I settled down in front of my computer, all ready to check my emails and my favorite blogs. Then the plan was to write a light-hearted post about the giant spiders in our cellar and/or the tv show Britain's Got Talent.
But mutant spiders and tap dancing ferrets are definitely on the back burner now.

The insightful blogger Framericain has been posting over the last two days about a tragic tour bus accident in California that occurred Tuesday. Her posts about it are far better and more relevant than anything I could write. So, I'm urging you to click on the link and go read her thoughts on this.

(PS. Although Britain's Got Talent is great, they have no tap dancing ferrets. But wouldn't that be cool?)

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about some of the keywords that have led people to my blog.

Some folks type something like "how to wrap a pagne" into their search engine and end up, probably reasonably satisfied, on a page showing how to wear a West African style skirt. There's pictures, even!

And I'm pretty sure that whoever typed in "stripping wallpaper fragile plaster" also found plenty of relevant reading on my blog.

However, some of the keywords, are more than a little puzzling. I check them at least once a week, just to marvel and muse.

Here are a few of the more unusual entries on last week's list:
bureaucracy gone mad -I wonder what kind of hell this person was going through that led them to seek fellow sufferers on the web? Maybe he tried to apply for a Famillie Nombreuse card and is now looking for a support group?

i hate working in France - Again, I'm guessing this is someone whose misery would love some company. I wonder where he/she works? Liddl?

jp sunbonnet- Once I got over the mental image of my dignified spouse wearing a sunbonnet, I tried my own search using these keywords. All I got was lots of mentions of a quaint, really annoying quilt block design. The original searcher must have gone through pages and pages to finally stumble upon a link leading him to a post in my blog that mentions both protective headgear and my husband.

Here's my favorite of the week: hotsexgoddess- Not a shoe that fits, but I'll put it in my closet. Thanks!

And my least favorite: LARGEBLONDE. I have to own it, but ouch, dude!

How about more spring flowers?
Everybody loves them some spring flowers, and last time I forgot to post the nice view off our balcony these days. It's always lovely, but it's even better with a few geraniums.
Isn't everything?

Around here, you HAVE to have window boxes of geraniums on your house. I think it's required by law. If you don't have at least a few planted by May, they send burly agents in black suits to take you away to a gardening-oriented "reeducation" center.
True story.

Now, on to another important matter: Severin's LOTR bedroom. It's not quite done, but all the big stuff is finished. JP and CtRH worked the whole time I was gone to Paris. As I swanned around the Louvre and pranced about on top of the Eiffel Tower, they slaved away tearing down the strange wood panel covering the ceiling, insulating the two outer walls and then wallpapering everything, even the ceiling. I do NOT feel guilty, only wickedly gleeful. I usually NEVER get out of work and here I finally managed to weasel out of something. Sweet!

Here's how the mural of the Forest of Mirkwood turned out:


The mural wasn't quite tall enough to cover the wall all the way up. So they painted the empty area white and figured that Severin (with my help) could probably paint on a band of Elven runes to fill in the area.

As you can see, the poor child has no real furniture yet- just a futon on the floor. But we're hoping to get him an actual bed really soon. And JP is re-finishing a great antique desk for him.

The other three walls were done with a metallic silver paper that we hoped would look a bit like granite in a mystical cave...






The guys even took down the radiator and painted it completely silver! Nice detail.





Severin is quite happy with it all, as far as I can tell. 13 year old males often aren't all that demonstrative, you know?
When we finished the twins' room, they were squealing with excitement. Sev, on the other hand, just kind of grunted. But it was a pleased kind of grunt. I think...

I woke up this morning and learned that there's a holiday to celebrate: International Book Day. (Thanks, Oreneta!) It seems like it's a bigger deal in Latin American countries than elsewhere (as far as my quick internet search shows, anyway) but I hope that it will catch on all over.

So, everybody everywhere remember to hug a book today. And also go have a look on my right sidebar and click to take a peek at my very own new Amazon bookstore. I'm still choosing books and having lots of fun with it.

What else can we celebrate today? How about spring? I am loving it this year- it's my first in nine long years.

April back in Burkina means super-hot temperatures and frequent power cuts. It means dry dust and dripping sweat. It means just hanging in there until the rainy season finally begins in June.

I was talking on Skype yesterday with a friend in Ouaga and she handed her toddler son an M&M candy to distract him while we chatted.

"Don't squish it!" I heard her say. And then, "Oh no! He just squashed it in his hand and there's melted chocolate all over him now!!"

In our house in France, even a determined toddler could not squish a candy coated chocolate. they stay hard. No melty M&Ms- just one of the many things to enjoy about being back in the Alps.

Another thing is the fabulous spring flowers. I am loving going outside to admire all the wonderful flowers that we planted back in the fall: hyacinth, daffodils, jonquils, crocus, etc..

I have been gardening like crazy the last few days. On Wednesday, I was out for nearly five hours, mowing the lawn, whacking the weeds, planting flowers and shubberies (one that looks nice. And not too expensive.) and weeding the beds of spring flowers that are already blooming nicely.
As you can see, the lawn is no small affair:

There were also the planter boxes to fill. I have three like the the one below. They weren't weren't much trouble because the pansies were planted in the fall and they suvived all winter long! All I had to do was throw a few marigolds in the middle.

I also planted a couple of lilac bushes and some lavender- two of my absolute most favorite ever flowers.

Yesterday I was out in the yard with the twins. I was fussing over the flowers and the girls were hunting around the yard for small dandelions for a salad that night.

Alexa said "You like lavender, lilacs and lilies. You, know, you should have named us after them! Valentine could be Lily, I could be Lilac and Mallory could be Lavender." She thought it sounded like a great idea and that I had really let the side down by not giving my girls a set of matching flower names...

Well, there's an idea.

And I guess I could have called Sev Larkspur? Or if were's going with flowers I love, rather than by matching the first letter, maybe Hyacinth?

While the old saying claims that a picture is worth a thousand words, I’m not sure that mine are quite so verbose. As you can see from yesterday’s slide show, I come from the « I Put My Kids in Front of Every Major World Monument » school of photography. While it is an old and respected one, it has not created a lot of great art.
On the other hand, JP and I will have lots of photos of the four of them to enjoy eventually when we are empty-nesters, pathetically asking each other every fifteen minutes « Why don’t the kids ever call? »

At any rate, you’ve seen all the photographic evidence, so now I can get on with recounting the details.

On Day Two of our adventure, we woke up early. Our first morning in Paris! Our goal was the Louvre and with the daughter of our hosts added to our little tour group, we ventured out. This time we did NOT take the Metro. I figured I’d try to keep Mallory aboveground for the day. So, we headed over to the bus stop.

