tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68606452254897674752024-03-12T22:22:11.299-07:00Our life with the ToxoTwinstoxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.comBlogger230125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-5170158916188182512015-07-02T11:30:00.000-07:002015-07-02T11:55:21.361-07:00Just another shitty bump in the fucking road..."Having conquered fashion, Gail Chovan takes on Country Music: her new hit single 'Just Another Shitty Bump in the Fucking Road', is in stores now."
- Evan Voyles, Monkeytown Free Press, entertainment section
Things here in Paris were going fairly swimmingly. We had settled in after a week, went out with new friends, entertained old ones and even got some work done. The twins were adjusting nicely to our crazy schedule. Creed was sleeping up in his cozy, windowed mezzanine and Zelda was with me at night. Days were spent out in the Marais: showrooms, cafés, Gay Pride celebrations, strange little art exhibits and the snazzy parade for Carnaval Tropical. So, when Creed said he had a bit of a headache on Monday, we decided on more water and no Orangina. Temperatures were nearing 90+ degrees...
Our nanny for these first two weeks has been Zoé. I like to consider her as an example of life coming full circle. When Evan and I married in 1998, I had dear friends come over from Paris for the festivities. Alex, Manu, Christian and Georges are all good friends of 30 years who I have named "les Célibataires" - the French Bachelors. Except for our wedding, Alex brought Edith. And then, they went back to France and had a baby girl: Zoé - who was actually in utero at our wedding. And this summer, she is "Nounou #1. Life is funny that way...anyway, back to the bump...
And then Tuesday, Creed woke up with a migraine and was vomiting - something that has happened on occasion here in our Parisian summer times.
But, this next shitty bump in the fucking road is that Creed's ventricles in his brain had been swelling. Last December and then again in March, Creed had an ETV - an endoscopic third ventriculostomy - to allow for built-up fluid in his brain to drain properly and lessen the swollen ventricles. (Literally they drill a hole through his brain...he likes to tell that to people.) This past Tuesday night, he was writhing in pain...vomiting again...and I had to dial the "15." I had seen these symptoms before. Based on Creed's medical history, the ambulance took us to the children's Hôpital Necker. They are well-versed in pediatric neurology. He is in surgery as I write this while sitting in a café in almost 100 degree heat, simultaneously drinking a glass of dry rosé and a cup of hot tea. They are doing another ETV, a septostomy and removing the right shunt valve that hasn't been working. So much new French vocabulary: ventriculostomie, septostomie, et ablation de la valve droite ...I feel like Emile Zola doing research for a neurosurgery novel for his series Les Rougon-Marquart. (For those of you not familiar with 19th century French literature, Zola wrote a series of 20 novels based on multiple branches of a family. As a writer, he was considered a "naturalist" - and a "socialist", I might add. Before beginning his text on a slice of French life, he would have his assistants research all of the vocabulary appropriate to the novel's setting: such as words specific to a coal mine, the railroad or a laundry...My bucket list has always included reading all of the books in Les Rougon-Marquart.) And I digress.
So, here we are...another shitty bump...it makes us jump out of our complacent seats, it brings tears to our loving eyes and once again, makes my kids stronger than I could ever imagine.
Zelda (who before I mention this, I need to knock on every beautiful wooden door here in Paris for luck) has not had a seizure in almost 18 months. I often laugh when I mention that she had even been in the hospital here for an extreme seizure during their first summer in France 5 years ago. But today I kissed Creed and being the twin that he is, he said, "Mommy, I miss Zelda and Daddy. And Zelda hasn't had a surgery in Paris yet, has she?" Good lord, this is a fucking bumpy ride...toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-45125323135287787972015-06-20T08:40:00.004-07:002015-06-20T08:40:52.976-07:003rd Grade ... it's a wrap...Creed and Zelda are now 9 1/2 years old. Third grade is over...and what a year it has been.
On an amazingly positive note, Zelda has not had a seizure in over a year - since last March 22 when she entered the hospital and had 11 surgeries and infections that ravaged her body for three months. She was a full on 3rd grader with an amazing team of instructors that integrate her both academically and socially into her public elementary school. That being said, she still doesn't get playdates or many party invites. She is happy and independent but doesn't quite know what to do with a "friend." We are working on that as well as a recent diagnosis of being on the autism spectrum - huh? Now they tell us? Zelda is feisty, silly and spirited and her brain works in twists and turns that sometimes wreaks havoc with her emotions. Each day is a new adventure. She and I just returned from a week in Houston at BELL camp at the Lighthouse for the Blind. What an amazing facility! She went each day from 9 to 3:30 where they had activities specifically geared towards kids with visual impairments. Zelda has always been integrated into the "seeing' world so it was interesting to observe her with other VI kids. She was definitely the most outgoing and adventurous AND vocal. The first day I received a call about her obstinance and use of "bad" language. Oops! We are working on understanding the appropriateness or lack thereof concerning the use of the F, H, and S words. Hmmm...But she did swim to her heart's content each day in our lovely Melrose Place-like airbnb pool. It was nice to spend a week with my daughter and have that time for us the two of us - I learn from her every day.
Creed - aka The King of Monkeytown - switched schools in October. He is now firmly ensconced in a private school for dyslexic kids and he is so happy. The school is amazing and progress is being made. On the other hand, he went through 2 brain surgeries this year - one in December and the other in March. Basically one of his VP shunts was not draining so they drilled into his head and performed a Third Ventriculostomy where an opening is made in the base of the third ventricle to allow the smooth flow of CSF. Oh, just Google it...
We have no benchmarks at our house for Creed and Zelda's education. When I remember back to 3rd grade at Allen W. Roberts school in New Providence, NJ, I had my favorite teacher named Miss Eddy. I was reading "Little Women" and I made a diorama for my book report. I also was head of my class in memorizing the multiplication tables. I have 2 now-rising 4th graders. One is slowly learning Braille and one reads a few words at a time. Life is different and my kids are amazing. They are joyful, kind, friendly, creative and absolute snugglers. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZm8P5MGmz0HLssG1iNiTtCerHpsHjjrpNIduPZY7rOTYfR57O1eWeii1453wleSKD4DoZHaqXMxaB8rxcH9Ot3g_xIKWO-ocMKf2_TWTyzLu2UYKsnRm93UZ9SG3ifkKTEKgfshArvoA/s1600/IMG_0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZm8P5MGmz0HLssG1iNiTtCerHpsHjjrpNIduPZY7rOTYfR57O1eWeii1453wleSKD4DoZHaqXMxaB8rxcH9Ot3g_xIKWO-ocMKf2_TWTyzLu2UYKsnRm93UZ9SG3ifkKTEKgfshArvoA/s320/IMG_0001.jpg" /></a></div>
Some anecdotes for the year:
1. Creed: "Mom, I am going up to heaven tonight to visit Nana & PopPop (my parents). I hear that it is nice up there and it is run by some guy named Jesus. Actually there is God as well as Jesus. But God is a guy and Jesus is a girl, I think." Then the next morning..."Mom, I saw Nana and PopPop last night at midnight. They said to tell you something. They said to tell you that you are beautiful"
2. Creed to our babysitter: "Ok, I know all about privates. We all have butts, the same kind. But only boys have penises. And I have a French penis..."
