tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10350191157619052702024-03-13T16:29:23.610+00:00Maki et Diego Partout le MondeFrom Adams Morgan to Little Havana to the City of Lights to Perfidious Albion with a few detours along the waymakietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-70475018323978378102010-03-31T16:13:00.005+01:002010-03-31T16:51:39.002+01:00South BankYou wouldn't know it by today's weather, but we've been having some lovely spring days here. The nice weather made us want to leave our little neighborhood, though not so much that we actually crossed north of the river!<br /><br />We stopped off by a kids' playground and had a grand old time on the swings:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs367.snc3/23623_410842261348_542381348_5050573_5034418_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 493px;" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs367.snc3/23623_410842261348_542381348_5050573_5034418_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The street entertainment included Metallic Man and the Most Pierced Woman Alive.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs367.snc3/23623_410841286348_542381348_5050561_2877942_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc3/hs367.snc3/23623_410841286348_542381348_5050561_2877942_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs427.ash1/23623_410841281348_542381348_5050560_3095004_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs427.ash1/23623_410841281348_542381348_5050560_3095004_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />And best of all, at the end we serendipitously happened on the <a href="http://festivalchocolate.co.uk/index-london.html">Chocolate Festival</a>. Yum!makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-63847089803459377562010-02-16T08:36:00.000+00:002010-02-16T08:37:07.515+00:00Happy Pancake Day!When I saw the signs at my local supermarket stating that today is Pancake Day, I thought that either this must be a great country indeed, or that the supermarket is trying a new marketing ploy to get consumers to buy more baked goods. On further research, though, it turns out that Pancake Day is really a holiday here, though sadly, you don’t get a day off work to stay at home and eat pancakes.<br /><br />Pancake Day is the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday. It is common to eat sweet pancakes with a little lemon as a way to live it up before Lent begins. Pancakes are considered an indulgence on this day because they contain ingredients like eggs, sugar and butter, which some people do not eat during Lent.<br /><br />Some cultures celebrate Fat Tuesday with a big carnival full of rowdy, bawdy fun, but I guess the celebrations are just a bit more subdued here. While I do not really follow Lent, I still plan on having pancakes for breakfast! It’s a great way to start this rainy Tuesday on a positive note.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-70571032413805866052010-02-10T13:36:00.001+00:002010-02-11T09:57:20.113+00:00Putting Down RootsFor those of you that know us in real life, it might surprise you to hear us say that we are thinking of settling down in London. When we first moved here, we thought we wanted to just do our time in London to establish ourselves career-wise and then hurry back to France (or jet off to some new, unexplored land). Maybe it’s because of the baby, the sunny skies, the gourmet fare, or plain old age, but neither of us really wants to think about moving out of here.<br /><br />Sure, Paris has many things going for it: it’s a very walkable city, the food is generally pretty good, and it feels very continental. London is expensive, sprawling, and a bit grayer. <br /><br />So why do we like it here so much? First, compared to Paris, we have a lot of friends here, including English friends. It Paris, I went to the same bakery for months before the owner said more than a cursory greeting. And while we had some French friends, the majority of our friends were other expats. <br /><br />London also feels a lot more cosmopolitan, mainly because of the mix of people that live here. In the mood for some Uighur food? Try the place down the road. Want some fufu? We have that nearby too. As Diego likes to say, London is really an airport with a city around it. For cultural mutts like us, living in a place with such a mixed identity has meant that we don’t feel like outsiders. Ultimately, too, finding a place to call home is about finding a place where you belong and that accepts you just as you are. And for now, at least, London is home.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-30740345058344015922009-12-11T02:36:00.003+00:002009-12-11T02:58:46.693+00:00Jet Lag & BabiesIt's the start of the holiday season, and the <em>cacahuète</em> and I are now on our second trip to the US. Much like last time, jet lag has wreaked havoc on our sleep schedule. I say "our" because when the peanut wants to play at 2 am in the morning, I have to be there to amuse him. Such is the price we must pay for our wandering lifestyle, I suppose.<br /><br />On the whole, I cannot complain, I suppose, as our little <em>cacahuète</em> is a seasoned little traveller by now. He is not at all fazed by the airport security routine, and gets very flirty and happy when security personnel hold him while I gather our things. And somehow he manages to make friends with the people seated around us on the airplane.<br /><br />For those of you who may be flying internationally with a baby, I highly recommend Virgin Atlantic. They have new cots for babies that are bigger and more comfortable than the traditional skycots, and they have jars of baby food on board. It was reassuring to know that even if the food I had prepared for the trip was confiscated at security, the peanut would still be able to eat. Not to mention that the flight attendants gave us a big bottle of water so I would not have to get up in the middle of the flight with the baby if I got thirsty or if I had a problem with the water I had brought on board for formula.<br /><br />My only gripe is that our pram was not available when we deplaned, and I had to go through immigration and to wait for the luggage (and the pram) holding a 21-pound baby. Not fun, but at least I know that nex time I will have to make doubly sure that the pram is properly gate-checked.<br /><br />Our next international flight is to Uruguay in a couple of weeks. Thankfully, Diego will be joining us for that one. And I'm less concerned about the peanut not behaving on this flight because the Christmas flights to South America are full of families with screaming babies. What better way to get into the holiday spirit than to be in a small, confined space with crying babies for 10 hours? Happy Holidays!makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-21299022571926931442009-09-15T12:41:00.003+01:002009-09-15T13:03:56.277+01:00Frequent VacationersWe just got back from our first family vacation. With a new baby to cart along and the weak pound, we decided to stay in the UK and took the train to St. Ives in Cornwall. I know that a lot of Brits like to go abroad because they believe the food and weather are better just about everywhere else. But on the whole, we heartily recommend St. Ives.<br /><br />We ate amazing food:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs234.snc1/8130_156180316348_542381348_3547613_1979911_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs234.snc1/8130_156180316348_542381348_3547613_1979911_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Well, we have no pics of our food, but can assure you that the seafood, especially the local mussels, scallops and crab were delicious. The mussels, in particular, reminded us of the type they have in Uruguay: soft and not at all grainy. <br /><br />We had a lot of tasty local wines:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs214.snc1/8130_156179376348_542381348_3547585_7637098_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 453px; height: 604px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs214.snc1/8130_156179376348_542381348_3547585_7637098_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I know you are thinking “English wine??!!” because we thought that too. But, we plucked up our courage and decided to follow the advice of the old advertisement that stated “The best golfer in the world is black, the best rapper in the world is white, and the best sailors in the world are Swiss. Now is the time to try English wine.” <br /><br />The verdict? The wine was actually drinkable. Better than drinkable, in fact. It was good! The wine above reminded me of German Rieslings and was fruity but not sweet. We also had a sparkling wine by the same maker, which was crisp and clean. Overall, English wines (at least the whites) are definitely worth trying, if only for the adventure factor.<br /><br />Last, we also spent some time on the local beaches. The weather was not warm enough to really spend time in the ocean, but Diego could not resist taking a dip in the balmy 14°C water:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs214.snc1/8130_156183621348_542381348_3547731_3758608_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc1/hs214.snc1/8130_156183621348_542381348_3547731_3758608_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Were it not for the occasional rainstorm, it almost didn't feel like England at all!