Walking down the street, we passed a public pool (very nice and indoors), a little bakery, a news stand…all the great stuff that is so NOT within walking distance of our own little house in the French countryside.
On the other hand, when we take a walk back home, it smells like pine-trees and fresh mountain air. This little street, on the other hand, smelled like vomit. And urine.
But mostly vomit.
I love Paris. I adore Paris. But what’s up with all the vomit?
I imagine it’s either due to : a. a huge number of restaurants serving bad seafood or b. lots of people binge drinking. Sadly, I suppose the latter is more likely.

We navigated around the scary puddles and got on the bus. We were at the Louvre in about 45 minutes. The Louvre, I am happy to report, does NOT smell like vomit. Or urine.

One goes to the Louvre, of course, to see the major art treasures of the Western world. But unless you are a bit tall, what you mostly see is …tourists. The Japanese, in particular are mad for the Louvre and the place overflows with groups of Japanese art-lovers being led through the corridors by diminutive Japanese guides. The guides always carry a thin stick with a silk flower, a big feather or a sparkly pompom attached to the top.
The twins thought this was great, but strange.
« Is that…some kind of Louvre souvenir? » Alexa asked me, looking enviously at a tour guide waving around a particularly large and lovely purple marabou feather on a stick.
The answer is, of course, no. The sticks are devices that allow the short tourists and short guides to keep track of each other in the huge crowds. To gather up her group in a big gallery, the guide waves her blue rose (or whatever) on a stick and all the followers of the blue rose on a stick come running, ready to move on to the next area.

I kind of wanted a fancy « stick of summoning » myself, but figured it would be overkill. I only had five people to keep track of and two of them were much taller than the average tourist.

And being tall was a huge advantage (pun intended, in case you’re wondering). The two older kids and I had no trouble looking right over the heads of most people to have a good look at the paintings. This was especially important while trying to see Da Vinci’s most famous work. There is ALWAYS an enormous crowd around the Mona Lisa. As far as I can tell, anyway. This was my sixth visit to the Louvre and every time I go, it’s always the same: an ocean of tourists surrounding a smallish, shadowy portrait.
The twins and their friend were small and thin enough to easily slip between all the adults, find places at the front of the crowd and have a good look at the thing.

Everyone’s general reaction? « Meh. » sums it up, I think.

I did my best to explain that, while it’s a very fine portrait, it’s mainly famous for…being so famous. And it’s fame is a pretty late phenomenon. It was people in the Symbolist movement of the mid 19th century that sort of "reinvented" the painting as some kind of symbol of « eternal femininity » (See ? I did pay attention to that Art History course back in University). And then, adding to the glamour and mystique of the painting , it was stolen in 1911 and not found for two years. In 1956, the poor thing was doused with acid and then at the end of that same year it was gouged by a rock-tossing Bolivian.

Now it hangs behind a glass barrier and « Madonna Lisa » smiles at about 6 million people a year.

Just across from her is a huge painting by Veronese that the kids enjoyed much more and we spent quite along time looking at it:
This was another one where my scraps of art history training came in handy. For example, I asked the children to figure out what was unusual about all the people in The Wedding at Cana. (Nobody is talking! It was painted for a monastery that had a rule of silence during meals.)
Then I asked why meat was being cut up right over the head of Jesus. (It’s a sacrificial lamb. A bit of a tough question for kids, I‘ll admit. )
Then we checked out at all the different animals in the painting (dogs, a parrot and a monkey). Mallory thought is was a great idea to have animals at a wedding and regretted the complete absence of goats.

We saw many, many more paintings that day. The huge amount of naked flesh featured in many of them did not even phase us. It seemed all quite tame and innocent, compared to yesterday’s x-rated experience in the Buttes Chaumont Park.

What didn’t impress the kids: The Winged Victory of Samothrace. I guess I could see their point. Not head. No arms. She’s even worse off than the Venus de Milo.



What Valentine loved: Botticelli’s Venus and the Three Graces » fresco. All color, line and sheer prettiness:

What Mallory loved: Delacroix’s wild-eyed horses. That man could paint a horse, I’m telling you.
What Alexa loved: Being able to show the other kids around. This was her third visit!

What Severin loved: I think Severin loved LEAVING the Louvre and going home to FINALLY get something to eat. He’s a good sport, but not very sensitive to Art.

We’re back from Paris!
Luckily, I didn’t end up needing a waffle iron or scuba gear. In fact, I barely had enough clothes. As I packed for the nine day trip, I took the advice everyone gave me very seriously. I mercilessly threw out items until I had only about half of what I thought I needed. Under strict orders, the four kids all did the same. In fact, our hostess in Paris was completely astounded when we showed up at her door with only one tiny backpack each.
« That’s what my kids would pack for a weekend! » she exclaimed.

And it’s a good thing we traveled light. Not that the train trip was an issue. That was easy. In 15 minutes by car we were at the Annemasse train station. There we hopped on to the TGV (‘Really Fast Train‘) and had a soothing five hour ride to the Gare de Lyon.
But once we got to the train station in Paris, we had to get on the Metro. If you’ve ever been on it, you know that there’s often a maze of underground passages and stairways that connect the train lines. And we had to change lines a couple of times. So, it was good not to be too laden-down.

I led the way down into the Metro, briskly trudging along up and down the endless stairs, forgetting that three of the kids had never been on a subway before, ever. Alexa (a metro habituée from her stay there when she was six)) cruised along like a real Parisienne. The older two gawked a bit, but came along gamely.
But Mallory? She stared about with wide eyes at the dingy tunnels, wrinkled her nose at the stale (and sometimes worse) air and startled at the thunderous roar of the trains. The farther we walked, the farther she lagged behind, dragging her feet miserably and generally looking like a dryad torn from her native forest glade and consigned to an eternity in Hades.
I tried to encourage her to keep up, but didn’t have time to coddle.
« Come on! Only one more train to go! Keep up!» I called back to her as I paused to struggle with my map of the Metro and figure out our next move.
She looked at me mutely and sat down right in the middle of the corridor. The Parisian commuters, having seen it all, I suppose, stepped agilely around her.
I rushed back.
« What ARE you doing?! You can’t just SIT there! » I shrieked, my cool long gone. « That floor is filthy!! » And it was. It looked like you could get cholera from just thinking about sitting down on it.
« I can’t go any more » she announced.
« OK! We won’t go on. We’ll LIVE in the Metro tunnels. But we will not SIT in them. PLEASE get UP! »
Good grief. The child survived nine years in one of the poorest countries in all of Africa and in the end she would be done in by typhoid contracted from the floor of the Nation Metro station…

She reluctantly got up and shuffled on to the next and final train.

