Things work differently

At home most of the stuff doesn’t work. The dryer, goes back to the 70’s, and although it turns the clothes fiercely around with a big noise – it does not dry them. The repair man came and after the mandatory, “Bonjour madam. Ca va?” opened his leather bag meticulously laying his tools out, then checked the dryer by putting a wet towel inside and after a long hour of talking to himself stating hypothesis and arguments, announced that the dryer does not dry. He asked where the desk was, took all his paper work out and very slowly and carefully wrote a fat bill for the landlady. He collected his tools, handed me the bill, told me we needed to call for an appointment to fix it, and left with satisfied smile, ready for lunch.

Yesterday, a different repairman came to fix the television and to adjust the Internet reception. He also, confirmed that there is a problem, made another date to come and handed me a bill.

I am struck by how much all of us don’t care that things don’t work. I dry the clothes on the radiator and at night we mostly talk about our days, read and, of course, eat long dinners. Even Adam, who at first was told he can watch TV as long it is in French, did not seem to mind its absence. Things are done here differently and we all know on an intuitive level that protesting can only harm the process.

Last night, I came back from the equivalent of a PTA meeting. The meeting took place in a beautiful hall of one of the Sorbonne’s branches that happened to be in our neighborhood. 300 parents where invited, 50 RSVP’d and only 40 came. Yet, the cocktail party at the end was ready to serve the original 300. Champagne, wine and hard liquor with little sandwiches in all shapes and colors circled the small crowd. One of the American mothers was complaining about the waste of the budget. Things are done differently here. The less I try to impose my logic and truly understand their way the more fun and connected I feel.

Going to the store, I learned, if I want to receive the service I came for rather than a hostile look and an incomprehensible sentence in fast French; upon entering I first need to apologize profusely for disturbing the sales person, wish him/her a good day, ask how they are, pause and only then, ask for what I need. The American “how can I help you” before even entering the door is a rare commodity here. The store, seems to be the vendor’s territory and entering the store is, in a way, coming into their home.
I wonder about the history of shops in Paris, whether people used to live in their stores and thus the pronounced sense of privacy.

We are back to privileged position of comparing the two cultures often. Adam loves lately to hunt during the day for differences he observes and to perform them as a stand up comedy at dinner. He doesn’t talk only about the difference in fire drills, swimming lessons, lunch time or learning math but the nuances in expressions, tone of voice, sense of space, and the meaning of a smile.

The fragility of happiness and chestnuts

I took a different route to the park today and found a little street with crafty atalliers, art studios, little cafés, and a few galleries. Just near our little apartment -- a treasure. I think I know what the gold rush felt like – the exhilaration of potential -- you never know when another vein will appear. It is also a beautiful sunny day. After a few days preview of what the winter might look like here – the day feels so precious, dipped in gold light.

I sit at Park Monceau near Adam’s school and I have until 4 to write, read and dream. It’s a big park with water, ducks, flowers, sculptures, and rows of trees with symmetrical piles of dry leaves. I watch the people walking their dogs, with occasional very high heels, small dog, cigarette and impressive brisk walk given the height; couples kissing on the bench, an old couple on a flowery blanket - he reads the newspaper she knits; a young girl with a very heavy book leaning on a tree trunk and several others sitting eating their leisurely lunches on the grass. The birds are trained to clean the fresh baguette crumbs and the ducks protest in low key for leftovers.

This idyllic time is broken daily by the Gendarme who blows his whistle, threatening to cite people who sit on the grass. “The grass” he says, “is for the animals not for the people.” The people get up slowly and reluctantly -- they complain, mock him and remind each other how much tax they have to pay… He then, saying that he is just doing his job, starts to complain himself and leaves for another area in the park waving his ticket book, knowing we will all be going back to our marked spots on the soft fresh grass. On different days there are different people, different gendarmes but the script - identical.

I, and all the others, return to our assigned seats, the laptop on my lap, the cool tree trunk on my back and the light playing with the leaves of the tree across. All that beauty around yet, I am feeling a strange sadness today. From the moment I locked the door behind me, packed with Hemmingway’s book: “A Movable Feast” all about his years in Paris, my laptop all charged up, enough change for a little afternoon coffee and a snack for Adam for when I pick him up – I feel sad; sad, that all this is going to be past as I think of it. That my little and big companions are not here, at this moment, to witness with me, to create a shared memory; that my friends are far away and that time does pass. This summer day fades as I try to capture it in my writing- my camera- my memory.