<br /><br />In typical Maki et Diego fashion, our first family vacation is over, but we won’t be staying put for long. The <span style="font-style:italic;">cacahuète</span> and I are flying to Miami to visit the grandparents. <br /><br />I’m excited that we will be spending quality time with our families, but I am also nervous about dealing with the hassle of the airport and the 9-hour flight with a small baby in tow. Not to mention that the effect of jet lag on a 5-month old who has only recently started sleeping through the night...somehow, I knew he’d start to sleep through the night shortly before we were due to start crossing time zones. But, hey, at least he has beat the family record for youngest frequent flyer.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-45311292426828353132009-08-31T19:50:00.004+01:002009-09-01T19:56:17.625+01:00NHS Hospital Delivers Baby SafelyI know, I know, we have been very much out of touch. I promise that we have a good reason, though: our little globe-trotting <span style="font-style:italic;">cacahuète</span> was born in mid-April. In the months following the birth, it felt like we were running a hotel, as grandparents, aunts, and cousins from near and far came to meet the newest family member. I have also gotten very involved in the local baby circuit, hanging out with other new mums in the local area parks. Bring on the power-pramming!<br /><br />You might remember that when I was pregnant, I blogged that I was concerned about having a baby in the NHS. I really needn't have worried as the hospital staff was very knowledgeable and efficient. Even when things got a bit dicey right before the peanut's grand appearance, the midwives, doctors and nurses were in control of the situation. And for a couple of weeks after the birth, I had midwives and health visitors coming to my living room to check on us both. It was great to have medical professionals visit us at home, since it took me a few weeks to feel like I could venture outside the house with the always-hungry and insatiable peanut.<br /><br />While Joe the Plumber might be surprised to hear of my positive experience having a baby in the NHS, Stephen Hawking would find nothing unusual in it. Indeed, like most Brits, he would likely be amused at my amazement that health care here is free. I understand that it is our tax pound that pays for nationalized health care, but taxes here are not much higher than they were in the US, which makes me think that we are getting a good deal overall. <br /><br />Additionally, supposing that I was utterly distrustful of the NHS, I still have the option of seeing doctors and specialists on a private basis. In short, if I want to pay for extra service, I am free to do so. But if I - like most of the uninsured Americans - cannot afford to pay for private health care, I can use the national medical system. As a new parent, it is comforting to know that no matter what happens to us job-wise, the peanut can still see a doctor. And politics aside, fundamentally, it's all about taking care of peanuts, isn't it?<br /><br />That said, it does feel a bit like I'm missing out on all the fun of the health care debate back in the US. Maybe I can say we've been too busy dealing with all the death panels, health rationing and socialism. But, like Stephen Hawking, the <span style="font-style:italic;">cacahuète</span> and I are alive and healthy in spite of it all, so there you go.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-56131988887366603692009-04-05T12:04:00.004+01:002009-04-05T12:22:53.032+01:00Just DivineLast weekend we saw the following advert for a company that rents IT equipment:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2751/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2399767_1838054.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 454px; height: 604px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2751/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2399767_1838054.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Yes, that's a picture of Hugh Grant after he was arrested in 1995 for asking Hollywood prostitute Divine Brown for oral sex. My favorite part of the advert? The caption at the bottom that states the company provides "service that will blow you away."makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-79622827122743149872009-04-01T20:59:00.005+01:002009-04-01T21:27:58.930+01:00Burnin' and a-lootin' at the G-20Diego here. Back again. I know we haven't been keeping up the blog lately, so sorry. Those who know understand that there are other things on our minds lately. Also, for me, the humdrum of the day to day routine saps me of my creative energy sometimes, so there you go.<br /><br />Luckily for me, the humdrum routine was broken today. The G-20 pow-wow is going on in London tomorrow, the big O is in town and today there were protests planned throughout the city. The City (financial district) was a particular target today. That's where I work. Several days ago, the HR department sent out an e-mail advising us to dress down since some of these anarchists might target suits for violence. I had seen on the Evening Standard that Moorgate station, right by my work, was supposed to be the gathering place for one of the marches. So off I went this morning, dressed in the scruffiest getup I could find along with my Fidel Castro looking hat, thinking that if push came to shove I could raise my fists in the air and pretend to be a protester.<br /><br />By mid morning, Moorgate was full of police vans and officers in every direction. All my bored colleagues kept staring out the windows waiting for something to happen, and waiting...and waiting. Nothing. Just a lot of cops. Hey, what can I say, when you work in a cubicle farm, you value any little bit of excitement that comes your way!<br /><br />At lunchtime, a colleague and myself decided to go have a wander and catch some of the action. We walked down by the Bank of England where the protesters had gathered. The police had sealed most of the area off, but we managed to sneak in to a small, crowded area. I'd say there were about two cops for every activist there, and furthermore about 2 gawkers for every cop. Yes, it was so easy to tell that most of the people around me were bored office workers in casual attire, just like myself, trying to see what all the fuss was. Oh, and the place was swarming with journalists. Cameras everywhere. I'm surprised there actually are that many photojournalists in London. I guess those are the guys that follow celebrities and the royal family around when there are no G-20 protests. At one point I saw a guy spray-painting some graffitti on the pavement and there were no less than 4 media people taking his picture. Talk about exposure!<br /><br />After that, we headed to the carbon exchange where the environmentalists were protesting. Also a lot of cops and journalists but there was much more of a party atmosphere going on. There was a sound system blasting music and a bunch of trippy hippies dancing to it. The loudest cries of protest I heard were whenever the music was switched off. No angry speeches. No manifesto. It felt like a very pleasant block party but a rather useless protest.<br /><br />That was it. Totally overhyped and anticlimactic. I managed to get a few snaps on my way home. They are appropriately boring:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2732/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1700486_6067911.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-g.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2732/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1700486_6067911.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2732/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1700485_6331783.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2732/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1700485_6331783.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-11434570270142935632009-02-12T12:25:00.001+00:002009-02-16T11:29:34.110+00:00DettolOne thing Diego and I have noticed is that each country has its own cleaning products and those cleaning products are not available in every country. For example, in France, we had a hard time finding Oxyclean, a crucial product when you spill as much red wine as we do. Luckily, Diego’s Mom was able to bring a Costco-sized box of the white powder in her luggage when she came to visit us (and surprisingly she was never questioned about the contents of her luggage when going through the airport). Instead of Oxyclean, red-wine spillers in France have to make do with a transparent liquid called <span style="font-style:italic;">detacheur</span> that sometimes manages to remove the stain and sometimes doesn’t.<br /><br />Here in the UK, the locals seem quite fond of a cleaning product called Dettol that looks and smells a lot like Pine-Sol. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2284/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2135920_902.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 453px; height: 604px;" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2284/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2135920_902.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />According to the package, Dettol is an antiseptic disinfectant, again, much like Pine-Sol. What makes Dettol different than Pine-Sol is the variety of uses it has.<br /><br />Dettol does not just clean floors, bathrooms, and countertops. No, that would be too pedestrian. According to the package label, Dettol can also be used “for personal hygiene” by pouring 1-2 capfuls in the bath. Indeed, according to the March Marie Claire, some women even use it for douching! (though the doctor interviewed did warn that it upsets the healthy balance of bacteria).