Sad Mallory on the Metro:

Luckily, our destination was only about a block from our final stop.

We ended up here:

The house on the left is the home of our good and kind friends who graciously hosted the five of us for nine days. They are a couple that have three children, so when we were all home, we were a crowd of 10. He’s a doctor and works all the time and she’s an anthropologist who’s always behind on her writing deadlines, so it was particularly nice of them to invite us for such a long stay.
When we arrived, the children of our hosts were still all at school, P (the father) was at work and V (the mom) had to get on with her writing. So, I decided to take the kids for a walk in a nearby, very famous park called the Buttes Chaumont. I thought it might cheer up Mallory, who was still looking morose. Even getting out of the Metro hadn’t visibly cheered her. And I guess I could see why- the sidewalks above ground so far had featured a lot of dog crap and a distinct smell of vomit.

But a park would be nice, right? Spring flowers and all that.

So, we walked down to the park. And it kind of worked.

Buttes Chaumont is a huge and lovely park created by Napoleon III in 1862. It is not on the usual tourist route at all, though. It’s really just a place where Parisians go to relax on some green grass and enjoy nature. Some ‘enjoy’ it more than others, of course. In my efforts to entertain and distract Mallory, I noticed a wide clearing where a lot of pigeons were gathered. I thought she'd be revived a bit by seeing some animals, even if they were just "rats with wings".

Mallory's days back in Africa started every morning at six am with her rushing out the back door to feed the goats and check if her chicken had laid an egg for her. Then she'd spend most of the rest of the day outside, all year long. And even in France now we have our cats, a degu and a whole forest full of deer, wild boars, hawks and whatnot right outside our back door.

So, I directed us along a path to the left that would take us right past the chubby birds intent on their meal. Just beyond the them, I noticed a couple sitting near the trees, having a picnic. I thought. (In my defense, let me state here that I was wearing my old glasses- my new ones having gotten broken just before we left home) As we got closer, it became apparent that their movements, which I had thought indicated that they were unpacking a picnic in a particularly energetic way, were completely non-picnic related. In fact, the couple, though mostly clothed, had opened certain key bits and were having sex, right in the middle of this very busy park.

Mallory said « What are they….? »

Tya said "Aren't they...?"

Alexa's jaw dropped.
Severin, getting right to the point, announced « Laundry alert! », which is the family code for sexy scenes in movies. When the kids were younger, actors removing their garments for romantic fun purposes would prompt me to say brightly « Guess they’re getting ready to wash their clothes! » and then hit the remote.)

We all laughed (what else can you do?) and positively ran back up the path, right past a man who’d been peacefully taking in the sun just down the hill from the couple, with his back to them. When we'd started giggling, he’d turned around and noticed the free show going on behind him . He sat there staring and the happy couple carried on, completely oblivious to all.

Welcome to Paris.

Somewhat traumatized by our first afternoon in the big city, we headed back to our friends' house.

And that was day one of our Paris adventure… much more adventurous than a person wanted, really.

We leave for Paris tomorrow on the 7:30 train. I'm talking AM here, people. So EVERYTHING has to get done today.


The packing? Don't get me started on the packing. It's a nightmare. I am the world's worst packer, which is astonishing considering how darn much of it I've had to do in my life. But the problem is that I just HATE needing something and knowing that the thing I so desperately want is just sitting back at home. So, even though it's sunny, I pack rain gear. And what if there's a freak snowstorm? Better pack coats and boots. What if we get hungry for waffles? Better pack the waffle iron. And syrup! Musn't forget syrup...plus scuba gear and and a snakebite kit.
I just want to be prepared, you know?


But, as my kids would say: "That way lies madness, dude." I just have to calm down and take it easy...


But it's so hard to do that, as I'm trying not only to sort and pack, but also get Severin's room ready for the redecorating/renovation about to happen in there. We spent this morning clearing everything out and now we're trying to get all the old wallpaper down!! The twins are helping and Severin is in charge. He's working hard and is very motivated. He has asked for a Lord of the Rings-themed room. (Yes, I will do anything for my kids. Thank you for asking) By some miracle, I found a wallpaper mural of a forest in New Zealand. (Where LOTR was filmed, for those of you who have just arrived here from a distant planet) The other three walls will be done with a wallpaper that looks like metallic silver granite. The effect will be like looking out of a silver cave and out into the mysterious forest of Mirkwood. That's the idea, anyway.


This amazing transformation will be done by Cristian the Romanian Handyman, without my help or even my (rather nice) homecooked meals. JP will have the care and feeding of CtRH, and I feel rather sorry for both of them. When I told Cristian that I wouldn't be around during his stay, he wrote back. "It will be fine. There's still that pizza place in front of your house, right?", which shows that he understands that JP is not the kind of French guy that cooks. Some do, of course. He doesn't. On the other hand, he never watches soccer matches either , so I consider it to be a fair trade.





I plan to blog at least a couple of times from Paris...it sort of depends on how crazy things get. I will definitely take pictures and have lots to share: the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre, the Orsay Museum and even Disneyland. I am SO excited! I've already seen all this stuff, but it will be so great to share it all with my children.


I just hope it doesn't rain and that we don't get hungry for waffles, because I'm NOT bringing rainboots or waffle irons. Really.

It's a story of long-lost cousins. Sort of. We're kind of arguing over who was the 'lost' one. He says it's me, but I swear that I knew where I was the whole time and was never lost.


But him? HE was living in Germany, in a place that I can't even pronounce without sounding like I'm trying out for a part in a bad stage production of The Sound of Music.
So, who was lost?
Wasn't me, anyway.

So, the story: There's this guy, living in a town we'll call....Somewhereachtungbaby, Germany. S-town, for short. He's a US citizen, a military officer and a nice guy, from a nice family. His dad back in Idaho calls him up and tells him he ought to get in contact with some woman living in France.
Uh huh.
His dad says "No. Really! Listen! This is a REAL relative. Her father is my first cousin."


Then he reassured his son that he'd actually met the woman, as well as her husband and her numerous offspring and they all seemed like normal, people. Nice, maybe even.


So the nice and dutiful son sent an email to the "real" French relative (that would be me).


What happened next?


Well, the nice guy drove all the way over from S-town with his youngest child and came to spend a couple of days in the Haute Savoie with us. It was a short visit, but a good one. His precocious blonde daughter fit right in with our twins and they created a powerful, triplet-like mass. The weekend was theirs, really.