3. Zelda: "Hey Gail, do I have to go to the hospital to get my vitals?" Me: "What are your vitals, Zel?" Z: "Well, there is blood pressure (she makes the sound), temperature (she beeps like the thermometer), and a stethoscope (she makes the sound of her heart beating.)
We leave on Monday for 8 weeks in Paris - it will be their 5th summer. They are so excited. Creed is anxious to leave our town and all of the mosquitos and Zelda just wants to explore the stairs, escalators and "ascenseurs" of Paris - namely her favorite place" the Pompidou. I will again be teaching Fashion & Design through an international program at the Sorbonne. Evan will arrive after a few weeks and we will join friends for a week at a chateau in the Southwest of France.
And the news is good, the long-awaited "La Petite Zelda goes to Paris" book is coming to fruition after all this time...waiting on the illustrations. You will not be disappointed! More on when we arrive next week in the city of my soul... toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-64611041656462738812014-08-02T04:22:00.000-07:002014-08-02T04:22:47.582-07:005 semaines...a day in our lifeWake up at 8h, lay in bed reading about Fashion History until 9h when Creed begins to stir. Tea and a tartine while I go over my course notes for the day. Leave at 10h, to go to Barbes to shop for fabric "coupons" - remnants. Stop with Denia (my jazz singer friend who is visiting from Nice)& Creed to sit on the lawn near Sacre Coeur and a "pause." Back on the metro to get Creed back home to meet Claire, his nounou, for their day out in Paris. Run over to Les Philosophes to meet a young amercaine designer who is in town with her parents. Lunch, then back to the appartment to collect supplies for my class. Today we are studying how fabric is woven - the warp and the weft. We talk about Madeleine Vionnet and cutting fabric on the bias. We drape and pin some fabric on a live model to explain the "flou" aspect of dressmaking. Then they each get a needle, thread and a scrap of fabric. Hand-sewing straight stitches. They have learned that before the invention of the sewing machine, the finest seamstresses and tailors in Paris could sew 30 perfect stitches a minute by hand in the 1800's. We set the clock to see how many they could do. Home on the metro with Ana by 19h00. Claire and Creed meet us there. They have spent the day with a picnic at Les Invalides and then an afternoon running through the fountains au Parc Andre Citroen. Dinner is by 20h30, Ben - Ana's boyfriend and another member of the tribe who is staying here this summer - creates an amazing meal of fresh pesto, ravioli and gnocchi purchased from the Italian man at the Marche aux Enfants Rouges not far from our house. Dinner around our family table with Stephanie (a singer friend visiting from Austin), Denia, Ben, Ana, Creed and me. It's a quiet night - watching TV about a man who takes a train through the Moroccan desert. A bath for Creed, a bath for me. Our upstairs neighbors thinks we are making too much noise and instead of telling us, she dumps buckets of water over the balcony onto our terrace. Oh, the French! Bed by 23h00 and asleep 24h00...to the sound of our own private mouse who we have named Jeremy, scurrying around the loft.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDR4tckv_1kd4w-P9iOP_793QXTwOyYZhti71ApfjXzlo5YO-jfIk0o6cgGZic0hmPP0QoK3H_EeqzjhBYSKzANWYOdaoBXiT2bRLYZU3VdMJv72dl_SVD8hwpX_1pyHL9tJppBi905xC/s1600/IMG_0884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTDR4tckv_1kd4w-P9iOP_793QXTwOyYZhti71ApfjXzlo5YO-jfIk0o6cgGZic0hmPP0QoK3H_EeqzjhBYSKzANWYOdaoBXiT2bRLYZU3VdMJv72dl_SVD8hwpX_1pyHL9tJppBi905xC/s400/IMG_0884.JPG" /></a></div> toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-71822657627749181472014-07-25T01:50:00.001-07:002014-07-25T01:50:34.012-07:00Nostalgia sets in...while sitting in a caféNostalgia sets in. I think it's because I am not here with both kids. My life in France reaches back through the decades but the past 5 years have forged new memories as a family.
I started coming to France 40 years ago - does that tell my age? First in high school, then studying as an undergrad in the south. I returned and did my entire Master's degree in French Lit at Paris lll in the 80's. And then returned and went to design school at ESMOD, Duperré, and worked for designers then started my own line here. We did shows in weird clubs, collected our press clippings, showed in museums and appeared on silly TV shows. My battery of French friends includes those that I made 25 years ago. We have stories of crazy nights, crazy clients, crazy relationships. I sometimes walk down a street and I know that I went to a party in a certain building many years ago. Or stayed up all night in a certain club, falling asleep on the couches until the métro would reopen in the morning. I remember that cranky boulangère that would sell me my baguette every morning for 5 years running. The old woman that owned the gallery where we sold our designs was a Madame who housed prostitutes upstairs. So many stories... I can walk the métro and make the correspondance with my eyes closed.
Why is this home to me? Evan asks me. I ask myself. I think it's because I always come back. I have lived in several different places since my childhood in New Jersey - I would leave them easily, sell my belongings and rarely return to visit. But in Paris, I know that I can show up with nothing and be back at home. The quiet, anonymity of the streets, the sweaty crunch of the métro, stuck for days in an apartment while it pours rain and even just hearing the whine of the sirens as they chase down an urgency - it's all comforting to me. Do I run off to see the Eiffel Tour? - no, but I relish that I can see it over the rooftops of my classroom.
This morning Ana asked me "What is this place? - we are constantly skinny by eating bread & cheese and anything else we want. We can buy a bottle of rosé for 4€ that is better than the bottle for 8. We are happy in the rain. We have planes flying overhead shooting out red, white and blue exhaust. - It's like Disneyland."
Ha! And then there is the bureaucracy, the red tape, work happens slowly - if ever. People don't listen, don't pay attention...I lived in Paris illegally for years - working the system, under the radar. You can't really do that now.
But it's ok: I am making new memories. I am 10 and 2 now. 10 months in the states while the school year unfolds. 2 months in France while I teach and we live here. Creed is lonely this summer without Zelda. We go to the park and he plays alone. We laugh and remember how Zelda loves the elevators and escalators at the Pompidou or the woman at the Marché aux Puces who lets her dig through the piles of beads and buttons. Creed, Zelda and I have our little ritual of going to a café and what we would order - Zelda with her IPod headphones and her milk/water with a straw. We secretly laugh when we remember how she bonked the old woman in the métro with her long white cane and we would delight in every time someone would give the kids something for free. They are growing up here. We have photos from every summer - even the first year when Zelda had a seizure and had to spend the night at Trousseau. They have been buying fabric with me here for years now and they also have their favorite restaurants and parks. Do I hope they will continue to love it and think of it as home as I do? Of course - but then I have to remember that my children are not me. They have their own likes, dislikes and will start to formulate their own experiences. I want to continue to give them as much as we are able until decidedly they reject our options and plans... aside from love, protection and guidance...that's all I've got. Bonne journée.toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-6003866064470485312014-07-13T14:28:00.000-07:002014-07-25T01:48:46.944-07:00Paris - year 4. 2014.Zelda went through 11 surgeries in 3 months and is getting stronger every day with her Dad in Austin. I miss her with each step we take this summer as the past 4 years have seen the twins growing up in Paris. Creed and I have been here since the end of June with Ana, my assistant and good friend, in a lovely loft in the Marais. The first week of my teaching post ended this Friday.