<br /><br />Not only can you use this Pine-Sol equivalent to freshen your bath, Dettol also has “medical uses,” including an disinfecting wash on cuts, bites, abrasions, and insect stings. <br /><br />Even more disconcerting, Dettol can also be used for “midwifery.” Yes, that’s right folks, you can use Pine-Sol when birthin’ babies! The midwifery instructions state to pour “1 capful in 500 ml (approx. 2 cups) of water (1 part in 40) for routine antisepsis.” I’m not sure why one needs a liquid cleaner diluted in water during the birthing process. Is it to clean Mum . . . or baby? Is it to clean the stuff in the birthing room? I have no idea, but frankly, I’m scared that come April, I’m going to be in massive, painful labor, and a midwife will approach me, all smiles, armed a bottle of Dettol instead of an epidural.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-74409585146579522642009-02-02T11:18:00.004+00:002009-02-02T11:25:54.066+00:00Snow DayIt's the worst snowfall in 18 years in Southeast England, and it sure makes me glad to be admiring the view from inside.<br /><br />The view from our living and dining area:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2059/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2076051_7697.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-d.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2059/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2076051_7697.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Our street:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2059/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2076055_9242.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 448px; height: 604px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v2059/95/32/542381348/n542381348_2076055_9242.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-44086801964874245312009-01-22T20:02:00.002+00:002009-01-22T20:09:19.999+00:00Sanguis non GratoNow that Maki has commented on the national chauvinism of health care providers as well as my (supposedly) unfortunate genetics, I’ll add a little story of my own. About the genetics, I’ll say that the downside of being a mutt is that there’s a greater chance of being related to races with ghastly genetic disorders, but the upside is that you can always find some distant kin to vouch for the quality of your stock (or at least the small part of it they share with you). <br /><br />Anyway, back in 2007, before we made our big move, I was approached by some bloodmobile touts outside the Coral Gables DMV. Feeling especially civic minded that day, I decided to heed their pleas for a blood donation. I walked into the bloodmobile expecting to blush at awkward questions about my sexual habits, but that part was pretty straightforward. Instead, the interrogators began to focus on my travel history: had I recently visited any tropical third-world places, had I ever been to Africa and, most importantly, had I lived in Europe for a total of more than five years? See, if you’ve been in the Olde Worlde for more than 5 years they’re afraid you’ll have CJD (aka Mad Cow Disease). Not a problem if you’ve only got 4 ½ years of Euro-ness, apparently. Alas, the Florida blood bank is too good to take deposits of my tainted blood. <br /><br />Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I received a letter from my local blood bank here in London asking for donations. They’re not very proactive here. Instead of sending the bloodmobile close to where I am, they set up times at their local offices in my neighborhood: all during working hours, of course. Never mind. I’m not so civic minded that I’m going to take a day off work to donate blood. More amusing, however, was a small disclaimer at the bottom of the letter saying that they cannot accept blood donations from people who have visited North America within the last three months due to, get this, the high risk of West Nile virus. There’s a way to get your own back. “So you don’t want our CJD? Well, we don’t want YOUR West Nile virus, so THERE!! Nyah, nyah!” <br /><br />Meanwhile, my poor, nomadic, bastardized blood is like the ugly girl at the dance. Nobody wants it. Not that I’m bitter or anything. <br /><br />I’ve decided I’m going to have fun with it. Next time anyone in the US solicits my blood, I’m going to give them my crazy look and start mooing. If anybody does it in Europe, I'll start...I dunno...walking like an Egyptian (a West Egyptian, of course). By the way, is da West Nile not just a river in west Egypt? Just wondering. Do people in the East Nile have a virus? Enquiring minds want to know...Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-31793097208789084372009-01-16T14:29:00.003+00:002009-01-16T19:19:35.598+00:00Adventures in Prenatal CareBecause I got pregnant a few months before we left Paris, I was able to experience both French and British prenatal care. My experiences have left me to conclude that the centuries-old rivalry between these two great countries is alive and well.<br /> <br />In France, I was privileged enough to go to the American Hospital, a very swish hospital located in Neuilly, which perhaps colored my experience to a degree. Neuilly is Sarkozy’s old ‘hood, where he was mayor, and is so posh that rather than follow the housing rules requiring it to have a certain percentage of lower-income housing, the city chooses to pay fines for its failure to comply. In my doctor’s office, pregnant women with bellies the size of a Smart Car (the two-seater kind, obviously) still wore their Gucci heels and Prada purses to their visits.<br /><br />French prenatal care is obsessed with the woman’s possibility of contracting toxoplasmosis. Toxoplasmosis is caused by a parasite found in animal feces, and in the US, women get tested for it if they have a cat (hence the recommendation that pregnant women do not change kitty litter). According to the brochures my doctor gave me in France, to avoid toxoplasmosis, a woman should not eat salad at a restaurant (out of concern that the parasite may not have been washed off properly) and should refrain from eating raw meat and eggs, <span style="font-style:italic;">i.e.</span>, French bistro classics. Apparently, French food is in much closer contact with the earth out in the farmland, and the risk of toxoplasmosis is higher.<br /><br />Pregnant women are therefore typically tested to see if they are immune to toxoplasmosis. A French woman is usually immune to it, probably because she has been consuming steak tartare and undercooked eggs (which taste better than overcooked ones, I must say) since she was old enough to sit at a proper table in a bistro. Like most non-French women, my test showed that I did not have immunity to toxoplasmosis, causing the women at the laboratory where I picked up my results to o-la-la vociferously and declare that I would need to have monthly blood exams to make sure I had not contracted this dreaded parasite.<br /><br />Mind you, at this point, I did not realize that the concern with toxoplasmosis is a peculiarly French obsession. As a newly pregnant woman, I took everything said to me quite seriously, especially considering the reputable sources of my information.<br /><br />Before leaving France, I had my 13-week ultrasound, and the doctor who explained the results to me (after also o-la-laing about my lack of immunity to toxoplasmosis), tried to resassure me by telling me that I did not need to worry about this infection in the UK or the US. She explained that “the English boil all their food,” and hence the parasite was not something I should worry about. Now, I know that the English don’t have the gastronomic reputation that the French do, but surely it is a bit overbroard to say that they boil all their food!<br /><br />In addition to reassuring me about toxoplasmosis, the doctor asked about our ethnic heritage. When she saw that Diego had English grandparents, she became most concerned and stated that as soon as I moved to London, I would need to have the fetus tested for spina bifida, as Diego’s English genes were subjecting our unborn child to a higher risk for this birth defect.<br /><br />As a newly-pregnant woman, you can imagine how concerned this made me. Indeed, within a week of having arrived from France, I promptly booked an appointment with a GP (although I did not yet an actual address in the UK, which is required to register for health care, my GP’s office quite kindly registered me as a “temporary patient” so that I would be able to receive prenatal care in a timely manner). <br /><br />At the appointment, I explained to the doctor that I was most concerned about spina bifida as a result of my husband’s unfortunate genetics, and that I would like to be referred for the early spina bifida test. The kind doctor’s indignant response to my new-mother overreaction? “There is <span style="font-style:italic;">always</span> a risk of spina bifida, but it is <span style="font-style:italic;">not</span> because your husband is English!”<br /><br />Somewhat reassured (though, in typical new-mother fashion, still a bit doubtful), I asked the doctor about other new-mother concerns. Although the doctor in France had said that I did not need to worry about it here in the UK, I also decided to ask about toxoplasmosis, as the monthly blood tests and the o-la-laing at the laboratory and doctor’s office had left me worried. Perhaps seizing on the chance to get back at the French doctors after the spina bifida comments, my English doctor said I did not need to worry about toxoplasmosis here because of the way food is prepared and exclaimed “Dirty French!”<br /><br />On the whole, the only conclusions I can draw from these experiences is that, to this day, the English and French don’t like each other very much and that each culture (and probably every culture in the world) makes up its own concerns and rules about pregnancy. My only advice for mums-to-be the world over is to take all advice with a grain of salt and to keep in mind that your doctor’s culture will impact his advice.