not a language miscommunication. As a man, I would have handled it differently because men can do that. You did what you felt most comfortable doing at that moment, and it was the right thing." Well. That made me feel a little better.

When it's all said and done, I have my lovely leather chair, and that guy got blessed with an extra 50 euros at Christmas time.

Yes, it's facing away from the TV. I wanted a piece of furniture to face the couch, so that when I'm just sitting and visiting with friends, the living room has a triangle-of-conversation sitting places. It's light enough to easily pick up and turn to face the TV when a bunch of people are over to watch a movie.

But not light enough that I should have had to put it in/out of the elevator after having paid a delivery fee.

Going to the Pharmacist

Pharmacies in France work a bit like going to a general practitioner: you can go into one, tell them your ailments, and they give you medicine. There are plenty of medicines they can't give you without a prescription...but it can save you a good bit of money to go to them first to find out whether you need to go to the doctor.

My eye has been bothering me for a day or two, and today I finally saw in it what I'd expected: a stye. I've had them before, and I usually put a warmed teabag on it several times throughout the day until it goes away. (I read somewhere online that there's something healthy in the tea leaves that helps heal the stye.) This time, I decided to go see if the pharmacist had some handy-dandy drop I could use instead.

First, however, I would need to find the word for 'stye.' "That's easy," you think to yourself. "You just look up 'stye' in your dictionary and voila! You know the word." Not so fast, smarty pants. (Master Yoda, I'm looking at you.)

I did that, and both wordreference and Google Translate both gave me two words for the one word 'stye': orgelet and porcherie. In that second word, however, is the root word for 'pig,' (porc), and I suddenly realized: eek! Pig stye! I don't want to walk into the pharmacist and tell them, "I have a pig stye in my eye." Might be funny because of the rhyme in English (and the sense), but in French, eegads. That's a quick route to a culture shock moment in the pharmacy right there.

I looked up "orgelet" in Google images and sure enough it's the right word. A little shy, I walked up to the pharmacist and said, "I have an, um, orgelet in my eye. Is there a medicine I can put on it?" She nodded and explained that they have some drops they could give me, but if it didn't get better I'll need to go to the doctor.

She apparently didn't know about the tea bag trick. She also didn't appear to realize that her understanding my question, answering it, and treating me like I was 100% normal, (instead of the "oh no, a foreigner with a charming yet incomprehensible accent" attitude), without even batting an eye helped me take another step towards feeling adjusted here.

I got my drops and felt proud of learning a new word and side-stepping a culture shock moment in the pharmacy. We'll see if the drops work better than the tea bag.

The Sick Box

Today's post is inspired by two past events and two ladies. The first event happened almost 12 years ago. The second one happened about one month ago. One of the ladies is real, the other proverbial. Sit back and recall with me.

On All Saint's Day, 1999, (yes, I meant to type 1999), I went to an All Saint's Day weekend retreat with some friends in Portugal. (It was that weekend when I stopped drinking milk in my coffee, because, well, there was no milk. But that's another story.) While a fun weekend, it was difficult, because I'd only been in Portugal a few months and was still working my way through learning that language. And I caught an e.coli infection.

Ugg.

It took me several weeks to get over that. On Thanksgiving Day, I was finally feeling better. However, one of my friends at the dinner party I attended that day had bronchitis. My weakened immune system wasn't prepared to fight bronchitis, and well... I caught bronchitis.

Ugg.

It turned into the worst case of bronchitis ever. I was physically incapable of exhaling without wheezing and coughing. (It was so bad I began searching "whooping cough symptoms" on the internet.) About a week before my Christmas vacation was scheduled to begin, I went to the doc and pretty much told him he had to make me better. I'd been sick for six weeks, and I was not going to miss my first Christmas vacation overseas (and my trip to Belgium and France) due to a pesky cough. He gave me some more intense meds and told me to stay out of the snow in Belgium and France.

However...I got caught in a snowfall one evening and there were no taxis to be found. Can anyone say "relapse?"

I spent the second half of my vacation with a high fever, the whooping cough, and feeling utterly miserable. I don't really remember much at all about my first time to Paris because my fever was so unbelievably high. I went to the doctor the minute I returned to Portugal and found out...I had pneumonia, and a 105ish fever. Eek.

When I pleaded and cried to not hospitalize me, but give me one more night in my own bed to break the fever, he agreed. He gave me stronger antibiotics and told me to come back the next day. I didn't want to be hospitalized because I was the only American I knew (at the time) in the country. Everyone had gone on vacation for the holiday, and well...the idea of being in the hospital, alone, and still not knowing the language well made me feel even worse than I already felt...which was like death.

My fever did break. However, I developed a fungal reaction to the antibiotics called thrush, (click the link if you want to be grossed out by the picture of exactly what my tongue looked like)...and well, the doctor was tired of seeing me at his office. He gave me more meds, and quarantined me for 10 days. No one in my apartment, and I could not leave. That was all fine and dandy, except that, since I'd been on vacation the week before, I had no food in the house. And my gas bottle was empty.

Enter small crisis. After several emails and phone calls, a kind stranger (who became a friend afterwards), bought me groceries and a gas bottle and left it all on my door step.

Fast forward 12 years to last month, when I got food poisoning. It came about a week after I'd read an article by The Fly Lady about making being sick a "day at the beach." The Fly Lady's article was about being prepared for sick kids, and how to make having sick kids a little bit more pleasant. I read it and thought, "I don't have kids." A week later, after that miserable night with my head in the toilet, I remembered that article and thought, "I could be more prepared to get sick."