It is the 13th of July - the night before Bastille Day. Traditionally, there are "les Bals des Pompiers" in each neighborhood. The "Fireman's Balls" are held the night before 'le 14 juillet' and everyone comes out to dance all night in celebration. It is quiet tonight. There has been rain all week - all day today. It is the finale of the World Cup and people are inside glued to their televisions.
Creed and I took a walk around the Marais tonight, as it doesn't get dark until 10:30pm. It was quiet except for the men from the gay bars spilling onto the streets. There was a drunk dressed in a leopard tank top and athletic shorts with many empty bottles of wine, singing on the street in front of the local school - he reminded me of Richard Simmons and Creed took his picture. The air was damp but pure in a very strange way. People were calm and and the music was thumping.
Tomorrow we will awaken to go down to the Seine and watch the jets fly overhead - the exhaust trailing in red, white and blue - before the militaires start their parade down the Champs Elysees. Dinner with friends that evening followed by a crazy attempt to see the fireworks from the ridge of Montmarte looking out over the city from the steps of Sacre Coeur. Bonne nuit.toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-59028848991651788362014-06-18T17:46:00.002-07:002014-06-18T17:48:00.466-07:0057 days and 7 surgeries later...Day 22 (hospital stay #3):
So, here is the update. Tomorrow morning at 8am, Zelda goes in for what we hope will be her last surgery for a very long time. The EVD or external drain on the outside of her head will be replaced and internalized with a VA shunt. The VA (ventricular atrial) shunt will continue - as have her other shunts - to drain the excess fluid off of her brain and then through a line to deposit it near her heart. The fluid will then be reabsorbed into her body and life goes on. Both she and Creed have lived with VP shunts since their first year of life. A VP shunt drains into their abdomen. However, with all of Zelda's infections and scarring from surgeries as of late, the battleground is ravaged and they need to drain the excess CSF (cerebrospinal fluid) into another receiving area. The VA shunt drains into the right atrium of the heart.
http://neuroanimations.com/Hydrocephalus/Shunts/VA_Shunt.html
Am I worried for this surgery? Yes, of course. Am I a bit freaked about a surgery that involves not only her brain but now her heart as well? Hell, yes. Do I want my daughter to be out of the hospital, healthy and happy? Yes, more than any worry or fears that I can have. Zelda is a warrior and is an amazing kid. We all have amazing kids and I hope that none of them ever have to spend this much time in the hospital and have this many surgeries ever again.
So tomorrow, please hold good thoughts for Z. I know she will be ok. I have no doubt. We just want to go home on Friday.
One of my favorite pics of Z when she was 3 years old...
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwONKA7K_V6kqDIQH1V7dEg2uOBzEIn34gngaqNqqmpbrY6Ci2aFRGNo17WY7XokGH3pNFrX8SdNWHvDTx6hY10N17apNLB0pxSiwXRCE_74qlDuCNN-rd6KZ94Rxhm8Tj0_21fuVvPtLn/s1600/zuzu+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwONKA7K_V6kqDIQH1V7dEg2uOBzEIn34gngaqNqqmpbrY6Ci2aFRGNo17WY7XokGH3pNFrX8SdNWHvDTx6hY10N17apNLB0pxSiwXRCE_74qlDuCNN-rd6KZ94Rxhm8Tj0_21fuVvPtLn/s400/zuzu+006.jpg" /></a></div>toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-23678098638899735192014-04-20T14:00:00.000-07:002014-04-20T14:00:46.255-07:00Queen of the Gypsies
Day 5 in the hospital and infections clearing from the CSF in her brain but growing from cultures in her abdomen - too many to list - so, I need to think about the magical Zelda.
Last summer, we were in the RER to go to the southern edge of Paris where I had been teaching all summer. Evan had arrived the day before, so he and the twins were accompanying me to meet my students on their last day.
The RER was empty, except for two Gypsy women - 2 Romas - who were sitting across from us. The French tend to be very wary of the Romas because of the stigma of pick pocketing and stealing from people on the street and especially on public transportation. Maybe it's my Magyar roots, but I am always intrigued and sympathetic as well as cautious and alert.
As Evan ignored them and Creed snoozed, I smiled gently and Zelda stood up. She approached the amazing woman who was very thin with deep lines in her face and gold teeth. The other woman - plump and wrapped in scarves - eyed us suspiciously. The thin woman asked me in French about Zelda's cane. We talked about her blindness and as we did, Zelda started to touch the woman and feel her clothing and her arms. She told her Bonjour. The woman asked me if Zelda could take off her sunglasses so that she could see her eyes. I said yes, but that Zelda doesn't open her eyes often. The thin woman took Zelda's face in her hands and stared at her.
Our stop arrived abruptly and as we got ready to descend onto the platform, the Roma woman whispered something to Zelda and said to me with a smile... "Madame, votre fille ... elle est magique."
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-19782765235455681722014-03-26T10:00:00.000-07:002014-03-26T10:00:26.121-07:002 kids: 4 shuntsSometimes I have to keep myself sane by equating our lives to an inane TV show. Have for ever seen Portlandia? There is an episode called "2 girls, 2 shirts." And that is exactly what it is about: 2 girls open a tiny, minimalist shop and try to sell 2 shirts. It's fairly amusing but we like the name best of all. Thus, the title of this blog entry: 2 kids, 4 shunts.
Not to rehash our lives, but when the twins were born as micro-preemies at 26 weeks and diagnosed with congenital toxoplasmosis, one of the issues that they inherited with the evil parasite was hydrocephalus - or "water on the brain". It is actually cerebral spinal fluid that is not properly draining through the brain. The CSF can either build up and compress and retard the growth of the brain causing a small head - as in Zelda when she was a babe, OR flood the brain, build up and swell the size of the head - as in Creed when he was a babe. Let me just enlighten you to how distressing it is to see a team of neurosurgeons stick a giant needle into your then 3 lb baby's head to tap for infection. Anyway, each of the twins have lived with two VP shunts since the first year of life. A ventriculoperitoneal shunt better known as a VP shunt is a valve placed in the brain that opens when fluid pressure builds and causes the system to drain the CSF through a tube that passes it down into the abdomen. Both Creed and Zelda have 2 shunts - one behind each each ear. The tubing travels done the side if the neck and into their bellies. Being skinny kids, you can see the ridge of the tubing on their necks and chests. They live with 2 coils of tubing that stretch as they grow to adjust to their height. The tubes open into their abdomen where the CSF drains and is re-absorbed back into their body.
Zelda has also had a seizure disorder since she came home from the NICU at 5 1/2 months old. When she was a baby, she would get very pale and her lips would turn blue, she would begin to slow down her breathing. Our nanny, Kristen, and I would then rush her to the ER. One time, they even flew us ( Zelda and me) in a helicopter to Texas Children's Hospital for a shunt revision. Since the age of 2, she has been on anti-seizure meds: Keppra and then they added Trileptal, morning and evening. Zelda has a seizure about every 6-8 months - when she outgrows the current dosage of her meds. She has had seizures and been in hospitals as far away as Paris, France and Telluride, CO. I wish it was something we could get used to, but each one is different.