<br /><br />Take the issues of an epidural and breast-feeding. In the UK, the theory seems to be that if grandma did it one way, we should do it that way today. Never mind that in grandma’s time, women and babies routintely died because of childbirth.<br /><br />Indeed, most UK mums and midwives seemed horrified when I announce that I want an epidural, going on and on about some supposed list of horribles (I don’t really believe them, though, especially as my own mother had an epidural and is probably one of the few women I know who thought the birth was a breeze). To make matters worse, I have heard of women in the UK not being able to get an epidural because an anesthesiologist is not always necessarily available to administer one, a downfall, I suppose, of a system of truly socialized medicine.<br /><br />The French, in contast, are very much in favor of epidurals. When I told her of my fear of not getting an anesthetic during the birth in the UK, my doctor in France even offered to schedule an induction at some point after 36 weeks in Paris so as to ensure that I could get an epidural. The French may believe in eating natural food that has been in close contact with the earth, but they certainly do not believe in natural medicine!<br /><br />Likewise, the French do not seem as concerned with breastfeeding as the English do (in part because breastfeeding ruins a woman’s breasts). The UK system, on the other hand, is positively obsessed with the breastfeeding issue. While I think it is fantastic to be breastfeed if at all possible, I absolutely detest that the UK medical establishment seems obsessed with preaching breast-is-best to mums-to-be. The way I see it, if they are so resistant to letting me choose the type of birth I want, they have no right to dictate my post-birth life (not to mention the overly big-brother aspect of it all).<br /><br />Alas, if I could, I would choose to have the baby in France (epidural and 5-day hospital stay included). I just hope our little kiddo someday appreciates the fact that I am quite determinedly staying in the UK for the birth, risking having to do things grandma’s way and getting kicked out of the maternity ward a mere few hours after he is born, just so that he may have double nationality and become a little globe-trotting adventurer.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-32871041194850332352008-12-03T10:54:00.003+00:002008-12-03T11:11:17.565+00:00For Richer and for PoorerUnlike Paris or Manhattan, London is a very mixed city. I can just hear some of you protest that Manhattan is indeed quite diverse, and that it is home to millions of people from all over the world. But the truth is that the poor can no longer really afford to live in Manhattan, as even areas like Spanish Harlem and Hell’s Kitchen are turned into yuppie condo enclaves. And let’s not forget that in Paris, it is the poor minorities that are relegated to an existence in the suburbs, while the affluent get to live in the central parts of town.<br /><br />London, however, is different. Here you can have a street in a historical preservation neighborhood (like ours!) lined with charming Georgian homes interspersed with council estates (low-income housing). Sure, some neighborhoods are very, very posh and only the richest can afford to live in them. But as far as the majority of London areas are concerned, the poor and the not-so-poor tend to live in mixed company.<br /><br />This phenomenon is due, in part, to the fact that London did not use to be a city with its own central government. Rather, it was made up of different boroughs, and each borough had to find a way to provide for its own poor. Now that London is more centralized, this means that low-income housing can be found throughout the city, rather than being concentrated in one area of the city.<br /><br />This perhaps explains the public service announcements that appear in many streets and buses, like this one, warning against “benefits fraud.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v1130/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1741999_1406.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v1130/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1741999_1406.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />In our neighborhood, one resident, concerned with the government’s efforts to crack down on benefits fraud while letting other types of fraud go unchallenged, decided to add his own message to the public service announcement.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v1130/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1742000_1836.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 604px; height: 453px;" src="http://photos-a.ak.fbcdn.net/photos-ak-snc1/v1130/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1742000_1836.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />In case you can’t see it clearly in the picture, the message reads, “List Below Your Favourite Fraudsters.” The handwritten list, started by the original concerned resident and continued by other concerned residents, states:<br /><br />1. British Aerospace £ 200m<br />2. Chairmen of Banks £ 900m<br />3. Ministry of Defence (£ xm) (perhaps the number is too difficult to calculate?)<br />4. People who you think love you (I think you can tell where the original poster left off!)<br />5. My phoney parents<br />6. Tony Blair £ 12m<br />7. The queen with more than £ 2 tax per hour for my job<br />8. <br />9. <br />10. Ordinary people – nothing<br /><br />Alas, no one was able to fill in slots 8 and 9 as the friendly council folk took down the list. But stay tuned in case we see further public service announcements by Camberwell’s concerned residents.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-58462566281474437662008-12-02T13:00:00.000+00:002008-12-02T13:03:07.813+00:00Living in Victorian TimesWe’ve now been in London for about two months and are still disconnected from the outside world. I thought that our inability to get phone and internet installed sooner was related to the fact that we decided to use a cable-based service from Virgin Media. Last week, however, we went out for drinks with a couple of friends and learned that it also took them about two months to get the phone connected, despite choosing British Telecom as their provider. Even in France, where such things take much longer than in the US, we were connected to the outside world sooner than this.<br /><br />I suppose it should not surprise me. The UK is oddly behind the times in some ways. For example, our plumbing is quite Victorian. We have a water tank in the kitchen, which is basically a big, plastic box with water stored in it. According to Diego, every building has some contraption to catch the water on the roof, and then somehow the water gets sent to each of the individual apartments. <br /><br />While I don’t particularly care what type of plumbing system we use, I do care that we have rather weak water pressure. I learned this is because water pressure is based on gravity here. I think this means that once the water is collected on the roof, the water pressure is dictated by how fast it comes down the pipes to our first-floor shower. Bizarre!<br /><br />I also remember that when Diego used to live here, he seemed to have constant issues with the boiler in his apartment breaking. I’m not too sure what a boiler is, but I do know that it heats up the water. I always assumed that it was just Diego’s apartment that had this problem, but when we first moved in, we learned that our neighbor’s boiler had broken. We’ve also heard of a couple of friends who have had to deal with broken boilers in the last few weeks. Seems to me that the hot water gods over here should rethink the whole boiler system.<br /><br />Getting added onto Diego’s bank account has also been an ordeal. Even though I did manage to get added onto his existing bank account in early October, it took about another month to get the debit card. And while I’ve had a debit card for a couple of weeks now, I did not get the pin code for it until this past weekend. It’s pretty embarrassing to have to ask your husband for money every week, so you can imagine that I am relishing my newfound debit card freedom.<br /><br />Mind you, I don’t think that everything should always be done in the most advanced, modern way. I think some things, like bread and certain wine-making methods, should not be modernized. But when it comes to plumbing and banking, I am a modern woman.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-20234781697598325592008-11-15T20:16:00.001+00:002008-11-15T20:21:43.657+00:00Settling InDiego and I are finally moved into our new apartment here in London. By a strange twist of fate, we are now living on the same street that Diego used to live in when he was in London. In the process of narrowing down neighborhoods, we visited Diego’s old stomping grounds, including the local pub he used to frequent back in the day. And, much to his surprise, one of his old friends from the neighborhood was also at the pub, seated on the same stool he always used to sit on when Diego first lived here about five years ago. It was then that we decided to stay in this area, and part of the nostalgia we both have about this neighborhood made us chose the apartment that happened to be located on his old street. I like to think that no matter how far our travels take us, we can find home just about anywhere.<br /><br />So, last Friday, after spending a month in a hotel, the movers came and unloaded all our things at the new place. We still don’t have telephone or internet (not until December 12 anyway), but at least we have an address.