I was lucky last month to have the Real Mrs. McCoy here to help scrape together some chicken soup from what I had in the pantry. I didn't have any Sprite, so we all drank Schweppes instead. She made a quick run to the store and picked up what we needed to eat the BRATS diet until our stomachs could handle more.

After that, I decided I wanted to be more prepared. I live by myself, and don't have someone (roommate, spouse, mom, etc) who can run to the store for me when I get sick...and who knows when that will happen? And while I have plenty of friends around who could help me, I can't help but recall that December of 1999 when everyone was out of the country.

Proverbs 31 says that that superhero of Christian women is "not afraid of snow for her household," (or sickness), and she laughs at the time to come (even sick days, I bet). I'm guessing that she had a crock pot and a deep freezer too. And because she did, she could make the Sick Box, and laugh at those winter colds to come in flu season in France.

The Sick Box is a shelf on my pantry that will remain untouched until the day that I get sick and need it... or Spring next year when I do some spring cleaning and replace it all with new items so that the expiration dates don't bring added sickness. In the Sick Box are: 2 large bottles of Sprite, 2 large boxes of multi-vitamin juice, applesauce, plain crackers, 2 boxes of tissues, and a full package of toilet paper. (Cause what if you ran out while you were sick? Do you really want to go to the store with the shivers and a sore throat just for some TP?)

And the part of the Sick Box not pictured: Chicken Soup in the freezer. Sore throat when I go to bed one night? Pull the Sick Box Chicken Soup from the freezer to the fridge. In the morning, throw it all in the crock pot, and voila! My crock pot becomes my nurse. Can you hear me laughing at the days to come?

Hahaha. Bring it winter in France!

P.S. If you have kids and want a copy of that "sick day at the beach" article, let me know and I'll email it to you.

P.P.S. Pantene, CSI, and the Artist: I made enough soup for each of our three apartments. You can pick it up the next time you come over.

Eggs Benedict

When I was 10 years old, my family and I were living in South Korea, and we (well, my parents) decided to go to Japan for spring break. I don't remember very much about that trip, but here's what I do remember:

• Flying space available on a non-commercial military flight. LOUD.
  
• Going up to Mount Fuji wearing shorts and being shocked to see snow in the spring.
• Cherry blossoms. Probably when my love for them began.
• Crowded, crowded, crowded.
  
• Being in love with our beautiful hotel, so much so that I didn't want to leave it. I still remember that the bedding was a gorgeous shade of yellow that made me feel like I was wrapped up in beams of sunlight.
• Eating Eggs Benedict for breakfast at the hotel.

I've always loved Eggs Benedict ever since. What's not to love? Bread: yum. Canadian bacon: yum. Eggs: yum. Creamy sauce to mop it all up in: yum.

Fast forward 8 billion years to two years ago. Like most of the rest of America, I watched Julie & Julia, and as someone who likes cooking, thought--I ought to try cooking Julia Child recipes. I mean, why not, right? I live in France! So last year, my parents gave me Mastering the Art of French Cooking as a birthday present, and sent me on my way back to France. Living in the hotel, however, intimidated me away from trying out Julia, and I didn't pick up the book until a month ago.

Last month, the Artist arrived in France and was staying with me while waiting for her apartment to become available. One night, we watched Julie & Julia, and we became inspired to inaugurate the cookbook by trying out Hollandaise sauce. Let me reprint what Julia had to say about Hollandaise sauce here:

"Hollandaise sauce is made of warmed egg yolks flavored with lemon juice into which butter is gradually incorporated to make a thick, yellow, creamy sauce. It is probably the most famous of all sauces, and is often the most dreaded, as the egg yolks can curdle and the sauce can turn. It is extremely easy and almost foolproof to make in the electric blender... But we feel it is of great importance that you learn how to make hollandaise by hand, for part of every good cook's general knowledge is a thorough familiarity with the vagaries of egg yolks under all conditions." (Pg. 79)

Well, I misread that paragraph last month. I read the "extremely easy and almost foolproof" and somehow missed the "in the electric blender" part. I, being a rule-follower, felt I needed to make it by hand first, since that what Julia said should be done. I whisked and whisked and whisked, and after probably 30 minutes (instead of less than 5) of whisking, and even following the "if your sauce doesn't thicken" instructions, gave up. The sauce never thickened, and it was evident it never was going to. Oh boy was I ever disappointed, frustrated, and downright mad.

The Artist and I ate one lousy dinner that night. The next night, I made a Rachel Ray recipe that was easy and foolproof and thought to myself, "I guess I am a Rachel Ray cook and not a Julia Child cook." However, I'd like to be both.

So I decided to try again today. Skipping that whole "by hand" nonsense, I went straight for the blender. And guess what? Julia was right. It was "extremely easy and almost foolproof." I did manage, as I always do, to make a disaster of my kitchen, getting butter sprayed everywhere. (Julia said, "You may need to protect yourself with a towel during this operation," and um, she was right.) It's no wonder that when Sue-Wee bought me a Christmas present back in 2007, she didn't buy me one apron, but two.