When life announces its movable feast all I can see is its fragile, delicate and unpredictable nature. Then I wonder, what I always wonder sitting on the cushion at Zen retreats mostly trying to meditate; whether letting go of the moment’s preciousness makes it more joyful or more empty….

Hemmingway ends his book by saying, “Paris was never to be the same again although it was always Paris and you changed as it changed.”

On days like this I can actually see how Adam is growing before my eyes, his limbs longer, his knowledge wider, his baby features more chiseled. It’s evening now and I am about to let go of this day and this piece and soon kiss Adam good night. In front of me are all the brown shiny chestnuts he picked at the park this afternoon. I tell my self how they will stay here until the next cold day – to be heated in the oven and eaten -- together.

entering into the new

I was missing Adam's company in my urban exploration the last few days. 

 

School started and he plunged head first into the new water.  Cold as it was he amazed me by his adaptability and agility.  At night, before he falls asleep I hear snippets of his day.  No wish on his part to expand or even narrate -- just to state.  Free association is the name of our game in the late night hours--I dont ask and he tells.  

I hear about his new friends Philip from Australia, Helena from Ireland and Luca from Italy. The Czech girl is shy. He can't pronounce her name yet but likes her. Yuito from Japan is cool illustrator but does not talk much, and Shira the Israeli girl already mentions Yom Kipur and the high holidays -- which made me think about the worst place on earth for fasting.

But he continues to talk about Madam Gros who first tells the kids in detail what not to do and only at the end mentions briefly what to do.  It is different from the American Ms. Smith who only told them what to do and always with a smile.  Shaking the teacher's hand everyday when you part is weird to the old him but "kinda cool" to who he is now. The emphasis on neat long hand is something he will never understand when you can just type everything on the computer. And for the number 99 in french -- 4 time 20 plus 10 plus 9 -- it seem wonderfully crazy.  

And one more think just before I leave his bed; "Do you know ima, that french kids eat throughout the lunch hour while the rest finish quickly and go out to play.  And the last thing really," he promises "I love cheese for desert".

I think I am writing this before I go to sleep, just like Adam, to digest, to make sense, to integrate it all.

Here is something that requires digestion. We were invited to parents meeting.  Pete, who wanted to be involved with Adam's process, took the morning off and came to the meeting.  About 25 women and one other dad from California congregated in a mansion like home.  Many nationalities, accents, colors, heights and shapes were there, but one of the only common denominators I could identify was the shoes; an amazing selection of  unbelievable shoes. Pete surprised me when complimenting the simplicity of my shoes at the end of the event.  You noticed? I asked astonished "How can you not" he said matter of factly.  I knew Paris would be good for our relationship.  

  

We had espresso and hors d'oerves made by well known chef. If it was just a bit later then 9am I am sure some of the very old wine bottles on the shelf would be open.  Flyers made with contact numbers and web sites were circling simultaneously with trays of food, and the only people that seemed to be eating where the two dads.  

I raised my hand inspite of my invisible observer cloak I wear in these events and asked about the effect of giving kids their report cards in front of the whole class, suggesting we might be able to modified it for kids who come from a different systems.  The qustion was not clear at first and after few repetition the answer was "this is how you do it here". I was back to my comfortable silence -- thankful for the reminder to enter the new as it is and trust that my child would too.

And back to the discussion before my question -- the menu.  There was only one question that was less appropriate then mine or should I say a true Feux pas.  A mother, Italian if to judge by the accent, suggested the parents will cook for the kids on their birthdays at the school kitchen, to expose them to the diversity of foods.  After a very long silence, the school representative, dryly said: "Its impossible because of safety issues".  If you never knew how contempt looks like -- you would know by now. Safety, of coarse, was not defined, but clearly understood by the tone, inflection and sudden increase of the french accent.

