Everybody's Happy

After driving back from Normandy on the warmest day of the week we park the car outside the flat and are met with some joyful accordian music across the street.  There's two round, sweaty men playing some classic song I know the words to but not the name of, on the corner of Rue De L'Abbe Groult.  I watch with a smile and think, only in Paris, like they were playing a jolly homecoming tune just for us.  I then see some old women from my building throw something on the street for the men, a pack of coins wrapped in foil.  They wait a few moments to see if there's any others, then move on to play again down the next block. 

Back from holiday with too much alcohol and seafood in my belly, I escape to the streets for some exercise.  I am bit instantly by the happy bug as the warmer air and sunshine envelops me.  As I walk towards our local square Adolphe Cherioux I hear more festive music being played and see people dancing under the central gazebo in the square.  I stop to watch and see our local homeless lady (I call her Wilma), dancing her own tipsy jig by her park bench.  I am now more entranced by her than the group, watching her stilted but passionate dance, wondering if she danced sober like this before, one day long ago perhaps.  She's wearing a cap and a smile, her usual men's attire consisting of a grubby overcoat and workboots, with the permanent bottle of whiskey by her side.  Considering the last time I saw Wilma was the backside of her doing a piss in the metro station grate, this was a refreshing perspective, her gappy mouth grinning wide, remembering old times and old dances, old loves even.  It almost brings tears to my eyes and I am drawn to speak to her, find out her story, but my french comprehension is not nearly good enough for drunk, incomprehensible chat.

On my bike I'm so free, moving at my own pace with no one holding me back, pulling on my hand or my bag, voices ringing in my ears, knocking each thought down with interruption.  I could ride like this forever, almost effortless on the flat streets of Paris, with my own special lanes giving me the right to be there, a part of the traffic, a part of the city.  I ride down Vaugirard to Pasteur, turn down Bretueil towards Invalides, people getting thicker the closer I get to the Seine.  As I approach Invalides I am tempted to stop, the grass areas are full of people, mostly lounging in the sun, playing football, frisbee, flying kites, and even one couple rehearsing a tricky dance sequence near the metro station.  Absolutely nothing can surprise me in this city anymore.  I am not ready to get off the bike and run however, so keep going towards Concorde and the Tuileries.  There are so many people everywhere enjoying themselves, eating ice cream, drinking wine or coffee at outdoor cafes, basking in the sun, I am overwhelmed with feeling so fortunate to be alive.  It is difficult to run in such hedonistic conditions, but I press on in the heat, knowing I will feel better for it.  My jaunt takes me round the Tuileries, back along the river towards the Eiffel Tower, under Pont Alexandre to look once again at the cool nightclub I've heard about under the bridge, on towards Pont D'Alma, towards home.  As I walk back through our local Mairie there exists even more jubilation in the form of some kind of celebration, a low key wedding I'm guessing, with guests strewn over the steps, some with guitars and other musical instruments, some swaying to the music, chatting and laughing.  There is so much vibrancy in this community, so much colour to this city, I love it more with every pound of the pavement or dusty step I take. 

Walking to the D-Day Beach

Our Future Youth

Normandy

Spending a long weekend on the Canadian Beach at Normandy was an enlightening experience for this slightly war ignorant family . Juno Beach, near Courselles-Sur-Mer, was one of the landing sites assigned to the Canadian soldiers nearly 64 years ago. Sitting with our friends at their beach 'shackeau', sharing barbequed seabass fresh from the sea and drinking fine Pouilly Fume, the tip of the reality iceberg started to sink in slowly as our hosts recounted the destructive statistics of the time; there was one body every square metre on the beach's edge, and as you got further away it was one every 3rd or 5th square metre. Imagining the amount of lives that ended under our feet was difficult as you looked out towards the blue sea, free of warships and naval mines, and as our children played happily on the no longer blood stained beach.

A visit to Arromanches down the road, the neighbouring town designated as 'Gold Beach' during the D-Day Landings, was fascinating Still existing in this stretch of water were huge concrete blocks required to calm the waves for provisions to be transported during the war. As the children were clambering all over the huge 'memorial' tank it was hard not to feel uncomfortable somehow. The boys then went to the D-Day museum to look at models and artifacts, but the Cinema Circulaire show was much more disturbing. Purely visual, it showed scenes from the times, only with echoes of machine guns and screams to be heard, no dialogue. A bit harsh for these seven year old boys? Perhaps, but historical reality, which provoked a discussion about death that evening and then prompted them all to move in from sleeping in their independent 'bungalow' to quarters closer to comfort.