I got my English muffin ready and cooked up the "bacon." (France does not have yummy bacon like the US, but they have good enough substitutes that don't look like bacon but taste good.) I made the Hollandaise sauce, and had it ready. The last part was also new for me: poaching an egg. I've never poached an egg. And from the scene in the movie, I was a little nervous that I might mess it up. But I followed the instructions exactly, dropping the egg softly into the simmering water, and then immediately and gently pushing the white over the yolk. (You read that in Julia without seeing it done and think, "huh?," but in the process, it makes sense.) The egg whites looked all ghostly in the water, and just like in the movie, I stood over the pot enthralled with watching the eggs poach.

There I am staring at the water wondering if I am ruining my eggs like I had ruined my sauce the first time around last month. I scooped them out of the water after 4 minutes, followed the rest of the recipe, and assembled my Eggs Benedict! Here's the final product.

I was so proud of how it all looked...but would it taste good? It did! I was so happy! I did overcook one of the eggs, but the other one was perfect. 26.5 years after eating Eggs Benedict for the first time, I was able to make them myself. Thank you, Julia.

Yet another post office story

I could write a book just on post office stories.

I went this week with the following items:

• A business envelope addressed to Turkey (not to "a turkey," but to someone who lives in "the country of Turkey," lest someone suggest I am name-calling, which I am not).
• A business envelope addressed to the USA.
• Two more-square-than-rectangle shaped white envelopes addressed to the USA.
• A yellow more-square-than-rectangle shaped envelope addressed to France.
• An 8x11 envelope filled with two books, folded in half and taped together so that it is shaped like a package (which is really what it is), but in an envelope, addressed to France.

I waited in the long line for the woman behind the counter to help me because as is usual for me, I did not have enough change for the do-it-yourself machine. When it finally came to be my turn, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She picked up the Turkey envelope first, put it on the scale, and typed Turkey into the computer.

Something clearly went wrong.

She squinted at the machine, shook her head in confusion, reached over to the envelope, picked it up, and then placed it back onto the scale. After a moment and another attempt to type Turkey into the computer, she said, "I don't believe it." She looked at me with a sheepish apologetic look on her face and said, "My computer just crashed. Sorry."

She directed me to the other line, to which I moved and began my wait all over again. When I got to the front of that line, I handed her my large stack of international mail. She seemed a little perplexed, but the ever-capable French governmental worker will not be stumped by an envelope to Turkey, oh no! She will prevail!

She sorts it all and decides to work on the stack to the US first. They get stamped. Then she eyes the Turkey envelope, types it in, and gets a stamp out of the machine. We're good, right? Because the other things are for France, which should not be too difficult for a French postal worker.

She picks up the yellow more-square-than-rectangle envelope and says, "This doesn't work in France."

So I can mail one that shape the the Unites States--across an ocean?!--but I can't mail it here in France?! I ask her why not, and she replies, "Because I have to click 'personal letter' or 'business documents.' It's clearly not a business document (eyeing that canary yellow with suspicion), nor a personal letter. What IS this?!"

"It's a personal letter...in a card. A canary yellow card." (Okay, I didn't say the canary yellow part.)

She clicks "personal letter" in the computer, and shocker of all shockers! the computer gives her a stamp. It's clear that she's amazed that such an envelope can, actually, be mailed in France.

Then she picks up the small package and says, "This doesn't work either. Is it a package? Is it a letter? It's neither. How can I mail this?"

Now obviously I have never worked in a post office. Nor do I have good experiences when in them. But I have mailed my fair share of items around the world, and I am of the belief system that anything can be mailed for a price. If Donald Trump wanted to mail me an elephant, someone would figure out how to get a stamp to stick on the thing's trunk and I would have to find somewhere to house that elephant, because it would end up on my doorstep here in France. (Actually, it wouldn't...because the French postman would probably say, "I can't deliver this.")

Anyway, I stare at her for a moment. Did the postal woman just ask me how to mail my package? Can't she just stick it on the scale, and put a stamp according to the weight? No. She's got to click either package or letter, and the fact that it is neither is blowing her mind.

"Can it be a letter? Because that's probably cheaper and easier than a package, right?"

"Yes, with a package, you'd have to fill out this form." Because this is France, and of course there is a form for everything.

"Then it's a letter."

Her mind blows right in front of me, and I see smoke coming out of her ears as she clicks letter in the computer, weighs the package, and is shocked to see that the computer accepts the weight of it as a letter.

I wanted to say, "Now, that wasn't so difficult, was it?" but she still seemed in shock.

Post offices. What is it with me and them?

Contraband!

When I lived in Portugal, I lived near the British food store (the only one at the time), which made me very popular among expats. I could bring them Dr. Pepper, Pop-Tarts, Ranch dressing and more. (All of which are American things, not British things, but we were so happy to have access to them that we didn't quibble over semantics.) In Paris, it can pretty easy to come by certain things...but there are still some things we just cannot get here in France. At least, not easily or inexpensively.

You'd be amazed at the things you begin to long for when you don't have access to them. I never eat pop-tarts anymore when in the states...I mean, I live in the land of heavenly pastries. But show me a Pop-Tart here in France, and I get all giddy. Like last year, when I discovered Philadelphia Cream Cheese had finally made it to France.

When I moved to Marseille, the camelridingcowgirl informed me that two of my favorite things in the world to eat could now be bought at Picard, the frozen food store: pureed pumpkin (no more asking for cans to be brought over from the US), and bagels! I've been happily eating both for three months now.

This past weekend, she and I (and some other friends) went to the big giant Wal-Mart-esq store. On the "international foods aisle," where one normal finds Italy (olive oil!), Asia (rice and soy sauce!), Portugal (salted cod!), possibly Britian (Heinz baked beans!), and possibly North Africa (couscous!), this time we found...