<br /><br />Those of you that know us personally have likely figured out that Diego and I seem to like making big life changes all in one go. Life would be so boring otherwise, don’t you think? Last year, for example, we got married and moved to Paris all within the span of two months. Every time I hear a bride-to-be complain about the logistics of wedding planning, I feel a smug sense of superiority, imagining that this not the sort of woman who could plan a cross-Atlantic move at the same time as she picked out what font to use on an invitation.<br /><br />True to our pattern, we have now embarked on our second international move, this time with a little kiddie-to-be in tow. That’s right...I’m pregnant! We won’t know the gender until next month, but really, all we both care about now is that we have a healthy baby. <br /><br />Luckily for us, we live in a country that, despite all the misconceptions Americans have about socialized health care, has great prenatal care, regardless of the mother-to-be’s economic or legal status. The first time I went to the doctor here, I could not provide the proof of address needed to register for the UK’s National Health Service. But, the doctor’s office found a way around that technicality by simply registering me as a temporary patient until I could provide proof of address (they did not even ask to see my visa). This meant that, even though we were still living in a hotel, I was still able to see a doctor and get referred to the prenatal clinic and midwives’ office at the local hospital. Throughout the entire process, no one asked to see any proof of NHS registration or of even my legal right to be in this country. <br /><br />I love America, but health care is one area where it lags behind even third-world countries. Most people here simply cannot believe that there is no guaranteed health care coverage for Americans, and many ask me if the stories they hear about health care in the US are indeed true. Sad to say, they are true...and quite incomprehensible considering taxes for those earning a middle-class income in the UK are not that much higher than in the US. That said, I am hopeful that things will change in the near future, as we finally have a President that does not misunderestimate the concerns of the average American (and for those wondering, yes, we both voted, although Diego had to try about three times before he was able to do so...but I guess it’s not really all that surprising when you consider that we vote in Florida, where dead people’s votes count more than the votes of the living). Until that moment comes, I’ll just sit tight right where I am, drink my tea and have a crumpet. Cheers, mate.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-47691037500790481132008-10-13T22:37:00.000+01:002008-10-13T22:49:36.363+01:00Welcome to the crunchIt's been a while since we've posted but that's because things have been very busy for us and our lives have been very unstable.<br /><br />I started my new job in banking in the City of London on the 8th of September. Maki came and joined me a few weeks later. I went back to Paris the first few weekends (in spite of the fire in the channel tunnel: that's another story) to help with our move out. We finally moved out of our place in Paris at the end of September, after I had to disassemble and get rid of all the kitchen cabinets I bought when we moved in. All our stuff is now in storage until we move into our new place in London, which we won't be able to move into until the 28th of this month. In the meantime, we're staying in temporary accommodation.<br /><br />2008 has been quite a roller-coaster of a year for us, as those of you who know us will be aware. Trust me to start a job in the banking sector the very week that global financial markets go into meltdown. It's been...interesting to say the least! Every day I'm hooked on the bloomberg watching everything crash and burn and wondering how much longer I'll still have a job.<br /><br />On the upside, "the crunch" has brought with it all sorts of bargains. All the shops near my office are practically giving the nice men's suits away. Even the restaurants are now offering special "crunch lunches" as seen below.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v342/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1032295_1588.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v342/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1032295_1588.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I'm amazed that 6.50 is considered a bargain for lunch. Some crunch this is! I'm sticking to the 2.99 chickpea curry they sell at the place right inside Moorgate tube. <br /><br />In tough times, however, not all consumption goes down. People will tend to spend more on the things that give them comfort. I'm happy to know that my street offers vice at a discount price. Now this really is crunch friendly:<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v342/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1017330_2753.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v342/168/25/535077985/n535077985_1017330_2753.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-17005622700178797652008-10-01T11:21:00.000+01:002008-10-01T12:30:07.406+01:00A Nomadic LifeIt’s been a couple of weeks since we’ve posted on le blog, but it’s because we’ve been busy with preparing for our move to London. Diego already started his job there, and I’ve stayed behind in Paris to tie up some loose ends (read: do all the things I never got to do when I was a law firm drone). As I type this, the movers are taking out the last piece of furniture out of the apartment and into storage until we find an apartment in London.<br /><br />You might wonder how people manage to move large furniture in and out of itty bitty Parisian apartments and buildings that often do not have elevators (and even when they do have elevators, they are barely big enough to fit two adults, let alone furniture). They do it by using a contraption like this one:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v361/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1462889_9712.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v361/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1462889_9712.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The movers place the elevator where it will reach a big window or door (in our case, the French doors on our balcony), and then load all the furniture and boxes onto it. The elevator then takes everything down to street level, and from there it gets loaded onto the moving truck.<br /><br />Moving out meant we (hereinafter in this paragraph defined as Diego) had to undo a lot of the work we did when moving in, such as taking down the kitchen cabinets, curtain rods, and overhead lighting. Here is an action shot:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-g.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v361/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1462886_8117.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-g.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v361/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1462886_8117.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It’s strange to think that five men managed to wrap up our lives into 102 boxes in about eight hours. Although I feel like we have too many things, all the movers that came to survey our apartment seemed to think we do not have that much. I suppose that a lack of clutter is one advantage of moving frequently. Despite the advantage of a less cluttered life, however, I do not want to have to go through this again for quite a few years. Whatever its drawbacks might be, we’re staying put in London for a while (mind you, that’s what we said about Paris too!)makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-16188493931512272932008-09-13T12:02:00.000+01:002008-09-13T12:24:14.602+01:005 frenchies à MiamiDiego went off to London last weekend and sadly cannot return this weekend because trains have been cancelled as a result of a fire in the Eurotunnel. This means that I spend my evenings watching TV, or, to be more specific, French TV.<br /><br />If I was in the US or UK, an evening watching TV perhaps would not be so terrible (though even in the US, I often had the so-many-channels-so-little-to-watch feeling). But I have a very hard time following American or English programs that have been dubbed into French, so I am left watching original French productions. And original French programs can be quite bad. Some of them are so bad they are actually amusing.<br /><br />One example of one of these bad-but-amusing shows is <span style="font-style:italic;">5 frenchies à Miami</span>, where five single men are sent to Miami - land of beautiful women and luxurious cars, according to the show - for 3 ½ days to see which one is worthy of the title <span style="font-style:italic;">le French lover de l’été</span>. Why they use Frenglish is beyond me, but I assume that there is no French phrase that has the same connotation as the English phrase “French lover.” The contestant that manages to accumulate the most <span style="font-style:italic;">french kisses</span> (also said in English with a French accent) is the winner. <br /><br />To make this into more than just a hooking up contest, there’s an additional difficulty. The contestants do not have any money and must earn it at the rate of $5 per kiss. This means that they end up sleeping and showering on the beach and do not have access to basic toiletries like toothpaste and deodorant (which of course makes it harder to hook up with women) unless they earn money.