And Mike, the cousin from Germany? He thought my huge stash of New Scientist was cool (rather than sad and boring) and he started reading them asap. In other words: smart and kind of geeky . And I mean that as the highest praise.



It was interesting talking over "old times" with him. We are about the same age and knew many of the same places and people in our childhood, but seldom met. He was raised elsewhere, but like me, spent long summers out in central Nebraska with the family. He'd stay out on The Farm with his grandparents.
Here's his grandfather, who I knew as my "Uncle Bill". He was my paternal grandfather's only sibling:

Here's my grandmother and my grandfather. I don't have a picture of the two brothers together...
Mike said he liked being around my grandpa and loved the endless stories he would tell if you asked him (and even if you didn't.)

And I certainly loved going over to his grandparent's farm for the day. My grandmother and I would work in the garden, then I'd wander off to chase the cats around in the barn. I'd even occasionally get to ride a horse. "My" horse was Sugarfoot.

Mike would drive the tractor, ride Tinkerbell, drink icy water out of the irrigation hoses... all stuff I never did.

Aunt Marie and Uncle Bill would talk about him whenever I visited, but for some reason, he was never there...

All these years later we finally really connected. Same place at the same time. It's pretty funny that we had to go halfway around the world to do it...

Participating in the "What I love about being a mom" meme threw lots of extra traffic my way. My nifty counter over at Blog Patrol showed I've had twice as many readers as usual over the last two days. Things are back to normal today, but it got me thinking about how people end up reading this blog.

First of all, there's family and RL friends. Not all my family and friends, mind you. I've discussed this with other bloggers, so I know I'm not the only one to be surprised that not everyone who knows me cares about my blog. (I am restraining myself from inserting a frowny face made from a colon, dash and parenthesis here) I am myself SO interested in reading the blogs people I know IRL. I'd attribute the problem to my blog maybe being...not very good. But lots of smart people (Hi, Mom! Barb! Ruth!) like it just fine. So there you go.

The second group is the faithful blogger pals. We don't know each other IRL, but it doesn't matter. We read each other's posts and generally leave comments. Bloggers know the awesome motivating power of comments. Just knowing someone is out there liking what you are doing counts for much in this world.

The next group is the google pilgrims- people that stumble onto the blog through search engines. About half of them mean to end up here, or at least somewhere very much like this blog. They employ search terms like Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, moving, expatriation, mask dances, etc.

One word that brings a huge amount of visitors year after year is pagne. There's not a lot of info on the internet about this cloth so typical of West Africa, so many people end up reading this post. Also, I get hits at least a few times a week from the phrase Burkina Faso passport photo, which takes them to this post, which is a mildly amusing anecdote, but probably not very helpful, unless the person is already in Ouaga and wants to know which photo studio to avoid like poison .

Other search terms that bring people here on a regular basis are: Francis Cabrel lyrics, wall waxing and mask festival, which makes sense.

But what's more interesting is some of the really odd keyword combinations that lead people here. The absolutely strangest ones that I can recall are: 'I am shrinking', 'my used fork' (!?) and 'Japanese mom was surprised cleaning bathroom'. The last one was so weird that I did a quick google search using it. I ended up with results linking to lots of kinky porn sites. I really don't know how it brought someone to my tame, 100% porn-free blog. I guess that's one reader that went away very disappointed.

But some people seem happy to end up here. I recently noticed one reader who found my blog for the first time and then stuck around reading it for over three hours , apparently not bothered by the lack of startled, hygiene-oriented Japanese mothers.

Some people write because they are artists and they have to express themselves. They don't care whether there's an audience out there for them or not. Me? Not the expressive artist type (as you've probably noticed). This blog started out for as a way for me to keep in contact with friends and family while I was living in Africa and it still serves a very important social function in my life. I feel connected, somehow, to everyone that reads this blog. My world feels very big.

It matters to me that you are reading this. I'm not sure why, but it does, very much.

So, thank you.

By the way, want to buy a used fork?

« A few months ago, my friend David asked me if I thought that it would be possible to travel around the world via blog. "Like Around The World In 80 Days," he said, "but on the Internet. Around the world in 80 clicks. 80 mom-blogger clicks!" "I don't know," I said. "But it sure sounds like a cool thing to try." "Cool. And if you could visit, virtually, moms around the world, what would you want to talk to them about?"

So begins a post over at the blog called « Her Bad Mother ». It is a very good blog, probably a great one, featuring some masterful writing. It’s funny, honest and powerful. So, it is with amazement that I find myself participating in the « 80 clicks project » as a sort of featured co-blogger.

Here’s a bit more from the original post:
« Here's how it's going to work: this post that you're reading? Is the departure lounge. I'm going to link to a couple of other mom bloggers here in Canada, and to a couple of mom bloggers from other countries around the world, and they'll write their posts, sharing 5 things that they love (or maybe what they don't so much love - this playground doesn't force conformity) about being a mom, and then they'll tag a few more bloggers from their own country and from other countries, and so on. And you're more than welcome to join: just write a post of your own (5 things that you love about being a mom) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country (Google is a good resource if you don't know any; google any country name and 'mom' in their blog search function) (be sure to let them know that you've tagged them!) - and link back here and leave a comment and we'll add you to the 'itinerary,' which David will compile and post and update as the tour proceeds. »

So, here I am, one of the lucky « couple of mom bloggers from other countries».

What do I love about being a mom? If someone would have given me this writing assignment 11 years ago, when I had a four year old, a two year old , newborn twins and a husband constantly far from home, working in Africa, I would have had a very different list. I was exhausted, sleep-deprived and mostly isolated from adult company. But I still, somehow, adored being a mom. I thought breastfeeding was fun. I loved bathing the babies and dressing them up in tiny clothes. I loved singing to them, talking to them, playing with them and just sitting around watching them sleep.
I really did love everything about it. I was tired, but euphoric.

The only time I ever came close to an "I can‘t do this" moment was when my husband announced we would all be moving to Burkina Faso. Could I be a mom in one of the poorest countries in the world? Could I keep my children healthy and safe? Was this the right thing to do? These were terrible worries and they made my sense of responsibility four these four small lives seem like a huge burden, possibly beyond my capacity to competently manage.
But, of course, it wasn’t.
We all lived and thrived in Ouagadougou. My little ones grew from babies into children. And I learned that there’s more to love about being a mom than I ever imagined.

I’ve mixed the slightly serious in with the very silly, but there you go. Just because it’s silly doesn’t mean it’s not true…

What I love about being a mom:

5. I love that it comes with a title. Some people get called « Mr. President », some go by « Your Majesty ». Good for them.
But me? I’m « Mom ».
When my four tumble through the door after a long day at school, all yelling for Mom to come down out of her « writing garret » and hear about their adventures, my heart leaps. Really.
It’s a title I wear with pride. And yes, it’s one I share with many, many women all over the globe, but that only makes me love it all the more.