I saw the Hershey's syrup and near about fell over. That is an item that is normally requested to be brought over. Chocolate, Strawberry, AND Caramel? Really?! I then about keeled over and died when I saw the price: 7 euros! (That's nearly $10, folks!) I don't like Hershey's syrup that much.

I looked up and saw that they had made a whole USA section in the International Foods aisle! What?! Wowzah! Aunt Jemima syrup AND pancake mix! Real Canadian maple syrup (for 21 euros a jug, I'll take the Aunt Jemima's, please for 5.)

Marshmellows! Pickles! Goldfish! Yucky jelly that cannot be as good as the jelly you can buy in France, but hey! It comes in a plastic squeezable tube! Paul Newman's microwave popcorn! Salad dressing! (But no Ranch.) Cheesecake from a box! (Which, who needs now that we have Philly cream cheese?!) Peanut Butter! (None of it the good kind!)

We began to laugh at the selection. I mean, really, who chose this stuff? If I were going to import American products and sell them at expensive prices, I'd put stuff Americans would pay for: Dr. Pepper and Mountain Dew, Kraft Mac n Cheese, Girl Scout Cookies, Rotel, Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix, Baking Powder, Ranch dressing, Burts Bees Lip Balm, oh, the list could go on and on. But you sure won't find Strawberry Marshmellow Fluff on that list.

So I passed by the USA shelf with an empty cart. (I've got two bottles of Aunt Jemima's in the pantry, brought over this summer by the interns.) I guess I'll have to keep going to My American Market for the stuff Americans want in France until the Wal-Mart-esq place figures out what to order to stock their shelves.

One thing I took a picture of, because I've wanted to point it out for awhile now... In America, (and now in France!), there is a salad dressing called "French." However, it is très American, because I've never seen salad dressing like that in France... As well, there is a brand of yellow mustard in America called French's...that you cannot get in France as well. Nor is any mustard in France (the land of mustard) quite like French's. Interesting.

And this deli-brown mustard? Well, they oughta call that French mustard.

Swan Lake

This past summer, while I was in Paris, Hugs and I kept seeing posters advertising Swan Lake performed by the Russian Ballet. After a few times of discussing how cool it would be to go see it, we decided...why not buy tickets? November 1st is a holiday (All Saints Day), so we booked our tickets for that day. I took the early morning Marseille-Paris train up, and the early morning Paris-Marseille train back the next day.

I know I've seen the Nutcracker (although I can't remember when), but other than that, I can't recall ever going to the ballet. Now, after having been to the ballet, I wonder...why didn't I ever go before?!

I love the tu-tus. I love the music. I love the pirouettes. I love the toe-points. I love absence of words for three hours. I love hearing the sound of slippers in unison. I love that a woman can move so elegantly she looks graceful as a swan. I loved dressing up for a fun night with Hugs.
I loved that I live somewhere that I can hop on a train to spend the day in Paris. I loved the train ride back watching all the fall leaves in the French countryside being wrapped in a thin fog sheath. I loved my 24-hour getaway that included guiltless reading for hours, taking a nap, a bacon cheeseburger at the American diner, (yes, when I have one meal in Paris that is my go-to choice), seeing the ballet on All Saint's Day, and just being a girl soaking up all the girliness of the ballet. I don't want to don a tu-tu, but I may spin pirouettes in my apartment for a good long while...

Bus Mystery

One of the things that is hard about blogging is that sometimes a very blog-worthy something happens...but you don't know exactly what is going on, and thus, it's like a story without an ending.

The Mrs.Real McCoy and I were sitting on a bus waiting for it to leave. We were already in a very non-Frenchy neighborhood, and this bus was headed towards an extremely non-Frenchy neighborhood. All of a sudden, I see four very Frenchy men in business suits walking shoulder to shoulder towards our bus. In front of them was a news-camera person, and a news-microphone person. Behind them were a group of police.

They got on the bus, pointed to something above the driver's head, spoke for a few minutes, with the microphone lady interviewing them, and then got right back off the bus. I am sure they were doing a clip for that evening's 6 oclock news. But I have no idea whatsoever what the news story was. (And I didn't care enough to watch the news that night to find out...I don't know what time the news comes on, I don't know how to work my cable channels, and French tv scares me.)

It was all very intriguing...but as I said, I didn't know what was going on. Which is something I've felt alot lately.

• When I set up my utilities account, I repeated back to the woman over the phone what I understood about my bill. She told me I'd understood correctly. Since then, my utilities bill has not been anything like what she'd told me that day. I don't know at all how it works. I just pay it when it comes.
• When I set up my phone contract, I was told I would pay a certain amount. Since then, my phone bill has not once been the amount I agreed to, even though I haven't been using all my minutes. I don't know at all why it's not correct. I just pay the amount my statement says.
• I received some kind of invoice in my mailbox about the elevator. I don't know what it is. I don't know why it came to me. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. I don't even know who to call to ask about it. I did show it to my neighbor and they said they don't know why it came to me either, but it's not a bill and there's nothing for me to pay. It's just letting me know (and not the rest of the building), that they worked on the elevator.
• I don't know how to change my lightbulbs. (Track lighting...ack!)
• I don't know why my ivy is dying.
• I don't know why Julia Child Hollandaise sauce didn't thicken.

