All Shower, All The Time.

After too many mishaps to tell of in this modest blog, we are finally DONE with the last big remodelling project chez nous!

The shower in the kids' bathroom was looking shabby, so we decided that after the guest room and bathroom were done, we'd "freshen up" their shower.

We decided to increase it from  90cm x  90cm to  120 x 120 .  This didn't sound like much on paper, or even look that much bigger when we traced it out on the floor....

But it turned out to be...quite substantial once the walls started to go up.

This is a very, very fancy drain of super-fancy fanciness.
However, it is NOT as fancy as the REALLY  TRULY fancy
drain that I reallywanted,
(which turned out to cost 360 EUROS!!!!!!!).
But it is still pretty nice. 

My idea to use glass brick was pretty brilliant *breaks arm patting self on back. Ouch!*
The bricks work nicely, keeping the shower
 from blocking the light from the window.

The curtain hides  shelves full of towels and sheets.
The plaster bust on top is some random Roman dude, found at the thrift shop.

Please to note the extra-fanciness of the various retro chrome fittings.
I ordered them from Hudson Reed, a place with all sorts of astounding faucets and fixtures.

Another clever feature I dreamed up was the recessed, tiled shelves built into the back wall.
 I have three daughters with long, long hair, and those people use a LOT of product!
(NB: Severin also has long hair, but is not so keen on  hygenie as his lovely sisters)
At any rate, these shelves finally give the kids a place for all their shower stuff.
 I HATE those stupid metal shelves that rust and/or fall down constantly!

If you would like to come over and try this amazing shower out, please contact me and I'll see what I can set up for you.

The Lion, the Witch and the Guest Bedroom with Full Bath.

The door on the left?
It used to be a closet. 
But now when you open it, instead of finding assorted winter coats and snowboots, you end up in a magical land where it is winter all year round because of the terrible Snow Queen.

Well......it would be nice if that were true, because last time I checked, having an imaginary country located  in one's home did NOT involve a month of unholy messes and daily numerous trips to the DIY shop....not to mention actual  painting, tiling, and general hard work.

As you may have gathered from the above, our project is NOT done yet.  Still at least a week to go. 

The stairs have been temporarily put in, making it a lot easier to get in and out.
And  fitting a staircase of any kind into a closet was no mean feat. We had to get special, rather steep ones.

 The room is finally painted and the stratified  flooring ("Celtic Oak") is in.

The light fixtures we chose at Ikea are also up.
There are two, though you can't see the second one in this pic.
Very groovy.

 The bathroom has been taking shape nicely. 
The in-wall suspended toilet turned out really great.

Apparently, they are not very common at all in the USA, as I found out when I was trying to describe the project to my mom.
Here in France it's A Thing.

 We also have the heated towel rack ...which is also totally a must-have in your bastic French bathroom.








Below is the shower.  The glass bricks are to let in light and keep it from feeling too claustrophobic.

I also like the exposed beam.

 This was my brainstorm for the vanity: custom-tiled to match the wall mosaic!! I am SO happy with how it is turning out.

I also ordered a really cool faucet to go with it.....

 This is where it is as of today.... I think the final touches will be done tomorrow and then we will have a brand-new,  fully-functional bathroom!!

Totally Worth Waiting For (AKA Pimp My Garage)

After long silence, it has all built up to this moment:
 STILL MORE HOME RENOVATIONS!!!!
And what is better than that?
 Nothing- duh!

We need more room in our home in order to welcome guests more comfy-cozily (pretty sure that's not a word, but it is so much cuter than just "comfortably"). This in mind, we ("we" in this case mainly  consisting of  Paul the Roumanian Magician)  have attacked a new moumental project:
 making a nice guest room with full bath in the upper story of our cavernous garage.

What used to  be a closet next the the half bath on the landing now leads to a small, empty (for now) stairwell.  The ladder there takes you to a soon-to-be-finished mini guest suit ( NB: not that it is intended only for smaller than average guests.  The "mini" refers to the fact that it is just an average-sized bedroom with a bathroom thrown in.  Non-palatial in nature.)
It is only 3/4 finished at this point, but I figured that a few "before and  partially finished" photos are in order:

 The new area only takes up half of the total upper floor of the garage.  The other half is still desperately needed for storing all of our plenteous junk.
The little cement block you see at the right edge of the picture above  is part of the closet that was later cut to provide a space for the new stairs to come up.