So this past Saturday night at about 10:30pm, with Creed & Evan asleep, Zelda starting seizing. Her breathing was labored and her arms were jerking. Her lips were a deep, beautiful purplish blue. I woke up Evan and we gave her the Diastat suppository but it still wasn't working to stop the seizure. After 5 minutes, we called EMS.
Evan accompanied Zelda to the ER while I stayed home with a sleeping Creed. Hourly check-ins were de rigueur all night long. At 5:30am, Evan reported that one of Zelda's shunts was broken along her neck. They operated at around 11am on Sunday to replace the entire shunt as opposed to just a revision. They went into her skull, her neck and her abdomen. Lots of little scars, a bit of shaved hair and voilà: a new shunt was placed.
They have been so fortunate over the past 8 years in having well-working shunts, but we imagine this won't be the last time they will need a revision. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it...
Thanks to all for your visits, calls, support and concern. Zelda should be back in school by the end of the week.
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-41373480116570246332013-08-15T01:17:00.002-07:002013-08-15T01:17:37.495-07:00Layers and feral cats...This seems to be the first year of this annual Parisian sojourn-à-la-Sorbonne that we have had a steady stream of visitors. Today it was a former employee of Gail's, from her years as a manager at a streetwear boutique in Washington D.C. in the early 90's, and her husband and two daughters. The husband -- radio personality and program director Dave Marsh (NOT the Springsteen/Sirius one) -- asked me: "so what would you do here in Paris, if it was just you?". An interesting question for me, who seems to be constantly and exclusively shepherding my children (the feral cats) from métro to glaces stand. .......So here's what I said in answer to his question: First thing I would do is the flea markets: the Puces, the brocante. French culture is constantly crumbling and constantly being repaired and rebuilt, and the chunks of it that fall away and are available for sale are fascinating to me, and of course I am a collector at heart and professionally across four decades now and I cannot resist the perfect object. And believe me, the French are a tribe that can create perfect objets d'art: everything, from their buildings to their street art, is made, seemingly, as if time and budget were unimportant. I once considered purchasing an embroidered frock coat from the French revolution, at Clingancourt. It was $1000 and didn't fit me, but just the idea that it was AVAILABLE was amazing ......Secondly, I would drift from cafe to cafe. I wouldn't get far, since there are several in any Parisian block, each a jewel: with its own particular furniture, gilding, signage, and woodwork, and each appearing to be at least 75 years old. For all I can tell, each has its own regulars and maybe even its own language. My taste for dark beer makes ordering drinks at any of these cares a bit dicey (not much of that available locally), but I can always fall back on Gail's stock côte de Provence rosé order if necessary. ....... Thirdly, I would wander the streets and métro stations looking at the cross-pollination of street art (grafitti, posters, stickers, etc) of the moment, with the stone and iron work of centuries past. I especially like it when these things begin to layer and degrade together, and the intended meanings become lost and confused........ Like me in Paris...herding cats. .......guest-written by Evan.toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-40741184998880145852013-08-14T07:17:00.000-07:002013-08-14T07:17:18.204-07:00"Versace" meets the "Blue Lagoon"...Imagine a child running blindly through the Paris métro, long golden hair flying, bumping into strangers and white tile walls, ignoring calls to stop or slow down, even when the child crashes into a splatter at the bottom of the concrete Metro steps. ....... Now realize that the child is not Zelda but Creed. ..... Who at this precise moment is naked, being fitted by Gail with the pieces of the jacket he has designed for himself from the two satins (gold, and peacock blue floral) he picked out at the Montmartre fabric stores yesterday. The jacket design itself is a cross-breed of his vintage western suit jacket, and the ITALIA soccer warmup he got at the flea market on the Italian Riviera last week. Gail is calling this Creed's "Versace Period", with a little "Blue Lagoon" thrown in (he just rigged himself a loincloth out of the peacock blue floral satin). But it is the soundtrack for this fitting -- pulled up on the iPad by Creed himself, snatching it out of my hands -- that gives the clue to who Creed's "aesthetic ghost" is: Alejandro Escovedo, the "Real Animal" of fashion, which I suspect will make Alejandro extremely proud. ....... As frustrating as I find this boy to be, when I am chasing him or arguing with him to stop trying to control everything and everyone in his path I must admit that he is more me than I will maybe ever be.
Guest-written by Evan
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-68337301066606064962013-07-15T14:31:00.001-07:002013-07-15T14:34:24.549-07:00A bad choice on a good day...my Boy of the World...
We love going to flea markets - les Marchés aux Puces de Clignancourt is one of our favorites. The kids first went to Warrenton/Round Top in Texas when they were 6 months old in a twin stroller. So even though Evan has yet to arrive in Paris to join us this summer, Creed convinced me that we needed to go to "les Puces" this past Saturday. It's a bit scary to say that I have been hunting good stuff there for 30+ years now and my kids, for 3:) We have our preferred markets, vendors and alleys and the tall, wild haired blonde lady with the be-spectacled twins: chatty boy and blind girl are quite "inoubliable" - unforgettable. So, after Zelda had selected her jewels and Creed had bought his toy car and we had listened to the woman sing Edith Piaf in the marché Vernaison and the guy play the guitar à la Django....we settled into our favorite, red, plastic chairs at the non-descript café for our "frites", paninis, milk and rosé.
No sooner had the food arrived and we had quieted Zelda with her IPod and tall, iced glass of milk when Creed ABSOLUTELY had to go to the potty. Well, "les toilettes" happen to be down a half block, across the street and down a long corridor of very expensive Art Deco stalls in another market. SHIT! So as not to disturb Zelda, I asked Kamel (the owner's son) to keep an eye an Zelda while I grabbed Creed by his hand, ran across the street to the corridor and directed him in French with an Art Deco vendor down the hall to the potty. I then ran back to Zelda where Kamel seemed more worried that someone would steal her IPod than Zelda. As soon as I returned to Z, SHE had to go to the potty!! Kamel guarded our food as I ran with Zelda across the street and passing through the corridor, I arrived at "les toilettes" thinking that I would catch Creed on his way out. I asked the guardian of the potty: "Petit garçon? Lunettes? Blond?" No, he hadn't come out yet. Pushing Zelda into a stall to pee on the women's side, I queried an old man. NO, he hadn't seen him AND then the guardian chimed in, "I saw him go in, but not come out." Ok, that's when the mom - in this case, ME - starts freaking out.
The old man and I search the stalls - two are locked and unresponsive - never a good sign. Zelda has finished and we are ready to hunt for our missing Creed. Not screaming, but beginning to panic, with visions of a little lost American boy with no identification kidnapped into the rabbit-warren of flea markets stalls, I literally drag Zelda back down the corridor. Oui, they saw him go by, and NON, they didn't see him return. Shit, shit, shit...I curse myself.