<br /><br />The contestants are also occasionally given certain challenges where the loser gets eliminated and/or the winner gets a prize, such as a toiletry item or a night in a hotel. The challenges involve things like pull-up contests on the beach, trying to kiss as many women as possible while wearing a Borat-style banana hammock, and having as many passersby as possible spank them on the street.<br /><br />Since I am all alone and feeling a wee bit homesick (probably because we are rather rootless at the moment, what with being in between countries and all), it was a lot of fun to see five French people whose English is as bad a my French trying to navigate familiar places in Miami.<br /><br />Here’s the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uyx2sRUgsY">promotional clip</a> for the show as well as a clip of the <a href="http://www.lepost.fr/article/2008/09/12/1263818_5-frenchies-a-miami-dont-2-borats.html">banana hammock challenge</a>, featuring the two finalists. Enjoy!makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-11056002580121339152008-09-06T14:08:00.000+01:002008-10-01T12:22:57.556+01:00Licensed to drive: the saga continuesRight as I am about to permanently leave France, the French bureaucracy has decided to give me one last gift of a humorous anecdote. Consider it the French state's contribution to this blog: it delays my having to come up with British-related humorous content.<br /><br />You may recall my driver's license saga from a post on this blog back in April. If not, here is the <a href="http://makietdiego.blogspot.com/2008/04/b.html">link</a>.<br /><br />When I left you last time, I had been sent away to return with a high-school transcript proving that I was a resident of the State of Florida on an arbitrary date that I made up as being the date my first driving license was issued.<br /><br />Fast forward a couple of months until sometime in June when I take yet another morning off work to go back to the "prefecture" with my transcript and five payslips proving I've been living in France for at least six months. The young lady looked through my documents and says "congratulations, you've been approved for a license but first you must go to a medical examination". She wanted to schedule me for an appointment in October, but I knew I'd have left by then so I come up with some story about how I'm going travelling for business for three months bla, bla, bla. Luckily, she had availability for Thursday the 4th of September (day before yesterday) early in the morning. She told me that as soon as I had the medical "ok" I could come straight back to her office and get my license.<br /><br />On the 4th, I take the whole day off of work (mind you this was the day before my last day of work) so that I can go take care of this. I go in the morning to the medical office where I'm asked to strip down to my underwear and shoes and then walk into the doctors' office where there are various doctors and nurses of both genders hanging around. Quite intimidating. I get my medical certificate and hightail it back to the Prefecture to make the most of this day. As soon as I arrive at the driving license office I show the receptionist my medical certificate and he asks me : "why did you get a medical certificate? You don't need one of those." I tell him that I had been required to get one last time I was there and he looked puzzled. This was at 10:45 in the morning. He gives me a number and four hours pass before my number is called. In the meantime I strike up a conversation with a couple from Michigan who is there, like me, to exchange their license for a French one under reciprocity laws. It's their first visit. I tell them all my horror stories trying to convince them that they'll be sent home in search of their great-grandfather's death certificate. They seem all chipper and confident; and don't speak a word of French. I'm rubbing my palms together waiting for them to be fed to the sharks, but they get called before me, spend a few minutes at the counter, and walk off with a shiny new French driving license. As they leave, the guy gives me a thumbs up and says "I think they just don't like you here." A sensible conclusion!<br /><br />But anyway, way past my lunchtime I finally get called to the desk. I see the man start preparing my license, putting it through the printer and attaching my photograph to it. As he's doing this he asks me for my passport. I give him my EU member state passport and he says "don't you have an American passport?" "Oh, no, here it comes!" thinks I. I explain that I do have one but not on me as I only brought the one that proves my legal right to work in France. He tells me that the reciprocity agreement only applies to citizens of the countries in question and he therefore cannot give me a license unless I prove that I am a US citizen. Mind you, at no point during any of my previous three visits did ANYBODY tell me that I had to be a US citizen nor did I ever show them, nor did they ever ask me to show them a US passport. I desperately dig through my documents trying to see what I can come up with. I find a Miami-Dade county voter's registration card. "Look!" I say "You can't vote in America if you aren't a citizen. It's even written in Haitian Creole which is almost like French so you can understand it!" "Sorry, only a passport will do."<br /><br />At this point, I decide to do away with all the British stiff upper lip that I'd been working on developing and get a little South American on his ass. Roots, yo! My voice raises a few decibels and I start running through the whole sad saga from day one about how many visits I'd already made, how many hours I'd waited and how I didn't understand why nobody had bothered to inform me of this requirement. The man looked frightened. I thought he was about to press a button to call security. Instead he asks "Why are you yelling at me? You're leaving here with your license." "What? I am? So what's the problem, then?" "Oh, there is no problem I assure you, go to desk G and wait until you are called."<br /><br />By now I'm convinced that this is all a ruse and that desk G is where the goon squad is going to come get me to eject me from the premises. But no, soon enough my name is called and I'm given this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-985.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-sf2p/v329/168/25/535077985/n535077985_904730_7844.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-985.ll.facebook.com/photos-ll-sf2p/v329/168/25/535077985/n535077985_904730_7844.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NdS61HUc2F8/SMKP1YTOBKI/AAAAAAAAAB0/y-kMvNxliX8/s1600-h/n535077985_904731_3928.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_NdS61HUc2F8/SMKP1YTOBKI/AAAAAAAAAB0/y-kMvNxliX8/s320/n535077985_904731_3928.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242911063431578786" /></a><br /><br />Success!! That phone call to <a href="http://makietdiego.blogspot.com/2008/05/just-what-i-need-drivers-license-juju.html">Mr. Sakho </a>really did pay off, I guess. Mind you, the document is so sloppy and amateurishly done (my details are filled in with a dot-matrix printer of the sort I haven't seen around since 1984) that I could easily have saved myself the trouble and made it at home with my ink jet. The most amusing part is that it states that this license was issued in substitution for Florida driver's license number XXX issued on the 29th of January, 1989. Yup, that's the date I made up off the top of my head.<br /><br />Lessons to be learned from this:<br /><br />1) The employees of the French DMV make up the rules as they go along. If you're refused the first time, come back again and speak to somebody else. The requirements will probably be completely different and you might just get lucky.<br /><br />2) Based on the experience of the couple from Michigan: don't speak French. Ironically, and despite anything you may have heard, being a non-French speaker is actually an asset when dealing with French bureaucrats. I think they just get tired of having to deal with you so they just stamp you right through.Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-36835375695193319752008-09-02T21:16:00.000+01:002008-09-02T21:48:11.718+01:00Madmen and English CowsYou all know we're moving to England by now, so in my attempt to transition this blog from a French theme to an English theme, I 'll share an observation that somehow reflects on the relationship between the two countries.<br /><br />I've noticed since being in Paris that most cafes and restaurants have signs up, like the one below, specifying the origin of the beef they serve.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v329/168/25/535077985/n535077985_897973_7406.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v329/168/25/535077985/n535077985_897973_7406.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />I've never seen any similar sign disclosing the national origin of the vegetables or the chicken or the fish. No, it is beef that the restaurant patrons are concerned about. You might, as I did, wonder why this is so. Is this simply some patriotic marketing effort of the French cattleman's association trying to persuade the local public to buy local? While most places do seem to have French beef, there are usually plenty of other countries listed, as above. I have seen beef from as far afield as Brazil and Lithuania proudly listed on restaurant chalkboards.<br /><br />To unravel this mystery, we need to focus not on the countries that ARE listed on the restaurant chalkboards but rather those that are NOT. The most glaring and obvious answer is Britain. They do have Irish beef, as can be seen above, so we know that this is not due to any hesitation about shipping cattle across the channel or anything like that.