On a lighter note, we also visited Bayeux, home of the great 'tapisserie' depicting the Battle of Hastings with William The Conquerer in 1066. Impressive at over 70 metres long, the children were more interested by the final scene when King Harold gets an arrow in the eye - ouch!

At night there still evoked an eerie feel from the sea, complete with beams from a ghostly lighthouse, beams which seemed to come directly across the channel, though impossible to be all the way from Hastings in the UK, the only area of land in that direction. Every night was spent with a bottle of beer in hand trying to figure out this phenomenon, never to be discovered presumably...

Normandy is a lovely banlieue with it's glorious (though smelly) fields of yellow flowers called 'colza', the origin for 'rapeseed oil' and beautiful seaside towns with some of the best seafood in the world. However, it also carried an inescapable air of war which was felt everywhere you went. This is one history we don't want repeating itself.

Ok - history lesson over now, phew!

Cultured Kids

With Sam studying Matisse in his art class, Ruby taking ballet lessons, Tom's new 'french only' regime at work, and me in my new photography course, we’ve all started off the new year with cultural intentions.

Ruby recently visited the Dali museum in Montmartre with her school, proceeded by a project on surrealism, namely recreating Dali's famous elephants and clock sculpture called 'The Nobility of Time'.  Personally I find Dali a bit creepy for a four year old to study, but that's culture for you.

A few weeks ago we visited Le Palais Garnier and Ruby decided she wanted the full tour of the famous Opera House.  She felt like we were in the movie 'Beauty and the Beast' and was quite surprised to see 'boy' ballet dancers rehearse on stage.  This was followed by a cinematic viewing of the ballet 'Caligula' showing in the basement of the Opera House, a tad erotic for a four year old but she was entranced by the artistic impression I am sure. 

And finally 'binoga' (yoga to you & I) is her latest activity as it is now being incorporated into the curriculum at school.  She has apparently mastered the breathing techniques required along with the 'down faced dog' yoga position.  This teamed with her formal ballet class at the Academie De Danse is turning her into a right mademoiselle.

With Ruby excelling in the Arts, of course we are very proud, but realise not all children have such a natural yearning to learn about culture. 

Sam, on the other hand, though excelling in rugby with his dad at the weekends, is falling out with his various french teachers at school.  After receiving his second report card of the year we are pleased to see a huge progression in French, yet strangely he is not taking the other courses in school so seriously, such as Art, Gym, Music, and Computers, all taught by french teachers.  

Sam receives a note in his agenda from his french art teacher stating; 'Sam does not listen to me when I speak to him.  Sam always has his fingers in his mouth.  Sam is not a baby anymore.  He must make a painting on the subject of 'Sam is not a baby anymore'.  Use colors freely, proper paint preferably, collage is acceptable'.  The French revel in humiliation at all levels, and apparently it's quite a common method used in schools to keep children in line.  Maybe this is why the french are so pissed off when they grow up.

However, his recent masterpiece is a sculpture based on Alfred Jacquemart's work, the artist who sculpted the 'Rhinoceros' outside the Musee d'Orsay.  Carrying the tall, spindly man made out of plaster home on the bus was interesting, though not an unusual sighting in this city.  

Though the kids are being subjected to all kinds of culture in Paris, we're not quite sure how much is sinking in.  Sam is still quite anti-french and is turning his sister against them too as she refuses to play with French girls at school.  We wonder whether this is just a matter of culture clash or a truly informed opinion after spending 18 months in Paris!

For adult culture Tom and I recently went to the Marie Antoinette Exhibition at Le Grand Palais.  Everyone apart from the French seem to be entranced by this women, the French just seem tired of her.  Saying that, it was a fantastic exhibition and I was relieved to see the furniture from that era is similar to my authentic Louis XVI chair.  

Also very interesting was the Femmes de Monde Exhibit, stunning photographs of women from around the world from photographer Titouan Lamazou:

This is the story of a navigator, a dreamer who enthusiastically and courageously braved the the seas and oceans day after day, sails to the wind, in search of beauty and the absolute...

When the sea was calm, this sailor set about painting, drawing, or taking photographs to recount his amazing journey to us. It is the fabulous story of Titouan Lamazou! The Musée de l’Homme invites us to discover, "Zoé Zoé", the wonderful portraits of women by Titouan Lamazou during his travels over five continents. Six years journeying in search of his muse, is summed up in 200 sketches, photos, paintings and texts.
In the beauty of his models, and his art works, Titouan Lamazou shows us that he felt even more inspired by his many encounters across the world than by the crossing of nations and frontiers.
We are therefore able to become acquainted with young female Chinese rock stars, a very made-up Brazilian actress from 1997, a princess from Bali, a mother of five children, etc. It is then a veritable artistic world tour that our generous-hearted sailor proposes. Not to be missed!