Even though I've been here for more than four years...there are still a million little things that happen that I don't understand or know how to do and I'm still too shy to ask. Some days, when it takes half the day just to buy groceries, and you can't get diapers for your friends because all the stores are closed on Sundays, and you follow the instructions but the sauce doesn't thicken...it's enough just to shrug your shoulders and accept that you don't understand. You don't know why. The bus mystery will never be explained.

Maybe this week I'll work on figuring out my bills and buy a new ivy to replace the one I killed.

Camargue Cross

Just west of where I live, there is a region called the Camargue. It is known for salt, flamingoes, and beautiful white horses. It's on my wish list of places to go in France. Once, when I was near there, I saw gorgeous crosses for sale that are the symbol of the Camargue.

The Camargue Cross has an anchor, a heart, and a cross, which represent hope, faith and love. It is so unique and beautiful to me that I bought one to hang in my house.

This week, I finally got to get the Real McCoys up to Notre Dame de la Garde (something that didn't happen the last time they were here). The big church on the hill offers a great view of the city and the sea, and is one of Marseille's main tourist attractions. As many times as I've been up there, though, I'd never seen this statue of the Camargue Cross. Isn't it just lovely? Much more lovely than the actual "church" that is up there with it.

For those of you who don't remember, I am not a big fan of Notre Dame de la Garde. I'll take a cross over a big gold statue of someone who is not God any day. Especially a cross that reminds me to make the cross my anchor and to let love stem out of it.

Grocery Shopping

In America, we have Wal-Mart and Target. In France (and the rest of the world), there is Carrefour...the French version of Wal-Mart. It's huge. It's covenient. It's one-stop shopping. And just like I can't handle Wal-Mart, I can't handle Carrefour. Too big. Too many people. (I inevitably always get run over by someone's cart.) It's just not for me unless I have to go there. And besides...I have to take two buses to get there. No thanks.

For the most part, I hate going grocery shopping. I'm not even sure I can put a finger on why I hate it, I just do. Everyone has their thing, right? Me...I enjoy ironing and mopping. Something about the mindless back and forth motion is very soothing to me. But grocery shopping? ick. Filling up the cart, bagging veggies, checking out, lugging all the groceries home...and all of it entails spending money that in just a few days will leave nothing to show for the money being gone.

About a year ago, I began making a weekly menu, and creating my grocery list from the menu. That way, I wasn't buying extra (and thus, having food go bad when I didn't use it in time...something else that I hate), and was able to stick to my budget for groceries. Something about the process made grocery shopping more tolerable. (Although, in Bez, grocery shopping could never be pleasant, because the Lost Boys all hung out in front the grocery store, and they were creepy.)

Here in Marseille, I stuck to my menu planning/grocery list shopping, and was overwhelmed during my first few weeks to find that I was spending way more than I had been in Bez and even Paris on groceries...even though I was buying the same things...minus meat (which is the most expensive thing). I decided that since I'm not paying money for gas, I might as well travel to a cheaper store to save the money on groceries.

So I did a bread basket research of my own to discover which grocery store was overall the cheapest, out of the three that are within walking distance. That led me to do most of my shopping at Monoprix, except for produce, meat, and frozen foods. For meat and frozen foods, I go to the frozen food store called Picard...which has bagels (!) and pureed pumpkin (!) and the cheapest chicken breasts I could find. And as you already know, I get my produce from the Arab market in Noailles.

Unless I just don't have time to run down there. Then I go to my local grocery man. If I could do all my shopping at the local grocery man, I'd be a happy girl and recant my hatred for grocery shopping.

He sells the basic produce (but no Cubanelle peppers...sorry Rachel Ray), meats, dairy, olives, honeys, wine, plants, and... antique books! It cracks me up. At first I didn't get why he sold books with all his food stuff. Then, the other night, I needed a few quick veggies for tonight's chili, and so I popped in there.

Mr. Grocer was talking politics with another man. They talked while I shopped. When I was about done, the man said good-bye and left, and Mr. Grocer picked up a book off his shelf and read until I was done. He reads while he's there, and sells the books when he's done with them!!! The other man came back, and began talking to both of us, and talked and talked and talked...and after about 20 minutes of "Wal-Mart could never touch this" in my head, the bavarde (talkative man) left.

I ran into Mr. Bavarde later on my way to Picard, and he waved good evening to me. It was a "I love France" moment. I love that my grocer sells books that he reads right there in the store and discusses with his customer. I love that people are friendly and will greet you after a conversation about politics in the grocery store. I love that I don't have one-stop shopping like Wal-Mart but that grocery shopping is a half-day event that gets me out and about in my neighborhood.

I suppose...I don't hate grocery shopping anymore.

Little things

One of the things I love about France is the amazing things that you can almost just stumble upon...or be purposeful to go see...but that are beautiful and awesome and not-normal for an American. Here are a few (in no particular order), from the last few weeks.

Down at the Vieux Port, Smart Car was doing something...an interactive commercial? An exhibit? I don't know what to call it, but they were dancing on their cars, and getting people from the crowd to dance with them. Smart Cars are so small, you couldn't see the cars because of the crowd, but I promise...there were several cars there. The dancers in masks were on top of the car!

Some days, you just need to go to the beach and let the sound of the waves and feel of the sun and spray relax you. It takes me about 15 minutes to walk to this spot.
On my birthday, Joy and I went to the town of Nimes (where "denim" comes from!), and I ran over to the coliseum to take a quick photo.