<br /><br />You may remember the "mad cow" scare that took place in the UK, oh, about 10 years ago. At the time, France, along with many other countries banned the import of British beef. Eventually, years later, when it became clear that the affected cattle had been elimitated in Britain, most countries relented. Not France. Britain took the case up with the European Union, who said that member states could not refuse to accept British beef. The French, as they so often seem to do, ignored this directive.<br /><br />As far as I know, now British beef can be and is imported into France, but the French still resist their neighbors' beef by proudly advertising that they don't serve any in their restaurants.Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-26385329115778382942008-08-26T10:05:00.000+01:002008-08-26T10:06:50.373+01:00Moving AwayOk, so I noticed that August has been the slowest month yet this year on this blog. In an effort to up our August post count, I thought I’d put up a post explaining our personal situation at the moment. I can imagine that September might be an even slower month as Maki and I have a lot of things going on. Mainly, we’re moving. <br /><br />For those of you who don’t know, a few months ago I accepted a job in London. Meanwhile Maki (thankfully) abandoned the world of big law and we are both headed up to warm and sunny England in September. For good. Or as “for good” as anything can be in our mad, nomadic lives.<br /><br />Alas, we will be leaving Paris, a city we have both grown to love, and our neighborhood, which we love even more far too soon. Just as we were starting to settle in, make friends and understand the mysterious ways of the locals, we’re off.<br /><br />But well, an exciting new life awaits us in the land of warm beer and crooked teeth. We will miss freshly baked baguettes and the fresh seasonal vegetables from our “Primeur”. But then again, we look forward to enjoying nice pints down the pub as well as good Indian food. The famously eccentric natives should also provide us with a few quirky anecdotes to share with you.<br /><br />I start my new job early next month. We will keep our Paris apartment until the end of September as we have not yet found a place to live in London, and we cannot go look for the time being as Maki has not yet managed to get the proper visa to allow her to move to the UK (I’ll leave that story for her to tell). Hopefully, we expect to be settled in London by the end of September. I stress the world hopefully.<br /><br />By then, we hope to keep updating the blog and sharing our lives with our friends and a few random people who seem to pop by here from time to time.<br /><br />Obviously the theme of the blog will change, as it will no longer have a French or Parisian theme, but I’m sure we’ll think of something. We should probably change the name, too, since we’re no longer “à Paris”. We haven’t thought of a clever new name yet, though. Any suggestions?Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-53689024721925994512008-08-22T12:02:00.000+01:002008-08-22T12:06:28.493+01:00Amerikanski AeroflotOne of my closest friends got married in Puerto Rico this past weekend. While the wedding itself and all the festivities surrounding it were a lot of fun I got to catch up with friends I had not seen in a long time, getting to the wedding itself was an ordeal I hope never to repeat. Alas, I have no one to blame but myself for this travel horror story, as I opted not to pay extra money for a ticket from a real airline and instead decided to fly out on Amerikanski Aeroflot, aka American Airlines <br /><br />Mind you, I refer here to the old Soviet Aeroflot because Diego has flown the post-Soviet Aeroflot and he assures me it is far superior to today’s American Airlines; to boot, they are not stingy with the vodka. I already expect a lesser standard of service from U.S. airlines, and I can do without the TV dinner and miniature alcoholic beverages if need be. But even if the skies are no longer as friendly as they used to be, at least I don’t expect them to become downright hostile. <br /><br />The trouble started on the Paris – JFK portion of my trip. We were lucky enough to be served by some disgruntled flight attendants that make the stereotypically surly French waiter look like a perky TGIF waitress. One flight attendant in particular would sigh heavily anytime a passenger asked for something, or else would ignore requests altogether. For example, during one of the beverage services, she neglected to ask me if I wanted a drink, and forgot to deliver my seatmate’s requested tea. She also had a disgusting habit of chewing gum with her mouth open and scratching her head while serving the meals. And when faced with some of the French passengers whose English was not 100% correct, she would loudly call out to her fellow flight attendants and state that those passengers did not speak English. I’ve gotten better service from pimply teenagers at my local McDonald’s.<br /><br />The real fun, however, started on the JKF-San Juan leg of the trip. Some of the Puerto Ricans at the wedding told me that the American Airlines flights from New York to Puerto Rico are dubbed la “gua gua voladora,” (the flying bus), and I can see why. First, the flight was delayed because of severe weather in New York. Although not even the flight crew knew when we would be able to depart, they decided to board the passengers after the plane was cleaned. Little did we know that we would be stuck on the runway for about three hours in a stuffy, unairconditioned cabin (in the middle of August) with nary a drop of water to drink (when the water did finally come, it was not from a bottle, but was instead served from a carafe and had an oddly sweet taste to it...I’m trying not to think too much about where it might have come from). <br /><br />During our time on the runway, I was the first person to use the bathroom; although the plane has been supposedly cleaned before boarding, the toilet was lined with wet toilet paper. Not only that, but the bathroom itself was falling apart. As soon as I pulled on a piece of toilet paper from the wall dispenser, the wall opened up, scattering paper towels and toilet paper all over the tiny, dirty bathroom. Since I could not put the wall back up, I had to hold it up using the toilet seat for leverage as I peed. Good thing I’m bendy.<br /><br />Worst of all, the plane staff was thoroughly unprepared to deal with frazzled passengers. At one point, some passengers began yelling and complaining loudly enough for the whole plane to hear, asking to either be let off or given a drink, yet it took about an hour before anyone from the cabin crew did anything about it. I have the slight suspicion that the mostly American staff was somehow scared by the rowdy Caribbean crowd, because it was a Puerto Rican flight attendant that bravely came forward to deal with the crowd. Although the passengers were not able to convince him to give them free alcoholic drinks, at least they calmed down afterwards.<br /><br />After three agonizing hours, the pilot finally came on the speaker to announce, in his official pilot-speak, that we have been cleared for take-off and would be the third plane to take off. Immediately afterwards, the Puerto Rican flight attendant gets on the loudspeaker and his Spanish translation of the pilot’s message was very succinct: “¡Gente, nos vamos!” (translation: “People, we’re off!”)<br /><br />The rest of the flight was calm and I mostly slept as I was jet-lagged. I did wake up shortly before landing because, while we were still up in the air, the passenger behind me starts making numerous calls on her cell phone! Turns out her mother’s JetBlue flight was also delayed, and her abuelita was getting worried about them. Good thing they all had cell phones to keep in touch mid-air.<br /><br />Luckily, my flight back from Puerto Rico was much less eventful, although I was puzzled by some of the marketing speak bandied about by the flight crew. In particular, as the attendants stand up to showcase the snacks for sale (mind you, that an airline even has to charge for potato chips is pretty pathetic), they stated that they had “complimentary beverages and snacks for sale.” How can the items be complementary if they are for sale? <br /><br />Note to self: next time, fly with a real airline!makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-52940885453405089072008-08-19T16:49:00.000+01:002008-08-19T16:50:08.780+01:00Solidarité“Solidarity” is not a word one hears very often in the Anglophone world, perhaps due to its association with bolshy Socialist ideology. Growing up in Latin America, however, this word creeps into all sorts of discourse, not merely political. “Solidarity” is generally considered a good trait for a person to have, sort of like altruism, but associated less with “charity” given by the high-up to the lowly and more with doing for others what you’d like them to do for you in similar circumstances. It’s a more democratic and egalitarian sort of altruism.<br /><br />The term is also quite popular here in France. Unsurprisingly, it is a term often bandied around by striking unions and activist political groups. Solidarity is what explains the peculiar tolerance that the average French person has for strikes in spite of the hassle and inconvenience that they cause. Most Parisians don’t raise an eyebrow at the idea of public transport being shut down for weeks due to a strike and having to walk long distances to and from work. While your average expat, like myself, becomes angry and impatient, the average French person tends to support the strikers. Their attitude seems to be that today it’s you having to fight for your job/wages/benefits, but tomorrow it might be me, so I’ll support you in the same way I hope you’ll support me.