I will never forgive myself for sending my kid off, in a maze, in French, to pee by himself. And then Zelda and I emerge from the market and look a half a block away down the street .... And there is Creed, smiling and sitting at our table at the café. My boy of the world...he knew exactly what to do, where to go and had the confidence to do it. I was the one who had made the bad choice, as they teach in 1st grade. Don't make bad choices...
I told Creed that when he grew older, he would write a song about this, "My boy of the world, you are the smartest boy I know, no tears, no fear, I love you so..."toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-52700312956408047432013-07-13T15:13:00.001-07:002013-07-13T15:16:30.550-07:00Le Fort Broyard ... on a Saturday night...Le Fort Broyard...
Ok........ imagine a guy in an International Male brown leather jacket and tight pants aka "the Host", another guy aka "the Wizard" with a bald cap, bad make-up & fake beard and whiskers, two dwarves (should I say little people? Plus they look like brothers) dressed in Jean-Paul Gaultier-like "style-marin" striped sailor shirts and then, 6 B-level (in the US D-level) French celebrities...they take a boat out to a fortress, "Le Fort Broyard", off the coast of France in the Atlantic and do a series of challenges. The 6 "celebrities" which this week included an anchor from a non-Parisian TV station ( so think, Topeka, Kansas), an ex-rugby player and a virtually unknown pop star, attempt different feats of strength, grossness and determination. It's a combo platter of the Amazing Race meets the Fear Factor meets Wipe Out ... And even if you aren't familiar with any of these American reality TV shows, you can probably get the idea. It's a cluster f*#k of a mess and has been airing on French TV for 20+ years.
These 6 people, broadcast on a Saturday night and led by Monsieur I.M., do things like bungee cord over the ocean, walk though maggots, and answer weird French literary references to win old-time fortress keys and clues that the dwarves then run to the Wizard for verification...and eventually the 6 (who are not competing against each other - ah voilà! - very different from American TV! as no one is "voted off" the fortress) dive into a pile of doubloons and win it all for an obscure French charity.
Have you followed ANY of this? It is Creed's favorite show now for 3 years and he can explain the entire premise including the tiger pit and an "ex-footballeur
" named Pascal who wins everything for the team. Apparently Creed & Pascal are friends - huh????
Every Saturday night, social obligations be-damned, it’s time for Le Fort Broyard.
One cannot make up this shit up if they tried!!
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-15481124277916285482013-07-11T15:49:00.001-07:002013-07-12T01:05:43.961-07:00Work has started...I do come to Paris for 2 months to work, you know. I teach international students a course in Fashion & Design.
Teaching has started...
Classes began on Tuesday and so far, so good. I have to travel across Paris to get to work and my last class doesn't end until 6:20pm but...sigh...then,
it's back into the hot, crowded RER and home by 7pm. Une vraie Parisienne, my friend told me at dinner tonight. Now, if only they would give me socialized medical benefits, since I am paid in Euros.
I spent the first day laying the groundwork for the course... And then dove into fashion history, but only began with Marie Antoinette and her couturièure, Rose Bertin. Thank goodness Sophia Coppola had Kirsten Dunst star in that film because at least some of the kids can relate a bit to that pop-culture meets historical reference.
We discuss the cultural and political meanings of "les sans culottes" during the Révolution Française ( very timely since it is Bastille Day weekend) and then move to major industrial developments of the 19th century - culminating in the arrival of the Brit, Charles Worth and his creation of the first Maison de la Haute Couture. Paul Poiret and his revolution of design open the 20th century and then we compare and contrast the innovations of Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel & Elsa Schiaparelli during the 1920's and 30's. All of that leads up to the effects of WWll on the design community and the relaunching of couture with Dior's "New Look" in 1947. Phew! Then they get a take-home quiz. Tomorrow, I present their 3-week mash-up team project.
This year's students are from the US, Canada, Lebanon, Mexico, Costa Rica, Japan, Australia, South Africa and Hong Kong. Some are nearly fluent in French while some speak no French at all...
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-86922497402634601012013-07-08T03:14:00.001-07:002013-07-08T03:20:28.788-07:00Le weekend...Various weekend thoughts:
1. Sometimes Creed pees in the bidet as does Zelda. Trying to break them of that habit.
2. Creed over waters the plants of the balcony and it drips down on the unhappy heads of the passers-by.
3. If one more French woman looks at Zelda and says, "Ah, la pauvre." (Oh, poor thing), I am going to slap them upside their head.
4. Same thing for when Creed was choosing a postcard to send to Millie and the un-gentilhomme yelled at Zelda for spinning the rack. I think that I have the perfect mix of unfettered New Jersey meets Parisian stubbornness to be outspoken to the asshole, apologize and storm off.
5. It has taken a variety of different tricks over the years and a bit more maturity but the 3 of us can now successfully sit at a cafe for at least an hour...calmly...as long as Zelda has her IPod.
6. As I had to check in with the director of my school on Saturday, we took the métro, RER, tramway, and bus, had a long walk, stopped in two cafés, fought the crowds at Notre Dame and arrived home 6 hrs later.
7. I like that the animal prints are always alive and well in Paris, dalmation mini-skirts, leopard shiny leggings, tiger caftan tops...all worn with timeless abandon and purple suede heels or sparkle mules.
8. Cranky children are best contained by Haribou Crocodiles.
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-32935192522111678942013-07-06T01:48:00.000-07:002013-07-06T01:48:20.675-07:00La Ballade de Narayama...I first saw this film when I was in grad school here in Paris. I went often to the cinema and saw everything I could...it was a grungy little theatre with maybe ten of us there, but it was memorable.
La Ballade de Narayama...
It's a film that came out in 1983 by Imamura. It is on the list of my 10 favorite films ever. If you haven't see it, rent it and give it a try. When the old people of this Japanese village turn 70, it is up to their children to carry them up to the top of the mountain and leave them there to die. I won't tell you anymore because it is beautiful, humorous and poignant. The images are sublime.
So what made me think of this? I observe these beautiful old people every day in Paris...they are out on the street. Dapper men on the arm of their 50 yr old sons. Great watches, good shoes. Love in their eyes. Having an ice cream. Impeccably dressed silver-haired women shopping with their 60 yr old twin daughters and grand daughters. And then there are just people aging gracefully...long-white-haired men...they don't need to have a Texas buzz cut:) They wear bracelets and read Levy-Strauss and Sartre and have their "petit canon" at the café each day. There is the 80 yr old woman in a chic black dress and hose with matching bag that does her grocery shopping everyday and dresses for it. Sweat pants?!! Non.
So I want to grow old in France...in La Ballade de Narayama: the 70 yr old woman is vibrant and alive but has sworn to herself that she needs to go up the mountain. Her son resists. Please watch it.
Having had children at 47, where the fuck will I be at 70?
If not alive, hopefully, a beautiful memory of at least their time of summers in Paris if not at my sewing machine everyday.
Bonne nuit...toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-74501945342354496422013-07-05T01:52:00.001-07:002013-07-05T01:52:54.595-07:00It's all in the details...and more...Things I am liking in Paris this summer:
1. Seeing 3 couples in their 70's (at least) sitting around a table at a café enjoying glasses of wine and a spirited discussion in the late afternoon.