4. It’s the best way to meet people. When I first moved to France, friends warned me that the people in remote French mountain villages were invariably suspicious and unfriendly. Slow to warm up, to put it kindly. But all it took was a couple of walks up and down the lane, pushing my baby daughter in her stroller. Fellow moms came pouring out to arrange play dates. Elderly couples came out to coo, admire and invite us in for tea.
The same thing happened when we moved to Burkina Faso. I had just arrived and wanted to find friends, so I herded my four little ones outside and went for a walk. That was all it took. Within minutes, we had new pals galore.
Being a mom means that I have instant icebreakers at my fingertips.
Yes, children are the key to international friendship and understanding.
But we all knew that already, right?

3. There’s always someone to clean out the litter box. Someone who is not me.

2. I love that I can share everything that I love with my kids. Reading "The Hobbit" and "The BFG" to them, watching all the Star Trek movies with them, camping with them, teaching them to crochet, playing "Risk" with them, singing with them, travelling all over the world with them, cooking with them...the list is nearly endless, but it brings me great joy to say to my children: "Hey! I love this. I bet you will, too!" and then embark on another adventure of learning with them.

1. I love that I get to know and be around the four most amazing people I have ever met. I got to hold them as babies, chase them around as toddlers, and shepherd them through the crazy elementary school years. And now I get to listen to their assorted ideas, problems and clever (mostly) jokes, help them with mind-bending home work and watch them all turn into delightful teenagers. Eventually, with any luck, I’ll see them turn into caring and capable adults. This is, without a doubt, absolutely the best thing I could possibly be doing with my life.

How could I not love that?

Now I get to tag a couple of other moms around the world to participate. First of all, we'll go off to sunny Spain to hear what Oreneta has to say on the subject. Then I'll ask Reb to chime in.

Yesterday after my morning Wii session, I wrote a long-ish blog post, cleaned the house , did several loads of laundry, made lunch, taught English down at the school, and went to the post office. By the time I got home at about 3pm, I was ready for a little break...maybe, say, sitting down with a novel and a cup of coffee? Just for half and hour or so?

It was not, of course, to be.

JP was in full project mode. He'd been writing all morning and wanted to "do" something. He decided that he would start painting the ceiling over the central staircase of our house. I got out the huge can of white paint I'd bought, but refused to participate any further. I merely suggested that he remove the spiderwebs before he started painting (which he did) and that he cover every surface below with tarps (which he did not).

Leaving him to his fate, I went down to the kitchen and heated up some coffee in my special "Mom" mug and made my way up to the attic, where JP and I have our bedroom and office. I sat down at the computer to have a quick look at my emails before settling down with my book.

I saw that a good pal in the USA was online and decided to try to "chat" with her. First time ever! What fun! Even better than reading my book!

We started typing inane, funny comments, as is the way of chat. But after only a few minutes, I heard a crash and a thump and a heart-wrenching cry of surprise, pain, misery and disbelief. I ran over and leaned over the railing. There was JP down on the second floor landing, clutching the ladder and looking down at the huge can of paint laying, dented and empty on the stairs below. A torrent of white paint poured down the stairs onto the landing below and on into the bathroom.

It was a Niagara Falls of paint right in our own home.

My first thought, to my credit, was intense relief that JP himself was not laying there on the stairs.

My next and less laudible thought was : I'm so glad that it wasn't me that made that god-awful mess!

I abandoned my chat and my coffee and went to help. I brought up a bucket of water and some rags. JP prompted dumped the water onto the huge lake of paint on the lower landing, sending a cascade down the NEXT flight of stairs, which until then had been clean.

Woe was us.


But at least it was water-based paint, right?


"If this was oil-based paint, we'd have had to move." I informed JP as we scrubbed at the mess. "You realize that don't you?"

He started at the top and I worked up from the bottom. The rags weren't getting the paint out of the cracks in the cement, so we started using scrub brushes. As it dried and sunk in further, we had to switch to steel wool.

We scrubbed for two solid hours.

The stairs ended up reasonably clean. They were originally covered in repulsive brown vinyl. JP just recently ripped it all off and exposed a layer of ancient, thick, hard yellow glue. He spent several afternoons stripping all that off and then scrubbing the cement with a special cleaning solvent. The idea was to get the stairs perfectly clean so that we could cover them with special paint for cement floors. We needed an impeccable base, as the stairs are a high-traffic area right in the center of our home. So, we're really hoping that the traces of white ceiling paint won't affect the layer of brick red floor paint we want to apply.

If I was I quick thinker, I SO would have taken a photo of the mess to post with this!

Exercise. How I hate it.
And I think people that love it are very, very odd and probably need pychological help.

On the other hand, I do try to do it regularly. If I don't, I feel all kind of stiff and elderly. But it's not something I've ever done because I think it's fun. Fun is reading a book, writing in my blog, visiting a friend, playing a board game with the kids, planting a garden, making bread, etc. Frankly, I even like cleaning house better than exercising. Sadly, housecleaning, as strenuous as it may be , deosn't seem to count as "exercise". But at least you have a clean, nice-smelling house to show for it afterwards. For most people, the hour or so of moderate exercise they do each day to keep their heart healthy doesn't result an amazing physique (or a great smell, for that matter).
It boils down to this: exercise sucks, but you have to do it.

Back when we first arrived in Ouaga, I mainly did step aerobics at home. Then I eventually switched to the Rec Center gym, with it's treadmills, weight machines and television showing US TV programs. I also usually walked once a week for an hour with a group of friends over on the ISO school grounds.
Then we moved to France. For the first few months, I had no time to work out. I was too busy fixing up the house and getting everything set up in our new life here. We'd go on occasional walks, and when it began snowing, we did some cross-country skiing, but I wasn't working out regularly. And I felt it.

Then my parents sent us a Wii for Christmas.
I cannot convey the coolness of Wii. The kids love the games, of course, but I love Wii Fit. It's certainly not the most intense workout ever, but at least it's varied and gets you to try new things. (Boxing, for example- Boxing is great! Who would have thought that I'd ever say that?) I'd say that Wii Fit is certainly a great form of exercise for beginners and/or people who don't like to exercise or are easily bored.

In case you have no clue what Wii is, here's a short description: A wireless gaming system that uses handheld remotes that are keyed to a sensor bar that you put on top of your tv screen. Then when you play, for example, a tennis game on the Wii, you actually swing your arm (while holding the remote) just like you would if you were really playing tennis. The game evaluates your move and makes you "hit" the ball. It's all very realistic and quite impressive.