<br /><br />The solidarity of the Parisians, however, is most touching at its smallest and most personal. For all the Parisians’ haughty and aloof reputation, I have witnessed some wonderful acts of collective kindness here which I would not expect to see in other large metropolises.<br /><br />Some months ago I had made a comment here about a long line at my local supermarket willing to wait for an elderly woman to go back to the shelves to find her diabetic products. A few days ago, I had a similar experience on the metro.<br /><br />I was waiting for the usually horrendously crowded line 4 and the trains were coming more packed than usual. So packed that I couldn’t even get on the first two that came. For the third train, I decided to go all the way to the very front of the platform since there often tends to be more space near the ends of the trains than in the middle. Indeed, I was able to squeeze in along with a few others. As I did so, I noticed that a woman who was sitting on a bench on the platform starts talking excitedly to the conductor, pointing towards the back of the train and saying something about a “pregnant woman”. The conductor got out of his “cockpit” and walked towards the back of the train. Soon, he showed up at the front door escorting the pregnant woman and asking the passengers crowded by the door to make room. Within seconds, people had cleared out, shifted to other parts of the carriage and several empty seats were offered to her. Meanwhile, the packed train was, of course, waiting on the platform. But there were no sighs or grumbles. If you were pregnant, you’d certainly hope to get the same treatment, so you don’t complain when it’s given to others.Diegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15092231637947483855noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-50402852860697908592008-08-08T08:22:00.000+01:002008-08-08T08:34:06.240+01:00Weekend in the Loire ValleyWhat do you get if you mix 600 kilometers, three castles and two cathedrals? Our weekend in the Loire Valley. Diego and I rented a gas-efficient Fiat (only ¾ of a tank for the whole trip, which mind you, still cost about 45€) and armed with a few guidebooks, headed to France’s equivalent of the heartland.<br /><br />The trip got off to a slow start because without thinking about it, Diego and I planned our little road trip on the first Saturday in August. In France. We were competing for highway space not only with every French family headed south to the beach, but also with a great deal of Brits headed to Dordogne.<br /><br />Our first stop was in Orléans, where Joan of Arc defeated the English in 1429, and which boasts a cathedral dating to the 13th century.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217269_4099.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217269_4099.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />We then visited the extravagant Chambord castle, the largest of the Loire Valley castles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217273_7605.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217273_7605.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />We spent the night in Beaugency, a town that still feels like a small medieval village and which, as Diego said, “is high on the cuteness factor.” Take a look at this (the bridge was strategically important for France during the Hundred Years’ War):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217277_8990.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-f.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217277_8990.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />On Sunday, we saw the castles at Blois and Chenonceau. My favorite castle was the Chenonceau castle because it looks like it came straight out of a fairy tale and is built right over the River Cher. I even felt like a princess as Diego rowed a boat around the river.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v273/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217375_2912.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v273/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217375_2912.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v273/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217377_4830.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-snc1/v273/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217377_4830.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />On our way back to Paris, we stopped at Chartres and visited the city’s stunning 12th century gothic cathedral, which contains a cloth that belonged to the Virgin Mary and the largest collection of medieval stained glass.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217391_8710.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-h.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v217/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1217391_8710.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />From Chartres, it was back home to Paris. Because we knew we would be getting in at around 10 pm, Diego and I started chanting in hopes of winning over the parking gods while we were on the road. We must have done something right because for once, parking in our neighborhood was plentiful, even on our street. Then again, it was the first weekend in August. But I like to think that the parking gods were thinking of us anyway.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1035019115761905270.post-83989150702228208582008-07-28T20:18:00.000+01:002008-07-28T20:31:02.983+01:00Weekend at Paris Plage, Strasbourg and Baden BadenI decided to give myself a long weekend and take a day off from not doing much. So Friday I went to Paris Plage, now in its eighth year. Paris Plage is a two-mile long man-made beach on the banks of the Seine (this year it has been extended to other parts of Paris, but I just went to the one on the Seine) created by trucking in 1,800 tons of sand and almost 300 umbrellas. According to the city’s website, the sand used is no ordinary sand, and represents the perfect compromise of grading and comfort for visitors’ feet. (<a href="http://www.paris.fr/portail/ete/Portal.lut?page_id=8653&document_type_id=2&document_id=56905&portlet_id=20544">I am not making this up</a>). <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187033_3661.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-b.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187033_3661.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />If lounging around soaking up sun on the banks of the Seine is not to your liking, there’s plenty of other things to do, like:<br /><br />- taking a dip in the pool or cooling off in the “showers”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-e.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187108_5590.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-e.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187108_5590.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187034_4310.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187034_4310.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />- playing petanque<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187026_548.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187026_548.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />- dancing<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-e.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187036_4974.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-e.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187036_4974.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />- and even practicing your fencing skills<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187042_370.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://photos-c.ak.facebook.com/photos-ak-sf2p/v307/95/32/542381348/n542381348_1187042_370.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />There’s also concerts and a few cafes, but alas, I have no good pictures to share with you.<br /><br />On Saturday we took the TGV to Strasbourg to visit some friends and their adorable baby. We had window seats and were able to enjoy the beautiful French countryside on our way, replete with rolling pastures, cute cows, and soft sheep (they looked soft at any rate!) <br /><br />We spent the day touring the old part of the city, including the cathedral. The area has such strong Germanic influences that it is easy to forget you are in France. I took this opportunity to enjoy some wines, like gewurztraminer and riesling, that are not as widely available here. Our friends prepared a lovely dinner, which we enjoyed while sampling some local wines and chatting on the balcony (I do hope the nice dinner and the elaborate brunch our friends prepared has not spoiled my husband!).<br /><br />Feeling very international, on Sunday we took a little road trip to nearby Baden Baden in Germany. We could tell we were in Germany not just because the town is in the middle of the Black Forest, but because our friend accidentally left his camera bag (which had his wallet) on a ledge, and it was still there when he went back to look for it 20 minutes later. I cannot imagine it would have still been there in Paris.<br /><br />Diego and I used this trip to Baden Baden to buy rich coffee that smells almost like a dark 70% chocolate and enjoy a final ice cream before returning home.makietdiegohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16396864495340546407noreply@blogger.com0