2. The fact that Pierre Hermé macarons opened exactly 2 days ago on my street.
3. Having an old man stop me in the street and say "Madame, vous êtes très belle", and then he smiled and walked off.
4. Seeing a guy in a long fitted leather trench coat and amazing rubberized boots, long black hair, all dressed in black, fly past me down the street on a Razor scooter.
5. Stopping at La Perle and seeing that it has now re-become a café/bar of the neighborhood since John Galliano and the fashionistas have moved on...
6. Little details.
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-46091172010799624562013-07-02T16:24:00.002-07:002013-07-02T16:24:28.325-07:00Paris...on arrive...Summer #3 for Creed & ZeldaOh, for the love of the gods... So, we left Austin yesterday - was it yesterday? - nope it was the day before! (Addendum to all parents with young children: at 0-5.5 yrs easy, peasy for the jet-lag, at 7.5yrs : "Mom, is it time for breakfast (at 6pm)", "Mom, Kidz Bob Dance Party! (at midnight)" ... We are getting there, slowly but surely.
Austin to Atlanta was quite uneventful - despite the entire glass of spilled milk all over Zelda's pants soaked through to her seat. Super-traveler mom (moi!) had packed extra everything in our 500lb carry on bag.
Atlanta to Paris was uneventful as well - we got our seats together from an extremely bitchy AirFrance desk attendant. They all felt it was necessary to explain to me that my original seats really WERE together - you know 2 behind, one in front. Sigh. But I ended up in the middle crunched between twins draped over their mom. No sleep for me.
Manu picked us up at the airport and marveled at how little luggage I had packed this year. Really??? - even with Creed's Razor scooter topping out the big bag at 49lbs.
DAY 1: Our appart is perfect - rue ste croix de la Bretonnerie - in the Marais. Each year, I try and rent within 6 blocks of the Pompidou. They remember the kids there and our exquisite, fearless nounou - that's our nanny - Marie-Lou aka Malou, knows exactly what they like. We also have our favorite boulangerie, pizzas, pharmacy, markets, etc...
We just missed Gay Pride weekend, so not only are we in the oldest Jewish district of Paris, it's also gay central. We are famously next door to the Gay Choc, the bakery where they bake brioches in the shape of penises. Lots of colorful flags flying from the balconies on our street.
Monday was spent moving in and then led by Creed, with the utmost confidence, through the streets to the Ile Saint-Louis. We walked along the Seine, with Zelda zipping down the cobblestone ramps and talking to the ducks and Creed analyzing the different styles of barges moving up the river. I kept reminding him that the further we walked, the further it was to walk back "home". Fatigué....so tired...I pulled them home and managed to stop by Mariage Frères for my stash of Marco Polo tea that starts my every morning.
Crazy sleep patterns had us all in bed until noon today...
DAY 2:
When one stays in bed til noon, and Malou arrives at 14h - 2pm - these 2 hours involve eating, tidying up and trying to figure out the various appliances in this apartment. Lave-linge, lave-vaiselle, et four/micro-onde: washer, dishwasher, and convection oven/microwave combo - oh and I forgot the TV...
Spent the afternoon at the London Showrooms for Men's Fashion Week to visit with Matthew Harding, the uber-talented partner in design and life of my dear friend, Levi Palmer. Through their line Palmer Harding (www.palmerharding.com), they create the absolutely most subtly, studied twists on the classic white shirt for women and for men. So smart, so talented...stocked around the world.
Lots of errands, groceries for the house, Monoprix for basic essentials: trash bags and such.
Dinner tonight: Elsa & Laurent with their children Evaluna & Vermeer, Manu, and Christian...wine, pizzas, salads, cheeses, taught them to make Salty Dogs with the grapefruit Vodka that I gifted them from Austin...and the dessert: macarons from the Pierre Hermé boutique that opened THIS morning only 1 block from our appart. Oh no...
Faites dodo!! That means go to sleep kids, dammit! A demain...toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-18208151455349333112012-11-30T10:20:00.001-08:002012-11-30T10:20:55.473-08:00I see dead people......or at least my children do...Zelda woke up this morning and told me she had a nice playdate with Johnny Cash. They played the guitar and sang together. When I asked her what they sang, she responded "Flesh and Blood." - Then she asked if Johnny Cash could play at ACL and she could have a playdate with him, Willie Nelson and Patsy Cline. They could all sing "Crazy." I am really excited about this next playdate! WWJD - What would Johnny Cash do?
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Then Creed said that sometimes he talks to PopPop. "Mom, I know that PopPop was your Daddy and that he died." "I know that you miss him, but at least you have Nana, your Mommy." "Daddy still has his Mommy, Grandma Beebe is still alive, but his Daddy died." "And now Anthony is dead" "I miss Anthony - he was my friend". "Do you think that I can talk to Anthony?" - Yes, of course, Creed. - "Mommy, please don't die anytime soon. I want you to see my college and my wedding."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-16715333438892423082012-11-10T07:16:00.002-08:002012-11-10T07:16:41.576-08:00Over-talking on a foggy day to a blind kid...
...sometimes I try too hard to explain things to Zelda. It has to do with thinking she has to "see" things the way that we see them. So, the other day as we drove to school, the fog was as thick as pea soup. Crossing the South 1st Street bridge, we couldn't even see City Hall sitting 100 yds ahead. We talked about fog and how we could feel the tiny delicate bits of moisture in the air but it didn't feel like rain. I tried to compare it to reaching for something and having soft cotton get in the way so that you couldn't quite feel the object - that explanation was too vague and complicated. Creed even said "what are you talking about?" Well, I was trying to relate vision to a tactile experience.
Finally Creed would say, "Zelda we can't see the City Hall from here." And then, "We can't even see the water In the river."
Zelda replied, "Oh, I know there is fog. I can see the water because it's under the bridge. And our car is on the bridge. And my seat is in the car." "I am sitting on the water."
Touché...toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-29941972102365113322012-11-04T08:31:00.000-08:002012-11-04T08:31:28.296-08:00Always a Yankee......but I live in Austin. I have for over 15 years now. Before that it was Washington, DC, before that years in Paris, but I was born and raised in New Jersey. When people in Texas ask me if I am from here, I respond, "I 'live' here, I am 'from' New Jersey."
When Evan and I decided to dive into getting pregnant in our we mid forties, we chose a fertility clinic in Morristown, New Jersey. I like to tell people that the Toxotwins were born in Texas but built in a factory in New Jersey.
So, I have been thinking a lot about my home state and the surrounding areas after the abominable hurricane sandy hit the east coast last week with so much devastation. I don't want to capitalize her name, for that would just give her more strength and recognition of power.
My memories of the Jersey shore are good ones. I can reference my age as I remember my parents taking us to Atlantic City as kids to see the horse dive off of the Steel Pier. My dad hated the ocean, but we went as a family and have the old black & white photos from the late 50's and early 60's to prove it. We had many trips to Island Beach State Park on weekends and high school skip days. We would drove to the shore for dinners with my shellfish eating family to a dive near the beach while I ate a hamburger. There were afternoons at Point Pleasant and Sandy Hook. My friends and I had college weekends in a rented house on stilts in Ocean City.