The above photo was taken at almost exactly the same spot as the one at the top. As you can see, the bathroom takes a chunk out of the space. But I think it's worth it. 
 In the left photo, the ladder is in the hole where the stairs will be installed. And I hope that happens soon, as the ladder is a pain.

This is the exterior wall where the window went in.  It is by far the biggest window in the whole house. These old Savoyard homes were built to keep the heat in and that meant tiny baby windows.




Now we have a nice view of our backyard!

Here's the thing about an old house in the country: you can count on most things going wrong. The door latches jam, the facade cracks, the windows don't close tight and termites snack on the load-bearing beams...
And here's the other thing: most of the NEW stuff you put in your old house ALSO goes wrong.. sort of like it's been infected by some virulently contageous "old stuff malfunctioning" virus.
At least, in my experience.

Hence the middle drawer in the kitchen opening mysteriously as though pulled open by a ghost looking for a paring knife, the bathroom towel heater burning out ( you need it in the summer in the mountains, believe me), the oven giving out and the fridge falling to bits.
I could handle all that. Not exactly gracefully, but I have been SO happy to be back in France, the little problems in life (like the huge leak in our roof) have been as water (hah!) off the back of a happy Franco-American duck.
But the relatively new toilet in the master bathroom completely refusing to flush did tick me off. Up in the attic, accessible only by climbing three flights of stairs, the thing was hardly ever even used.

I figured I could fix it myself. It's a toilet, not the space shuttle, right? I have an advanced university degree (Ok- not in plumbing. But never mind that) and should be able to repair a common household fixture.
I confidently got to work.

Five minutes later I was bitterly discouraged and tempted to use Bad Language, despite the presence of the twins in my office nearby. I hadn't even been able to get the lid off the stupid tank! I felt like an idiotic loser, unfit to wear the proud name of "homeowner". Can't even fix her own toilet.
Not only would I have to waste money on a plumber, he'd also be a witness to my shameful incompetence. I'd be paying to be humiliated.
Let's just say that I was woeful and chagrined, shall we?

So, with a heavy heart, I phoned up one of the local plumbers. He showed up the next morning, a big, heavyset fellow with the lowest, gruffest voice that I have ever heard. I brought him upstairs and he set to work, whistling cheerfullly. For a guy with such a gravel-filled voice, he had a pretty musical whistle. Nice for him, but I was definitely less than cheerful. I slunk over to my desk nearby and listless sorted through papers as I mentally berated myself.
"I'm such a dope! I can't believe that I couldn't even fix it! Couldn't even get the lid off. I am SO moronic. If we have to call a repairman for each little thing that goes wrong, we'll be bankrupt in year!"

But then a funny thing happened. After a few minutes, the plumber wasn't whistling anymore. In fact, he was muttering to himself.
No wait..it was getting louder. ..he was cursing! Yes, definitely! He was swearing at my toilet! And there were sounds of struggle and vast effort.

I just HAD to see what was going on in there! And sure enough, there he was, cursing up a storm and trying to pry the lid off the tank!

He looked up. "This is a tough one" he said grimly.
"Mmmm" I answered, with what was probably a strange little smile on my face.

I SWEAR that you have never seen someone as happy as I was to learn that her toilet was hard to fix. A "special case", the plumber later called it. Not only was it hard to open, the whole interior mechanism was shot. Not in need of a slight adjustment, but in need of complete replacement. Plus, it was a special model, so he had no replacements in his truck. he ended up taking the thing to bits and leaving the pieces strewn around my bathroom for four days until he could get back to me.
But I didn't mind. Really! I was just so thrilled to NOT feel like a completely unskilled feeble idiot. My self-esteem was again intact.

Don't you love happy endings?