This week I've also seen a street band wearing bright pink clown wigs, a man dressed like King Louis 14th doing tricks with cats, experienced the joys of strike season (it's that time of year again), and had a delicious fresh-out-of-the-oven baguette for dinner from the local bakery. I love living in France.

Another Brocante

I went to my first brocante in the spring of 2007, which is where I first saw a treadle sewing machine that caused me to dream of Jasmine. It wasn't until spring of 2009 that I really caught on to the awesomeness of brocanting...and now I am fully hooked. Another term for brocante is vide grenier, which means "empty attic." I love the idea of digging through someone's attick and getting to take away treasures! Consider brocanting to be one of my favorite things to do in France. For my birthday weekend, I went to one in Aix with Joy. I bought a few little antique irons to use as doorstops, just like my Great Gran used to do. I also bought a red pitcher to use as a flower vase...and it is now happily filled with sunflowers from the Friday Flower Market.

At that brocante, I saw an old travel trunk like they used to use before suitcases, with all the awesome travel stickers from the places it had been. The kind of trunk you see in movies but never real life. It was beautiful. And too expensive for me to buy. I walked away sadly. Then stumbled upon two old movie theatre folding chairs. The metal kind that have puffy red leather seats. Again, too expensive to buy, and sad walking away.

The next day, I had non-buyers remorse and decided that they were worth their money, and I need a chair anyway. I called Joy to see if we could go to the brocante in another town that had been advertised for the following week...hoping the vendors of the trunk and chair would be there. We went...those particular vendors did not. But here are some of the cool things we saw that second brocante.

Helmets from WWI and WWII, from different countries' armies. There was US stuff, French stuff, Polish Liberation stuff, and even a Nazi helmet. It was really cool. Really.

Now THAT's a travel trunk!!! I didn't even ask how much, because I didn't want to be sad.

Beautiful old, leather bound books.

As we were leaving, I sighed a happy sigh. Beautiful Provence colored houses, fall leaves, a gorgeous day, fun with friends, and sweet French people out enjoying the brocante. Maybe I'll find another one to go to this Sunday?

Mistral

As far as I can recall (and I checked), I've never blogged about the Mistral. The Mistral are crazy strong winds that hit southern France that can blow up at 100 kms per hour at times. Big, strong, hurricane gusts in tropical storm daily blowing makes for a funny day sometimes. The local tradition about the Mistral says that they blow in sets of 3, 6, or 9 days at a time. When I was here in 2009, they blew the entire month of March.

The Mistral are so strong that a gust of one once pushed me off the sidewalk into the cross walk, where I was almost hit by a car. There was one once that, if I'd not had a full grocery cart with me, might have blown me away.

Another local tradition about the Mistral says that it used to be if someone committed a crime during the Mistral, he could plea insanity, and the judge would usually let him off. They blow strong enough to make you a little nutty sometimes.

The blow strong enough that just being outside can be dangerous. Flower pots have blown off of balconies and killed people. This past summer, and awning broke less, flew through the air, and hit one of our tourists in the head, sending them to the emergency room. Mistrals are crazy, I tell you!

Well, I nearly was injured by one today...dare I be dramatic and say nearly killed by one? The Artist (who just arrived yesterday!) and I were walking along the sidewalk when we heard a really loud sound...neither of us can remember if it sounded like an explosion or a crash or what. But at that moment, huge amounts of shards of glass came falling on our heads from the sky. We dove under a covered doorway and turned our back to the street as the glass continued to fall.

Once it seemed safe to come back out, we looked around. We think the wind blew a door or window out somewhere in the building up above us...maybe a cross breeze? The glass blew as far as half a block, and into the street, where it damaged a car that was driving by. (They'd pulled over and were inspecting the roof of their car).

I was so shaken up that it took me a minute to fight back tears. The Artist and I stared at each other, making sure that we didn't have any glass shards on us. I'd see one about the size of my hand go right by my face...a half an inch difference and it would have pierced my scalp or chopped off my nose. We got hit by a bunch of the glass, but after inspection, we realized that we were okay.

Crazy Mistral. This was a video that Jelly Bean took of me at the beach during a Mistral in 2009. I could barely walk into the wind it was so strong.

International Faire

I'd seen signs advertising the "Marseille Fair" around town for weeks, but I didn't know that it was an international fair. I mean, they did call it the "Marseille Fair," so I thought it was a fair about...Marseille. I still intended to go, but I probably would have been more excited had I known it was an international fair. Because anyone who's read this blog even once or known me for about more than two minutes knows that I love me some international exhibits!!!

I think I love them because it seems like a shadow of what is to come in heaven, when peoples from all nations will be together, each unique in their own language and cultural expression, but joined as one in praise to the King. I imagine that when we're There, we'll be able to go from one culture to the next, learning, tasting, experiencing all the creativity that God put into people when He created each people group. And thus...I love these fairs, where I can meet people from Senegal, and Iran, and Armenia, and Tahiti, and Algeria. Taste their food. See their clothes. Hear their music. Touch their handiworks. All the while knowing, that one glorious Day, it'll taste even better. Look even prettier. Sound even more fascinating. Be even more interesting. And all in praise to the King.

So...I went to Italy first. (Wouldn't you?!) There were mounds and mounds of sun-dried tomatoes, and the biggest olives I've ever seen in my life! (And I've lived in several olive-growing countries!) I bought a little more than a half-pound of the sun-dried tomatoes, and I am so stinking excited to cook up something that would make Rachel Ray proud with them!