The Wii Fit game also includes a "balance board"- a very low step with pressure sensors. It keeps track of your center of balance and evaluates your performance in activities like skiing, snowboarding or step aerobics. There's also hula hoops (a surprisingly good workout) , yoga and even running. There's also an assortment of fun balance games.

But what am I best at?

It will probably not come as a surprise to learn that I excel at sitting absolutely rock-steady still, not burning a single calorie.

Be jealous. Be very jealous.
How did I discover my amazing gift? Well, I've never been a "yoga person, but Wii Fit inspired me to give it a try. I slowly worked my way through most of the basic poses over the period of a few weeks. As I progressed, I "unlocked" new poses. One of them was called "Lotus Focus". There was a little picture of someone sitting cross-legged on the balance board, looking at a candle. I was at the end of my workout and thought it looked relaxing, so I thought I'd give it a try. I got into position on the board and pressed "A". The screen showed a wooden floor in a dim room. The only light came from an animated candle in the center. I watched a moth flutter around the flame. About 30 seconds passed. Then there was an echoing sound of footsteps approaching. Guess the session is over I thought, and let myself shift a tiny bit. That's when a cross-sounding male voice shouted really loudly and surprised me so much I fell right off the board backwards.
What had the guy said? Sounded like he insulted me in Japanese... At any rate, it was pretty disconcerting.
Then the Wii told me I had done 28 seconds and that my performance was very unsatisfactory.
What? I'm not good at sitting?
That just didn't seem right. I must have missed something. .. I gave it another try. I sat down again, watched the moths. One of them caught on fire. Sick! But I didn't flinch. Then I again heard the footsteps. I figured the crabby Japanese guy was coming back to yell at me again, but I just sat there. Then the footsteps... faded away!
Finally, I realised that the candle was burning down. I may be a bit slow, but the truth was finally dawning: if you don't move a muscle, the yelling guy leaves you alone!
And you are just supposed to sit there until the candle burns down.

So , the pretend candle burned and burned and burned. I breathed slowly and steadily in what I hoped was a zen-ny, yoga-ish kind of way.

I began to wonder what kind of time frame was involved here. Seconds? Minutes? I needed to get finished and go write in my blog!
Three minutes passed... then the game ended and told me I had done a brilliant job. I had "beaten" the game by staying completely still for 180 seconds.

Later on, a quick search on the internet reassured me that I'm certainly not the only person that didn't quite "get" this game at first. And even more amazingly, I found out that that some people actually CHEAT at this game by putting a heavy box on the balance board! It's such a shame that some people must resort to pathetic strategems because they do not have my amazing talent for sitting completely still for very long periods of time. Sad, really.

Seldom does anyone have a good thing to say about war. But get this: thanks to WWI , I’m going to Paris next month.

It’s a bit complicated, but stay with me here: The First World War pretty much decimated the population of France. Before the war, there were over 39 million people living here. Afterwards, there were 1,700, 000 fewer.
In response, the government instituted many pro-natalist policies. One of these was the « Carte Famille Nombreuse » . (The Big Family Card. Very descriptive, if not creative. ). It was a card issued by the national rail service giving families with three or more children a discount on train fares.
This was a huge deal back in 1921. It allowed working class families in an increasingly urbanized and industrial environment to get out of the cities and enjoy fresh country air.

And here’s the thing: the card is still a pretty big deal, over eighty years later. When our cher President Sarkozy started scheming recently to do away with this beloved institution, he was quickly confronted with so much opposition that he was forced to back down. While it’s true that fewer and fewer people are having big families, the French are nothing if not « solidaire » . They know that once the government gets started eliminating public benefits, it won’t stop…and meantime the bigwigs keep their huge salaries and benefits such as beautiful government-owned apartments in the heart of Paris.
So, the government was forced to keep the card, but that’s not to say they made it easy to get one…

When we arrived back in France this summer, one of the first things I did was try to apply for our cards. On the official website, I learned that you could get application forms at your village mayor’s office. So, I went down to see the secretary there. R. is a nice lady and I know her pretty well. She’s very kind and always willing to help if she can. But she had NO clue what I was talking about. Nobody in the village had ever applied for a CFN and she had no idea how to get the forms. I didn’t want to pester her, so I decided to go to Plan B: The website had also said that you could get applications at any railway station.
So, the next day I drove to one and asked for a CFN application The woman at the ticket counter looked at me like I was mad. « We don’t deal with that kind of thing » she said disdainfully, as though I’d asked her to participate in some unspeakable rite. « Check the website. You can order them online. I think. »
That wasn’t very reassuring, but I figured I’d give it a go.

You may not believe this, but I swear it is the truth: I tried many, many times over a period of several days to order the applications online. It NEVER worked. The site somehow always managed to NOT function.
Is it a government plot? I wondered.
Or maybe I’m an idiot and just doing it wrong? That's always a possibility.

So, I eventually went back to the kindly secretary at the village town hall and told her my sad story. She shook her head sympathetically and turned towards her computer. She called up the railway service website and tried to get the applications.
It didn’t work. Of course.

« Maybe you should write them a letter. » she suggested.
« I ‘m afraid they’d just throw it in the trash and claim they never got it. » I said sadly.
« I suppose you‘re right » she agreed.
« But maybe if you were to write them a request …» I said, an idea slowly taking form « and we sent it registered mail, I bet they’d HAVE to send me the applications. Wouldn’t they? »
She agreed to help me out and sent the letter the next day.

The forms came four weeks later. We quickly filled them in, gathered all the documents and photos needed and sent it all off.
Then we waited. And we waited.
Then we waited some more.
Finally, about five weeks later, our cards arrived.
Much rejoicing ensued.

Three children is considered a « large family » and each member is entitled to 30% off train fares. Any more children than that is considered a « very large family » and gets more off. With our four children, for example, we get 40% reduction. And it’s this discount that makes it realistic for me to take our four kids on the train next month and go visit Paris.

Once there, expenses will still be reasonable. Our CFN cards also get a special rate on Metro and bus fares. Even museum entrance fees are reduced for CFN holders. And as for lodging, which can be so costly, we’ll stay at the house of friends and do most of our own cooking. Most meals while we’re out and about will be picnics packed at home.

A week in Paris for five can be done on a low budget…as long as the government lets us keep our nifty cards.
So, don’t be mean, Sarko. I want my kids (and other not incredibly wealthy kids) to wander around the Louvre and go to the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Is that too much to ask?