The Geekiest Expat Mom Ever Goes to Gourcy, Part II
Just as night fell, our host arrived in a gleaming Toyota Land Cruiser, his kindly driver Pascal at the wheel. Antoine jumped out, smiling. But the smiling didn’t last long. He sat down with us and told us that there had been a terrible accident just three hours before. The son of his good friend/next door neighbour had just been killed on the road to Ouahiagouya. He’d taken two friends in his father’s SUV to go for an evening of fun in the big city. The vehicle rolled and he died on the spot. Besides all the incredible heartache of the event, there had been further drama. Mossi custom demands that the body be buried at the site of any accidental death. But the local priest tried to outmanoeuvre the traditional powers and had sent men to pick up the body for burial at on the church grounds. Antoine had been trying to manage this situation and at the same time move the night’s planned festivities to another location. Because of the tragedy right next door, here was no question of having a party with music and dancing at the hotel. None of us would have been surprised if he’d cancelled the whole thing. His good friend had just lost his 24 year old son, after all. But he insisted that it would go on. He had already engaged the performers and had the food prepared. Furthermore, Yann and his wife were not the only people being honoured. In fact, it turned out that the party was also in honor of (probably primarily in honor of) a French couple who were visiting Gourcy for the month. Gilles and Marie-Gabrielle turned out to be a very sweet pair of retired farmers from a small coastal village in France that has been sending money to Gourcy since 1984. Thanks to sponsors, Gourcy has schools, a sanitation systems, a reservoir….none of it paid for by the Burkinabé government. Dynamic people like Antoine had decided early on that waiting for the national government to provide services to the town would be next to hopeless, so they set out to find money. And the village of these kindly French farmers had been a major source over the years. A party was certainly called for, to celebrate their 24 years of friendship with the people of Gourcy. So, the show would certainly have to go on as planned.
Antoine informed us that the party would be held in his “garden”. It still wasn’t clear exactly what that meant.
I asked “So, it’s a garden with plants? A vegetable garden?”
“Yes” was the only answer I got, with no clarification, leaving me with the impression that I would be performing to an audience of about 12 people, all seated on folding chairs scattered across an expanse of dirt dotted with leafy cabbage plants.

By now, it was getting to the cooler part of the evening, so I went back into our room to change for the …garden party. I was a bit afraid of being overdressed, but the outfit I’d brought had long sleeves, which were very welcome against the chill. It’s one I bought at a craft fair here a few years back, but haven’t worn often. It’s from Senegal and it’s pink. It’s very, very pink.
I went into the bathroom to dress, after cautiously inspecting the drain for sinister insect life.
I peered doubtfully into the tiny mirror in the bathroom.
My self-evaluation was as follows: If somebody gave me a bouquet of flowers, I’d look exactly like a table decorated for a baby shower. A not very classy baby shower.
But it was too late to do anything about it. I had to back outside to join the others.
We started out for the Garden. It turned out that we couldn’t drive there in our own cars, as the track leading to the site was deemed far too rough.
So, Antoine’s Toyota was loaded up with food, while a group of us climbed into the cab.
Despite Pascal’s careful driving, the huge eroded crevasses defeated his attempts to keep the ride smooth. We kept hearing ominous sounds from the back cargo area and hoped that our dinner wasn’t being dumped all over the floor. On the other hand, it was almost nine pm and we still had a show to see before dinner would be served. My years of previous experience in Africa told me that it would be hours before we ate. By then, everyone would probably be so hungry that we would be perfectly happy to eat couscous scraped off the floor of a vehicle.

We bumped along for about 15 minutes until we again saw the bright glare of electric lights. Up ahead there was a blindingly-lit, walled compound with a large number of cars, scooters, and bikes parked outside. Through the open gate , we could see a crowd milling.
JP said “That can’t be it”.
But it was.
Pascal drove the Toyota right into the compound and the crowd parted to make way for us. It wasn’t a garden. There was not a vegetable in sight. It looked more like a outdoor nightclub/bar, what we call a maquis here, but a very big one. And the center was dominated by a huge raised stage/platform. A sound system with four giant speakers blared out West African pop. And most of the village of Gourcy seemed to be there to enjoy it.
My first thought was “Thank heavens that I didn’t wear capri pants!” followed quickly by “Please God, make them forget that Yann and I are supposed to sing.”
I had been all prepared to sing in a vegetable garden in front of a dozen people. This would be like singing at the freaking Super Bowl…if the Super Bowl was much smaller and located in rural Burkina Faso.
But they didn’t forget. No such luck.