In the not-so-tasty category...we walked by this smoked pig...and yes, the man is cutting (and serving) from the pig's rear-end. We didn't taste any samples there!
I did buy some white truffle creme sauce in Italy as well. (White truffles as in the insanely expensive mushroom, not the little chocolates). Truffles are so expensive here in France that I've never even gotten to taste one, and this woman gave me a free sample of her sauce. I went week in the knees that stuff was so good! She also had a truffle basalmic vinegar that made my eyes roll back in my head, but I couldn't afford it. For those of you who don't like mushrooms, have no fear! I also bought the chocolate kind of a truffle. :) In Canada, I bought some maple cookies. In Switzerland, I bought some really good Comté cheese. (Why did I have to go to Switzerland to get a French cheese?)

There was one section that was like being in an infomercial exhibition. Every gadget you've ever seen on TV for sale at 3 in the morning was being demonstrated! Cleaning gadgets, cooking gadgets, massaging gadgets, hair removal gadgets. It was good French listening practice, and quite entertaining...but people overload. We had to exit there very quickly.

We headed over to the furniture area...and oh my. Let's just say that the French and I have very different taste in furniture.

Mob boss's wife?

After much laughter in that area, we headed over to Algeria, where we made some friends. Then on Armenia, where we watched some dancing to live music. And then, finally, headed home...as we had no money left and our introvert selves were maxed out. Below is a photo of my purchases.
It was a grrrrrrreat afternoon/evening. So if you ever come visit me in Marseille, come in September, so I can take you to the Fair.

A 7.50 euro lesson

Almost all of my purses have a metro pass pocket located on the back side of the purse. It's pretty handy because you don't even have to take the pass out. You just press your purse up to the machine, and it can scan through the leather.

I tend to change my purse every day to match whatever outfit I am wearing. (Yes, I am that girly.) I keep my purse pretty tidy, so it's not that hard of a task. I move the metro pass from its pocket in the former purse to today's purse. I move my wallet, my girl-scout/be-prepared bag, my pens, my fan or umbrella (depending on the weather), and my reusable grocery sack. No problem.

Well, this morning, I had a problem. The metro pass pocket was half unzipped...and the metro pass was not in it. I looked around the house very quickly, and then in frustration thought, "Someone must have pick-pocketed me and took it out...thus, the half-unzipped pocket." I grabbed my passport and an extra photo (the two necessary items needed to get anything done in France), and ran out the door, hoping that getting a replacement pass would not (a) break my bank and (b) take too much time.

At the metro office, they kindly looked up for me whether it had be returned...it had not. So the woman informed me that I just needed to go to the machine outside, click a certain button, pay, and bring the slip back in. Then, she'd give me my new pass.

Since in France it must be customary to carry a minimum of 10 euros of coins with you at any given time, I began shelling the coins into the machine. 7.50 worth of coins. When I'd gotten 7 euros in, and had only 50 cents left to go, my 50 cent piece rolled back out to the bottom. I picked it up and immediately dropped it back in...and it rolled back out to the bottom. I looked in my wallet...and saw that I only had 40 cents left.

Suddenly there were two gypsy children by my side, ready to help me. Allow me to insert a back story here, because I am learning that reactions to certain things are quite often connected to pas experiences.

Same situation, only 1o years ago...I am standing at a ticket vending machine at a train station in Portugal, and a gypsy child appears. When I do not give them money, they proceed to try to rob me of my change in the bottom of the machine. And then, when I politely, gently push them away from the machine and tell them "No," they yelled a curse at me. Not a cuss word. A curse. And while I do believe that the Spirit of Christ in me protects me from curses...I do not trust gypsy children hanging around me when I am handling cash at a machine.

So there I was, having paid 95% of my ticket, with a non-functioning 50 cent piece and a gypsy child at my side. She reached into the machine, grabbed my coin, and began scraping it against the machine. She then popped it in the machine and it rolled right back down to the bottom. As I tried to tell her thank you, the operation timed out, and all my money began rolling back to the bottom. I told both the kids thank you, and gently put my whole body between them and the machine while I scooped all my change out.

I asked a man next to me if he could make an exchange of coins for me since the machine wasn't accepting my coin. He said, "Of course, in just one second." So I restarted my operation while he bought his ticket, and popped my 7.50 of coins into the machine. When I got to the fateful 50 cent piece, it went in fine...but one of the 1 euro coins rolled back out. FRUSTRATION. The gypsy child stepped back over, reached in, grabbed my coin, rubbed it against the machine, and put it in the coin slot. It went in...but the 50 cent piece rolled back out.

She reached in her pocket, pulled out her own 50 cent piece, and put it in. It worked, and the machine gave me my ticket. I looked at this sweet little gypsy child who was not trying to steal, not calling down curses, but just trying to help in hopes to earn a few coins in return. I looked down in my wallet, and pitifully apologized for only having 40 cents left to give her. She happily took it and thanked me.

Eating humble pie, I went back into the office and got my new pass to replace the lost one...which fell out of my pants pocket onto my bed as I was getting ready to do laundry tonight.

A Dinner to Remember

I once wrote about how I was forced to eat a little fish with its skin, bones, eyes and all, so that I could learn to eat whatever was put in front of me. That lesson, 12 years later, is still working. This past week, I went with a whole bunch of friends out to a French farmhouse for a few days of retreat from city life. When we checked in, the owner told us the menu for the two dinners he would be serving us...as he described it, we thought it might be best to NOT translate for the 20 non-French speakers who are not that accustomed to um, how shall we say, French "delicacies."