Yesterday I woke up to a blizzard.
It snowed all morning, quit for a bit and then snowed again all night. It was nasty, windy and snowy.
I thought it was supposed to be spring now! I'm SO ready for daffodils and green grass.

I was pretty cross and confused until I remembered this little saying that they have here in the Haute Savoie about the month of March:
"In like a lion, out like an enraged polar bear."

Ok, I just made that up.
But they NEED a saying like that so that people don't get crazy, unrealistic ideas about lambs...

I interrupted my blogging for a few days for the best of reasons: a visit from an old friend. I hasten to add that E. is not and does not look old- she's gorgeous. It's our friendship that is longstanding.


When I arrived at Everett Junior High on a fall day in 1977, I didn't count on finding many friends. I was very tall (a head above any boy in the class), glasses-wearing and extremely bookish. In short, I was a geek. Little did I know that I would quickly find an ally- a tall, frizzy-haired girl even smarter than me.


She's the one who figured out the secret to the answers to the multiple choice quiz in English class. Being a true pal, she caught my attention during the test and mouthed "Opera" at me, pointing down at the paper. Sure enough, my first few correct answers spelled out T O S C A. So, after answering all the questions I was sure of, I was easily able to fill in all the others. Aida and Die Fledermause, I believe, were the other keys.
When E. handed in her quiz, she couldn't resist a quiet remark to the teacher "So, you like opera, huh?" Wicked girl. His face fell, poor man. He'd thought he was so clever...
From E. I learned to revel in my geekhood.

Our many adventures are too numerous to recount in a single blog post. I could write a book, srsly.


E. moved away three years later. We wrote for a while, but then lost touch until the magic of the internet got us back together again about five years ago. She ended up coming to visit me in Burkina and we had a great time.


This time around, she arrived in Paris from her home in NYC, looking for a job. After attending to that small task, she left Paris on Friday and came to visit us here in the Haute Savoie.


On Saturday, I took E. and my girls all in to Geneva for a day in the big city. It was E's first time in Switzerland, so she was keen to go, despite the fact that her Parisian pals had warned her that Geneva is "very boring and full of Swiss people". We ended up wandering the streets of the old Town- the ancient walled heat of the city. We took in a couple of museums- which was good, as otherwise we would have frozen to death. It was a freezing cold and windy day.


I tried to take pictures, but somehow nothing went right. I had them all posed in front the the imposing St. Peter's cathedral and kept pushing the button, but my phone refused to make that "click" sound that means it actually took a photo. I stood there fussing with the thing, cursing and grumbling as the wind whipped at us mercilessly. It seemed to be stuck in "movie" mode and I couldn't figure out how to make it take photos. I'd click a few buttons, try to take a photo, fail, curse and then try again. This went on for a while.


Instead of photos, I ended up with a series of avant-garde short films. That's what I tried to tell Ellen and the kids, anyway. "I meant to film the sidewalk and the front of my coat. That shot of my button is masterful and full of meaning. Don't you agree? "


E. just shook her head pityingly as Valentine gently pried the phone out of my hands. She pressed a button and handed it back to me. It was back in camera mode, just in time to get a few pictures of. ... our visit to the Geneva branch of Starbucks. Very exciting.

On Sunday, we went for a walk in the mountains. The camera worked fine.









Today I took E. to the train station at noon. She has another job interview there before heading back to NYC on Tuesday. I am SO hoping that she gets offered a great job. It would be great to see her more often than once every five years!

JP is getting ready for another work-related trip. I’ll have to go down to the train station this afternoon to buy his tickets…and maybe I’ll buy a few others as well!

There is a big school holiday coming up in April and I’ve decided to take the children to PARIS! I’ve been promising them we’d go and now seems to be the time. We have friends there that have a lovely house in the 19th. Sadly, we won’t see much of our pals, as they’ll be taking off for their own holiday AWAY from the daily grind in the big city. But us country mice will love being in the center of things.

We plan to leave on April 10 and spend about one week. The girls are counting on at least two days at the Louvre and I am happy to accommodate. I LOVE that place.
And of course the Eiffel Tower is a must, as Alexa is the only one who’s ever been. We’ll also probably take the RER train over to Disneyland for a day. That's to keep Severin happy.

We visited EuroDisney once before, but that was seven years ago , so it hardly counts. The twins were only four and don’t remember any of it. Can you believe how adorable they were!? I actually got a bit teary as I looked back through all the pictures. I can hardly fathom the fact that the girls are already 11 years old! I guess I've been having too much fun...isn't that what makes time fly?

Despite the fact that we have a satellite dish, we don’t watch very much television. Most days, it doesn’t go on at all.
There are, in fact, only two programs we watch with any regularity:
One is the popular French singing completion Nouvelle Star. It’s so bad that it makes American Idol ( of which it is an imitation) look like a high-quality program of refined taste and exceptional educational merit. I’m not sure why I watch it. I’d be tempted to say «It’s because I love music », but that’s precisely why I SHOULDN’T watch it.
Well, perhaps some mysteries are best left unsolved.

The other program that we often watch is Un Dîner Presque Parfait . It’s a great show to watch as a family and it’s really interesting. It’s actually a cooking contest that takes place over the course of one week. Each Monday, they present a group of five contestants living in the same town. Then every night one of them must give a dinner party for the group. You are expected not only to cook really well, but also to decorate the table elegantly and provide some kind of activity or entertainment for your guests. At the end of each meal, the four guests secretly grade the host on three points: cooking, décor and ambiance. On Friday night, the last meal is served and graded and then the averages are revealed. The top scorer wins 1000 euros, which is really just symbolic. It’s an awful lot of work and expense for the chance to win a pretty small amount of cash. But this is France and people take their food VERY seriously. It’s not for the blé, its for the honor and the gloire!!

Even a small, cow-intensive village like ours is filled with hard-core gastronomes. Take Saturday night: JP and I were invited to a dinner that some friends threw together at the last minute. We saw Martine on Friday afternoon and she said « Come for dinner! Maybe tomorrow? We’ll do it at our house, or maybe Lionel’s place. I’ll call you. »
She called and so it was that on Saturday night at about 8pm, we showed up at Lionel and Andrée's beautiful old farmhouse high on the hillside that overlooks the main part of the village. (One day I am going to BEG them to let me photograph their house and post it on my blog. It’s SO amazing and they did it all themselves!)
Our friends Lionel and Michel were already busy in the kitchen, looking very fetching in that »capable guy in an apron » kind of way.
Then another couple from the village arrived and the guest list was complete.
First of all, we were served an impressive homemade aperitif that our hostess had made from red wine and hawthorn flower buds. It was really lovely.
Then we sat down to this:

I’m sorry the light is so poor. I took these with my cell phone and I didn’t dare turn on more lights. I think poor JP was embarrassed enough.
« We ‘re just tourists » he told everyone. But when I go into my « This is SO going into my blog » mode, there’s no stopping me.