Tomorrow be ready for Part III, in which Burkina Mom is a Bad Guest.

Here's the truth:If you are a person possessing two X chromasomes and an even minimal sense of modesty, the first rule of travel by car in Burkina is: Don’t Drink Anything. Drinking leads to peeing and the highway rest area "facilities" consist of roadside shrubs. Small, scrawny, practically leafless shrubs that could not even provide Paris Hilton with sufficient cover.
And while the countryside may seem deserted and traffic minimal, I guarantee you that the minute you step out of your car to enjoy a moment alone, a couple of young boys herding cattle will appear as if by magic. Then an old guy on a bike will pedal past with almost painful slowness. Finally, a bus from Mali will trundle by, the roof covered in bikes, bags, chickens, baskets and young men who couldn't get a seat inside, but have a great vantage point for being entertained by the sight of half-dressed travellers lurching around out in the bush.

So, for shorter trips, it’s just less stressful to get into the car thirsty and stay that way. But it does make you extremely anxious to reach your destination and have a glass of water. Luckily JP drives pretty fast. Even more luckily, he has pretty good reflexes, which you certainly need for highway driving here. At various points on the way to Gourcy on Saturday, he had to swerve to avoid goats, sheep, and pigs as well as a small, very adorable donkey.
When we finally got to Gourcy, it was quite a surprise, Our pal Antoine calls it his “village” but it’s actually a good-sized population center. The urban area has electricity and even boasts a nightclub called “Le Titanic”! There are no two-story buildings, though, and most of the people live out in the “neighborhoods” of Gourcy. These neighbourhoods are actually small villages, but they are considered to be part of the town. Anyway, this means that the place is very dispersed. We had to drive around quite a bit to find the party site. I took the first photo while we were searching. You can see that I’m not exaggerating when I say “dispersed”.

Antoine runs the NGO that JP works for. Gourcy is his home village and he was very graciously hosting a goodbye party for our Dutch pal Yann at the hotel/conference center he has built. I was very surprised when we finally found it. I had kept my expectations low, but was delighted to find that he and his wife have built a lovely inn/conference center with 30 rooms. It was very charming, pristinely clean and landscaped with lots of flowers and greenery. The rooms were simple and small, but perfectly nice, in a West African kind of way. (You can see the front of our room in the second picture I posted).
As I was putting my bag on the small table beside the door, JP checked out the bathroom.
“You know,” he said “The way this is set up, I could brush my teeth, pee and shower, all at the same time. What a timesaver!”
I came over to have a look, which was easy because the room was tiny and the bathroom had no door on it. Not even a curtain. And the interior of the 1 meter by 1.5 meter bathroom was set up just like many “modern” ( indoor) bathrooms here in West Africa. The toilet was in the corner, with the sink right beside it. Between the two was a drain. And set in the wall right across from them was the showerhead, with the towel bar right below. So, turning on the shower resulted in the sink, toilet and towels all getting completely drenched. It’s not a very easy way to shower, but it is particularly unpleasant for any person that might want to use the facilities after you are done washing. And as a finishing touch, the drain had no cover, just a gaping portal leading directly to the sewer line. It gave me nightmarish visions of cockroaches boiling out of it in the middle of the night, taking the lack of even a symbolic covering as an open invitation to join us. I was imagining something like that scene in The Mummy when the flesh-eating scarabs attack. (Actually, "scarab" is Ancient Egyption for "roach". Not many people know that.)

But I wasn’t going to let that bother me! I was happy to be there, sitting in the shade, drinking a large glass of water. JP went around asking after our host. He was told that Antoine was in his “garden”. We weren’t quite sure what to make of that. We asked if it was nearby, like maybe he had a little potato patch behind the hotel. But no, the “garden” was “far”, so we settled in to wait.
The guests of honor arrived soon after that. Yann and Freida unpacked their baggage and joined us. They had news from Ouaga. None of the other guests were coming! Most of the people invited are development experts and spend much of their time travelling. Unfortunately, Air Burkina employees decided to strike on the weekend. People who had planned on making it to the party were trapped in various other African cities with no hope of arriving by Saturday night. So, suddenly the party went from modest to minuscule. So we thought……