No one asked any question after that and the discussion turned into a series of recommendations and explanations as to how things are done at EaB.  One of many suggestions, was to go to the school web site, find out what is the menu for the next day and discuss it with your child the night before or the morning of and help them get ready and excited for lunch.  We also learned about the "proposers".  People who walk around the cafeteria making suggestions for the kids to try foods they haven't touched, speak softly, eat slower and improve their table manners.

 We were then  advised not to speak French at home between us or with our child and to not check their homework all which will protect them from faulty  accents and grammatical mistakes.  We were assured that in a few months the child will teach us.

Yesterday morning before our 20 minutes walk to school, sipping my coffee while Adam secretly eats his american cereal breakfast I started to mention the menu.  He looked at me with a plea "Please not now Ima, it is too early " -- he read my mind -- I was just trying to do my parental homework. Tomorrow I will try to bring it up before Adam goes to sleep, maybe explain that what he calls "mook" is "Beigets de poisson souce gribiche" and the" inedible vegetable mush" is actually "Semoule et legumes" -- the only words I am allowed to pronounce in French.  Good luck.  

    

magic

Thursday came and with it the end of the summer.  

It suddenly seemed like all the magic disappeared from Paris.  The sun hid behind thick layers of clouds, the wind blew dry leaves and old newspapers in circles, the cafe got hooded with plastic awnings, the metro stations were bursting with rushing Parisians who just returned from vacation.  Lines were everywhere, for lunch, for the market, for a ride in the park.

Adam was feeling very anxious before the first day of school.  All his questions found me in a loss of words or at least a loss of the enthusiasm I had for the last couple of weeks; "why do I have to go to this school, why French, why uniform, why now, can we go home? I miss Yoko" 

His first day, a two hour introduction was about to start.  Pete, Adam and I arrived only to find that all the other confused parents were dismissed leaving their dearest ones with 14 other kids some of who spoke french, some english and some neither.

We were the third parents to arrive.  Each kid chose a seat and without much explanation from the teacher, started to draw the flag of the country they came from.  I could see over the shoulder of the girl, sitting on the other row from Adam, the beginning of the Israeli flag -- she is probably one of the kids that speak neither languages.

We were soon encouraged with a short directive from Madam Knight the principal, accompanied with a warm yet professional smile to leave the premises and return at the end of the two hours to pick up our child.  Sitting at the cafe across the street we reread the thin School regulations booklet again, trying to fish for more information, to no avail.

We arrived early, waiting outside with a few other confused parents exchanging unanswered questions "Is that where we always pick them up?" "Will light gray pants pass for the uniform?" "Where are they going to eat lunch tomorrow?" "What was the name of their teacher?"

 

The kids arrived in a row (as Madaline's books came to mind) each shaking the hand of madam Gros the teacher, saying: "a demain" -- see you tomorrow -- as if they did it many times before.

Adam was still worried, missing his old friends and his old school -- although acknowledged that his teacher is very nice and that it was not as bad as he thought.

"How about we rent Tom and Jerry tonight in French tonight and get some chocolate on the way home?" I tried desperately.  Adam's smile spread and covered his whole face -- It was as if the present moment was pushing the past and the future off the edges making as much room possible for the chocolate.

At the store after a quick chat about Obama and Sarkozy and which one is the "real" best coffee in France, we got our chocolate for free and continued to the video store. There the owner, a very french looking man, showed us a picture of himself as a young man performing at the Olympia theater in Paris.  

"What did you do there?" Adam asked.  "Ohhhhhh" he said half sighing to an old memory half inviting us to ask more.  We did, and he did not answer, only asked Adam to blow on his hand and started to pull feathers out of his palm.  The feathers kept on changing colors then turned into coins that came off his ears while he was spitting black balls. Stuff disappeared and returned, was lost and found in the least possible places.  Adam pulled his dropped jaws back only managing to ask... "but... how do you do that?"

"I don know.  Zis just happan to me" he said with a big laugh.  He seemed like a completely different man than the one who managed this video shop.  Customers were waiting in line for their movie but he was back at the Olympia theater.  We almost forgot the video we came for.

 Adam blew for the last time on his hand and the video appeared in front of us.

The magic returned to Paris -- at least for now.