The first meal was absolutely DELICIOUS. It began with a smoked duck salad. Most of our friends were from Texas and several were hunters, and had eaten plenty of duck before as a result. They said it was some of the best duck they'd ever had. I haven't had much duck, but I would agree that it was some good eats.

The main course was turkey breast and rice with a creamy mushroom sauce. When the chef saw how much we loved the gravy, he kept bringing out more and more gravy boats. I smiled when I heard one table exclaim later that "there may or may not have been SIX gravy boats at our table!" Someone else at the table picked one of the boats up and showed...they were all mopped dry by the scrumptious bread!

After the obligatory cheese course, out came the dessert. When the chef had detailed the menu for us, he'd told us a "fruit tarte" would be served for dessert. I had imagined two large apple tartes. Did I ever have that wrong! He'd made 25 individual fruit tarts of varying flavors: lemon, apple, strawberry, mirabelle, apricot, multi-fruit. It was the perfect end to a perfect meal.

Which made the group so excited about the dinner to come the next evening. They talked all day long about how much they were looking forward to dinner. Hugs and I kept cutting eyes at each other across the way because we knew what was coming, unfortunately.

We were in sugar beet country, so a beet salad was the first course. I like beets. I thought I could fill up on the salad before the main course that I was dreading. Then the salad came out...

Beets is one thing. A semi-poached egg with a beet that has then been jellied is another thing. I wish I had a video to watch the kids reactions as they stared down at the wiggly "salad" on their plates. One guy even refused to be served any. I gave it a try. The beet itself was good...the jelly was not. The egg was worse. The combination of it all...just not good. I ate the whole thing, and decided by the end that I really did not enjoy it. Only two people out of the whole 25 liked it and went back for a second helping.

I was going to be hungry tonight...

The main course came out. One of the girls took a bite of the meat and exclaimed, "It's so tender! What kind of meat is this?" I answered, "Beef..." The others at my table were chewing away and remarking about the tenderness and the unique (in a positive way) flavor.

"Is it really beef? I've never had any that tasted like this..." I assured her that it was definitely beef as it really did come from a cow. She looked down at her plate and laughed and said, "Is it cow tongue?!"
"Yep." The guy across from me, who'd already eaten half (and enjoyed it), looked up at me as all the blood drained from his face. "Really?" he asked. "Really." They'd all had cuts of it that didn't have the shape like mine, which straight up looked like tongue (as you can see above). I'm not sure if I made a mistake by eating the tip first, as that was the most disgusting part. I could feel the taste buds against my own tongue, and I nearly gagged. But I continued on, and ate the whole thing.

I'll say this...It's better than liver. But that's about all I can say.

The potatoes had been boiled in a white wine, which was too strong for me, so I couldn't even eat those. And the sauce had pickles in it. PICKLES. No mopping that up with bread...so I was still pretty hungry when dessert came out. Everyone was looking miserable and quite hungry, and so thankfully, a good chocolate crunch can make just about anyone happy.
Not the best picture in the world, but man oh man was it good! It lifted our spirits and then the laughter about the cow tongue really set in. One friend even accepted a dare to put one of them on top of her own tongue.
Well, from now on, whenever someone asks about the worst thing I've ever eaten, I can tell them about this dinner. We were glad they served it on the second night, because the build up after the first meal made the whole thing funnier. Had they been served cow tongue and jellied egg beet salad on the first night, they might not have even showed up for dinner on the second night!

There was lots of late night snacking around a bon fire that evening so that we wouldn't go to bed hungry. And a true French experience of best and worst meals ever for our friends to remember from their summer in France.

Le Tour de France

Every summer that I've lived in France, I was away from Paris when the Tour de France finished on the Champs-Elysées. In 2009, I finally got to experience the Tour, when it passed through Marseille. It was such a super fun day...all the excitement, the crowds, the advertisements, and then, finally, the cyclists. It was the beginning of one of their stages, though, so I didn't get to see them whizzing by, but just starting off. Which was fine by me, because I got to be close enough to reach out and touch the cyclists (which I didn't do, by the way...)

This year, though, I was finally in Paris for the finale. Hugs and I had some things to do that day, so we didn't wait the whole day for a primo spot. We showed up just in time for the caravan of sponsors. I chose to post Smurfette for my mom. The advertisers are really fun. They hand out stuff, have ads everywhere, and really use the event to make their mark. I suppose it's a bit like Super Bowl Commericals...

Another fun part of the Tour de France is the crowds...even for an introvert like me. The fun, excited atmosphere and people from all nations cheering on their home athletes makes for some awesome people watching.
Of course the cyclists and the race is the best part! There were so many people on the streets that we couldn't really see the Champs very well, but the big screen helped us to watch as they approached near the end. I love this shot...that's the guy who won in the yellow and the highest point guy behind him in green.
A big difference of seeing the Tour in Paris versus in Marseille is that in Marseille, it was 24+ hours of craziness for about 57 seconds of excitement as the cyclists went by. In Paris, because they loop the Champs several times (7, I think), we got to see them go by a whole bunch...and they were going FAST! It was so neat seeing them whiz by in a big colorful blur.
We didn't stay to see the very end and the ceremony, because well...we didn't want to fight the crowds to get on the metro. We'd had our fun, saw the cyclists, and were ready to call it a day. I really do enjoy the Tour de France and will look forward to when I get to see it again.