With the upcoming Jazz Festival in St.Germain and the superb Babylon exhibit at the Louvre, we've got lots to see and do this spring, but a family trip to Normandy is in order first, followed by a short excursion to Norway for some travel writing and photography practice with fjords for inspiration.

Black November Fades to Grey

After eighteen months in Paris things are starting to settle down and get easier. After Sarkozy's 'Black November' last year we weren't sure if we'd recover, but we have, until the next transport strike anyway. France has become a bit more interesting with Sarkozy ruling along with his new wife, Carla Bruni. The political climate feels like a virtual soap opera, full of intrigue and glamour, gossip and sex appeal. Seeing pictures of Sarkozy cuddling up to his attractive missus makes him feel more 'real', albeit in a celebrity kind of way, regardless somehow more approachable and appealing than your run of the mill politician, like someone you might actually bump into jogging along the Seine in the early hours when all the true Parisians are fast asleep.

Needless to say, Paris is never boring. With all the buzz of a big city it exudes something a bit more special somehow, unattainably appealing. It's a city that you immediately love for all the obvious reasons, then soon love to hate once you become victim to linguistic disadvantages, then slowly fall back in love with as you gain more confidence or get more familiar with the geography. Sometimes all it takes is a successful chat with a friendly waiter, a glimpse of the sun shining on Invalides golden hat, or a sip of an espresso whilst you watch the whirlwind of Paris blow around you. Such simple things all of a sudden become more meaningful in Paris, but that's an adult point of view.

Paris at knee height is much different. Most children not used to the hustle and bustle of city life will dislike moving to a city with a foreign language. 'There's too many people and they're too bossy' is how my children view the Parisians, and they are right. They are homesick sometimes, understandably. They miss the space in a house, the outdoor freedom of a garden, the even more simple things that mean much more to children than to their parents. And what do you do if you love a place that your children don't? Or at the very least aren't at their happiest? Move, of course. But not yet....

Spring in Paris is around the corner...and I wouldn't miss that for the world.

Black November

We are on day 8 of the transport strike in France. Unfortunately it has coincided with a cold, wet spell and the whole city is seething. The pavements are packed with grumpy Parisians, the streets jammed with road rage of every kind; car, motorcycle, and bicycle, the few buses and metros that are running are so full that people are risking getting limbs cut off as they squeeze in the doors. Manifestations are now taking place in busy areas with thousands of people protesting. If you get caught on the wrong side of the protest you are stuffed, the police stop traffic and the protesters take their sweet time going across while you patiently wait or take the very long way around. The French are tres pissed off and want the world to know.

Attempting to make the best of it, the Ellis family have donned their trainers and scooters to make the trek to and from school every day. Once Tom does his drop off he swiftly transforms into Superman and runs the remaining 8 km to work (much to the delight of the mothers on the school run). I continue to push the pram through muddy Champ de Mars and should be bench pressing 250lb easily by Christmas. The times Ruby does attempt to scoot inevitably ends in a fall on the way, delaying us even more. After drop off I jump on a velib and join the crazy road ragers, praying I don’t get hit by a tour bus.
The children however are coping amicably with our new regime. Scooting/walking 3 km to school with hundreds of other people in cold, wet conditions is a far cry from our cosy local school 2 minutes away in Bradford on Avon, yet they have rarely complained.

It is the mothers with young children and old people who suffer at these times, or anyone who is physically disabled and relies solely on public transport to get around. I stare with disbelief at all those able bodied people who stubbornly wait for the sardine packed bus instead of using their own two feet.
Next in line; civil servants, teachers, students, lawyers, judges, air traffic controllers, and most importantly, tobacco retailers (‘fuming’ about the imminent public smoking ban) are all jumping on the bandwagon, protesting over many of Sarkozy’s reforms. Very soon normal life as we know it will cease and the country will just become one big whinging unproductive mass of moaners, huddled together outside in their hordes, smoking, debating, and idling, what the French are best at anyway.
With France’s former president under investigation for embezzlement, and their new President under attack for attempting to ‘modernise’ the country and create incentives for the French to work harder, we’re wondering if this is the right place to be. Sarkozy’s hardest reforms are coming next year apparently, within the health care sector, general pensions, and the labour code. If this is Sarkozy’s 'Black November’, what are we in store for next year???