We have those lovely memories, I haven't lost them. It's poetry, past reality. The loss now is without compare for those in New Jersey. They have lost their homes, their possessions, their businesses, their lives. The ones that still have their homes are without food and power. Staten Island is in ruin. Breezy Point in Queens succumbed to fire. My memories are nothing compared to this loss. If you can help, please do...we have friends driving supplies to people, cooking meals, housing the homeless, not sleeping in order to assist those in need. So, my sunny Saturday of a sunburn in the sand seems meaningless, almost guilt ridden that now I can't be there to help...please hold them in your hearts and thoughts.toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-81215556236039514852012-08-15T03:37:00.000-07:002012-08-15T03:39:11.984-07:00Further Illumination Rounds....again by: Evan
<b>Further Illumination Rounds (with apologies to Michael Herr):<i></i></b>
"Un petit canon" translates directly to "a little cannon" but might more accurately be taken as "a little shot" since it is how the old men in the cafes take their tiny morning draught of red wine. As I do now.
......
Creed has, in exile, and much to my surprise, developed some skill at "Angry Birds": firing upon Goliath structures with a slingshot, adjusting trajectories and velocities and burst intervals.
So I should not have been surprised when, atop the majestic military mountaintop that is the Arc de Triomphe, Creed occupied one of the brass telescope emplacements, found his range through the small sighting telescope, and prepared his angle for an artillery attack upon the Eiffel Tower! While Zelda was knocking over the barricades and distracting the gendarmes down below, on the Place de L'Etoile, with its commanding access to Hausmann's axial consensus of avenues. The twins are the latest occupying army to take this gateway to the Cité.
......
When Madame Gail Antoinette has reached the end of her rope, out in the streets, and the little peasants are revolting (literally and figuratively), and all seems lost, she reaches into her bag (Comme des Garçons) for her Secret Weapon, and deploys it: she lets them eat ... Cake!
......
King Evan XIV is distracted from the Revolution around him by the images he finds on the street and in the Metro, of an idealized culture (where women are colorful sensuous models, and men are gray stern statues) that is tattered and crumbling at the same time that it is being papered over and reborn and critiqued daily. Missives broken into shards and fragments: advertisements, mostly, placed in antique frameworks and then torn and "modified" by the street denizens. Words untranslatable appear and disappear in these contexts, and he (Evan XIV) dreams and schemes how to bring the whole experience home and render it into paintings and constructions. While he is thus transfixed, Zelda has wandered up the platform, and Creed has run up the escalator in the opposite direction.
......
Nothing so focusses the mind as traversing a dark apartment in the middle of the night, guided only by the antique ivory streetlight staining some of the walls, seeking the added-as-an-afterthought toilet near the front door, telling oneself it is better then the old system of walking out into the staircase naked to find the closet with the hole-in-the-floor à la Turque ... when one steps barefoot onto a tiny Lego landmine. Trying not to scream and wake the sleeping combatants.
......
We, the family, had dinner on the terrace one evening. Creed came up with a new version of his patented, but not necessarily popular, cut carrots and ham shreds, by adding bananas to the mix: carottes, jambon et bananes. Zelda, of course, stuck to her Cheerios diet. Gail made a salad of lettuce, salmon, dressing, and a little French soil or sand (we couldn't tell which) that snuck in somehow. Evan served everyone their drink of choice: Creed had nectar de pomme, Zelda had lait, Gail had inexpensive rosé from the market, and Evan had bière brune. All was quiet, all was well. The setting sun lit the variety of chimney pots across the street. "I don't care what it cost," Gail whispered to Evan, "I would do it all again for this meal together".
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-11330981534921896382012-08-14T13:32:00.000-07:002012-08-14T15:42:10.153-07:00Exile in Paris...guest writer: EvanThe French Revolution, fought door to door and street by street, in the catacombs of the Metro and on the ornate balconies of the past.
Red wine. Not my usual weapon-of-choice. But they drink it for breakfast here, and I am trying to follow suit. We have carried out all the empty bottles, down the five flights of stairs -- Creed prefers the antique spiral staircase to the modern ascenseur that threads the stairwell like a needle through DNA. There's a basket in the apartment with 28 wine corks in it: the empty cartridges of our ongoing fusillade. Our French friends helped, of course. Dinner parties on the narrow terrace, overlooking the apartments and rooftops across the way, and rue Rambuteau far below. We pick the tiny tomatoes as they ripen, courtesy of the landlady, and dry our laundry in the cool sunlight. We eat what we buy from the bakery and the market across the street.
At night you can hear the occasional siren, and the clatter of high heels through the Marais. By dawn it is quiet, with only the pigeons making noise at the windows open onto the streets and the outside air. The kids stay up till midnight and sleep until nine. As do we.
Creed spent this evening finishing the "sculpture" he began last night for his "art exhibit" along the apartment's outside wall. The crowning piece was the scrap of poster he liberated from the metro while Daddy was photographing the tattered remains of another such. We want to believe that his "work" is influenced by the street art we saw displayed yesterday at the Palais de Tokyo, which claims to be the largest center for emerging/contemporary art in the world. But the fact is, the art there wasn't very good. Creed was more impressed with the skateboarders who have occupied the dead fountain plaza outside the building. Daddy was more impressed with the human excrement "installation" he saw on one of the landings en route to that plaza, suspiciously close to the skateboarders. Mommy was more impressed with her mojito at the outside cafe, as a slight refuge from the demands of Zelda, who wants access to Everything and Everywhere ... NOW! The demands of six-year-old twins against the monarchy of Mommy and Daddy. We can already feel the guillotine blade whispering to the hairs on the backs of our necks,
We have determined, through non-scientific experimentation, that the kids can only handle short jaunts through the crowded streets and the maze and rumble of the Metro before they begin to melt down, usually upon arrival at some particular stimulus which we had intended to be our final destination. Thus today we survived the lines and the climb to the top of the Arc de Triomphe, only to have them whirl into screaming fits when we reached the famous carousel at Montmartre later this afternoon: "I want to ride the black horse the bouncy horse the bench the sleigh the spinning car again again again!". The attendant didn't seem to care how many times we rode, and the Sacre Coeur pigeons were eager to eat the Cheerios Zelda flung out headlong in her frustration.
It got no better when we tried to break free and delve into the nearby fabric district, so that Gail could fortify her supplies for her next collection of clothing designs. Fortunately there were dozens of stores for the kids to weave in and out of, feeling the scraps and bolts of cloth. But they fought us every inch of the way.
And of course, the real saving grace of Paris that there is a cafe every fifty feet, in case you need a break from the battle.
And an endless supply of parks, museums, and monuments. The water fountain at the Citroen Gardens, with a hundred wet screaming children running through it. Followed by fruit sorbets served from the custom-fitted wooden bed of a 1920's Citroen convertible pickup (probably not a coincidence that the make of vehicle matched the park's patron). The Pompidou, its distinctive rooftop visible from the apartment windows, just two blocks away, where Zelda circles the gypsies playing their antique fiddles, camped on their blankets on the cobblestones. The Museum of the Hunt, a few blocks away on Rue de Archives, with taxidermy specimens including a talking boar that Creed thought was burping, and firearms so intricate that they resemble the plumbing and electrical harnesses of these ancient buildings.