The dinner was very simple, elegant and good. It was:
Batavia salad with cherry tomatoes and herbs
New potatos with herbed yogurt sauce
Fromage frais with herbs
Round zucchini stuffed with pork.
For dessert there were apple slices sautéed in olive oil, served warm with whipped cream.

Though conversation touched many topics: politics, philosophy, language, travel, etc, much of it revolved around food.
Three of the men present had just gotten back from a road trip to Perigord to track down local wines, foie gras, magret de canard and other gourmet specialties. A six hour drive just to go hunting down food. These guys are all about the cuisine.

Before the end of the night, I was sure to warn them all that I’m not a very good cook and that they shouldn’t expect much when they come for dinner at my house. I figure that if they start out with low expectations, they won’t be disappointed…

Prison Break: The Degu Edition

Pilot Episode

Written by: Burkinamom
Directed by: The Gods of Irony

COLD OPEN:

[INT. KITCHEN-EARLY MORNING]

Mallory: (Enters carrying a small square of glass.) Leon ate his cage! Look! (Holds up the cage door)

(Beth drops the dishcloth she is holding. A cat pounces on it and commences chewing on it. She doesn't notice.)

Beth: Where IS he!!!?? Is he OUT?!!!

Mallory: No. He's still in his cage. He looks kind of...surprised. I don't think he really thought he was ever going to get it open.

Beth: He's just sitting there?

Mallory: Yeah. (She puts the glass cage door down on the table) I blocked off the hole with a book, but I don't think he's that interested in escaping. Chewing on the cage was just....a hobby.

Beth: Yeah...well, I wish he'd take up knitting. It would be a lot cheaper than buying a new cage.

CUT TO:

[INT. DINING ROOM-LATER THAT MORNING]

Valentine: (Looking at Beth as she butters her toast) So, what's on your schedule today?

Beth: (Her mouth full of toast, she does a mime impression of a degu chewing through his cage, the degu escaping, the cage door falling off and then someone driving to a shop to see about getting a new cage.)

Valentine: You are going to eat corn on the cob...pretend to be a dog...open a book ...drive somewhere and...HIT someone?!?

To be fair, I was only planning to hit someone if they wouldn't give me a really good discount on a new cage. I mean, I bought the EXACT cage they recommended at the pet shop and the creature chewed completely through it in less than three months.

Luckily, the people at MaxiPet saw reason and made me a good deal on a cage completely in wire. And Leon seems to like it better. There's more room for him to scamper about.

As to why he didn't rush out of his cage the minute the door fell off, we will probably never know the truth. It happened in the night and he easily could have skittered on out of there and into a nice hidey-hole. After all that effort on his part, I thought there was, you know, a plan. It's like if the captured soldiers in The Great Escape spent all those months digging that tunnel, broke through to the outside and then said "You know, this prison camp is actually pretty darn nice, once you think about it. A guy doesn't want to be hasty. Let's sleep on it."

Maybe Leon was afraid his Chilean accent would give him away and he'd be immediately recaptured while taking the train?

Last weekend, JP and I went off on our own - not a single child in tow - just the two of us! We went cross country skiing and then ate at a restaurant. We haven't been alone in a restaurant for a very, very long time. I'm talking years, here.
We have basically subscribed to the "Why have kids if you don't want to be around them?" school of child-rearing, which I think is a good, good thing. But an occasional break is nice, especially now that the "babies" are 11 years old and eldest will be able to drive in three months...
It was a gorgeous day and the skiing was great. Not that I'm very good at it. I prefer the flat bits and even the least incline makes me edgy. (I am SO not ever going to go downhill skiing. It's a shame, but I just don't have it in me any more.)

Afterwards, we drove up the valley looking for a likely restaurant. We found this one, which was SO unbearably charming that I had to take pictures.


As the sign above indicates
1. We've had a LOT of snow this year
and
2. The restaurant specialises in Savoyard dishes. There are many permutations, but all Haute Savoie cooking boils (ha!) down to this:
a. cheese and potatoes
b. cheese and potatoes with lardons (thick chunks of bacon)
c. cheese and bread
As we had only skied for an hour and not all day, we didn't feel we required a gargantuan caloric load-up, so despite the gorgeousness of the place, as can be further attested to here:

we moved on down the valley, closer to home.

We drove past a little café by the side of the road that we had seen a thousand times. We'd always thought it was out of business, as there never seemed to be any signs of activity. But today, instead of being blocked by parked cars, the front door was actually accesible. And besides tables, chairs and parasols, there was even a life-sized plastic chef de cuisine holding up a chalkboard menu! Who could resist that?

We walked in and and were met by many promising signs that this would be a good place to eat and hang out.

1. We were immediately greeted by a very chubby and cheerful man that was, of course, the owner of the place. It immediately was clear that he and his wife run the place completely on their own.

2. There were lots of clients, all locals. Not a tourist in sight.

3. There was an old gentleman there eating his lunch, feeding his little white dog with scraps under the table. Any time you see locals in a café with their dogs, you know it's a good place to be. That's the sign that it's THE place to be- everyone's home away from home.

It wasn't fancy, by any means. In fact, it was the epitome of a small café/bar/restaurant in a tiny village. The tables were linoleum with paper place mats. The decor consisted of posters for a local accordeonist, a hefty gentleman with an impressive walrus-type mustache and a beret. You could buy his cds at the bar for 11 Euros each.

In fact, it was the French version of small-town diner in the middle of the United States about 50 years ago.

There had been two specials of the day, but the owner/cook told us that he was out of mussels and only had steak left. I was disappointed, not being a big meat fan. So, he very kindly had a look in the kitchen and decided that there were actually enough mussels left for a "small portion", which turned out to be fine for me.

There was a pâté en croute as a starter. Then the main dishes, simple and served with a big basket of tasty fries to share. And dessert was a smashing coconut raspberry torte. It was all very simple and amazingly good.

After we were served, the owner came back out of the kitchen and sat down at a table to hold court. He told stories and jokes and kept quite a good ambiance going. He even offered us free glasses of his homemade plum eau de vie (fruit brandy). It was very strong and the glasses were too full. I could only manage one sip, so JP had to drink his and then most of mine. It wouldn't have been good manners to leave any.

It reminded me a bit of that time in Peru when my professor had to eat my plate of goat entrails as well as his own plateful, because I couldn't manage it and we couldn't insult our hosts...