And I am studying those harnesses as a guide to solving our own architectural challenges at home. At the Marches aux Puces we bought an antique brass faucet, as heavy and industrial as a sledgehammer, and intended to serve in our master bathroom in the Bough House, back in Texas.
If we can survive until Friday, that is.
toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-55317258914229272882012-08-02T16:33:00.000-07:002012-08-02T16:39:17.346-07:00Jesus ...here we come......while spending a lovely weekend in Sancerre, <i>chez des amis</i>, we had the opportunity to visit the Cathedrale de Linard - a somehat revered folk art site of mosaic proportions..."Regardez mon oeuvre et vous saurez tout sur moi." - Jean Linard
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobcUG-jFuFHXi1g63yhjAleMROQTAYcebRxnFcHVYlpK55LeFq9DtUDRmh7lb103M2T08HO7vU8XWDjkJ2zMo4TP-hsMAofiN-j3vPga5jc1BP9yNpsnhP8YNR57q9MDJEwLRpCAHgUNw/s1600/mosaic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="400" width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobcUG-jFuFHXi1g63yhjAleMROQTAYcebRxnFcHVYlpK55LeFq9DtUDRmh7lb103M2T08HO7vU8XWDjkJ2zMo4TP-hsMAofiN-j3vPga5jc1BP9yNpsnhP8YNR57q9MDJEwLRpCAHgUNw/s400/mosaic.JPG" /></a></div>toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-38740904249841158532012-07-27T12:16:00.001-07:002012-07-27T12:16:08.152-07:00Frites: or French Fry Friday was never like this in Austin......since the kids were in pre-school - French immersion Montessori pre-school, that is...we have had a tradition that we call <b>French Fry Friday</b>. It meant that I didn't cook dinner (not that I do anyway) but that either Evan or I would pick the kids up at Ecole and we would do the french fry drive thru on our way home. More often than not, it is at P Terry's, a fine Austin institution with properly made "<i>frites</i>" etc. - all very PC and supposedly not bad for you. So, this week Creed asked: "Mom, please can we do <b>French Fry Friday</b> and go and get <i>frites</i>? And pleeeaaasse, can we eat there?" Well, this summer, living only a mere 3 long blocks from last year's apartment, we returned to see "Les Turques": two turkish brothers and an old woman who sits guard at a little shot gun, hole-in-the-wall experience with a pass thru window to the sidewalk outside. Last summer they got used to us sitting out front and Zelda rearranging the furniture as Creed ate his <i>brochettes de poulet avec frites.</i>
So tonight, on Creed's insistence, and my fatigue, we headed over for <b>French Fry Friday</b> now known as "Frites avec les Turques." Once there, we placed our order and took a table outside, as two gentlemen - and I use that term loosely - finished their meal. As always, distracted by Zelda doing her tour of the tables, I hardly noticed the debate that ensued. It all went something like this: big man with accent stands up and starts rustling tables as older Turque tries to hand him money. Other man with accent starts yelling. Big man picks up chair to crash it on table and cracks me in the elbow - yeowwww! Creed runs to kiss me, I shuffle the kids inside with the old Turque woman and another customer. Turque brothers are in heated argument with men with accents - tables jostling, threats of destruction. Police station happens to be right across the street. Someone gets them and three officers arrive about the same time as our food that pretty much had been forgotten by the Turques. Now men with accents are arguing with the police, screaming is involved, something about not getting a receipt (?) - really?! Everyone is blocking the exit. Creed thinks it's an actual "case" and wants to call his (imaginary) guys onto the scene. We get our food, distact the younger Turque by throwing 10 euros at him, dump the food in a to-go bag and escape down the street - <b>French Fry Friday</b> was never like this in Austin...and my elbow is still throbbing...toxomamanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12829514830165012741noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6860645225489767475.post-23808706666427500872012-07-17T12:30:00.000-07:002012-07-17T12:48:23.413-07:00Vouvray, hairy armpits and the toxotwins......so, I was one of those kids growing up on the east coast that started taking French in school in 5th or 6th grade. My teacher's name was Barbara Baker - she was tall, had a teased bouffant like a Shangri-la and wore Jackie Kennedy-like sleeveless, smart dresses (it was the late 60's) and...she didn't shave her armpits. She was an amazing teacher but as middle class, white, suburban kids, we were all struck by her underarm hair. She also had the same name of a major Roller Derby star of the era and I would watch her namesake, racing around the track on Sundays on NYC metro TV as she would obliterate her competition. Now that I think about it...they could have been one in the same.
Madame Baker taught us to speak and ask questions in French by addressing "La Souris Mickey" - that is: Monsieur, the one-and-only Mickey Mouse. "Dites à la Souris Mickey que vous avez faim..." and she would point to one of us with her arm raised as we tried not to stare and coyly would respond: "J'ai faim!" I want to say that she even had a small plastic model of Mickey Mouse that sat in front of the classroom...She drilled into her adolescent heads that speaking French, hairy armpits and talking to Micky Mouse was really, not a choice but a requirement.
So, by the time I got to high school - in the early 70's - I was thrown into the world of the hipster, recently back from France-educated bi-lingual duo of Madame Sardella and Monsieur Castaldo. Mme Sardella wore short skirts, had a reverse flip hair-do and told funny stories about living with a French family and making mistakes in translation and M. Castaldo had a goatee, was très sérieux, carried a man purse and said "Ouais!" instead of "oui." They would switch levels every year so we had our full dose of each of them. So chic, so French, so 70's...I wanted to live their lives, speak their French and be like them.
When the opportunity arose to take "their" trip to France, the devotées were ready...3 jet-lagged days in London (only my friend Debbie cared about London as she was on the hunt for Ziggy Stardust) and then we were there: on French soil. My friends Pam, Ellen and Karen cried when we stood before Notre Dame at dusk - beautifully lit with the sun setting behind us. Versailles, la Tour Eiffel, Sacre Coeur - you name it, Monsieur Castaldo and Madame Sardella took us there. And then, they took us to Vouvray...We had been in the Loire valley, Chateau-seeing, and as we drove along the river, a stone hit the front window of our very "modern" tour bus and the entire glass blew out. No one was hurt - especially not the driver, but we stopped at Vouvray - the vineyard. We took a tour down into the caves and left with bottles of wine tucked under our arms. And then our teachers performed magic: took us to a hillside on the side of a French country road, opened the wine and a baguette and some cheese appeared. That was it. That was all it took. I have a photo somewhere. Did we really drink the wine as students in high school with our beloved teachers? That's not really the point but in my mind we did. And the memory remains. It was the perfect afternoon...
And I think of this often - it becomes the ex-patriot, all-is-right with the world scenario. I was 16 then and I have kept coming back: for undergraduate university in the south of France, a Master's degree in Paris, school for clothing design, living, working and hiding out in my atelier in the 13eme arrondissement for years and now teaching.
Soooo...do I want my kids to love this country? Of course I do. Will I force them to? No - not possible. Can I at least give them this experience, this opportunity, these memories before they start to complain that they are forced to summer in Paris? Ah, ...oui, yes, of course...
SUNDAY AUX JARDINS DES TUILERIES: Creed on the giant toboggan... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Zelda on her favorite bouncy trampoline...
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