On a Sunday Morning Sidewalk

As expected, the pace of life has dropped off significantly here with the summer tourists migrating inland, and north. Nowhere is this more evident than the roads, where one can get from here to there without being surprised by a spontaneous parkade in the middle of the local highway, like some facebook flash mob where everyone stops their car at a prearranged time rather than breaking into song.  Today, the dark side of  ‘not summer’ reared its ugly head in the form of the grocery stores, and any other useful stores, all being closed.  I was forced to procure dinner at the local farmer’s market through incomprehensible muttering and gesturing reminiscent of a mime having a grand mal seizure.  With the stores being closed, Perri and I had no adequate defense against a family bike ride, and Ann pounced. I’ll admit the bike paths here are quite extraordinary. They are well maintained and I think from here I can ride to Spain in one direction and probably Moscow in the other (only the latter is a slight exaggeration) without ever getting on a real road.

Tonight, I was able to grill some chicken on my brand new Weber barbecue (this is blatant product placement - I'm sponsored by Weber). This may seem quite uneventful to those of you who live in a  civilized country. However, to get a French propane tank to provide gas to your North American barbecue is no simple matter. No less than three trips to the local hardware stores, two trips to the local service station, and one lengthy email from the Weber legal department stressing, in the strongest possible terms, the dangers involved with attempting to retro-fit one to the other, were required for us to get the whole package working in concert. Yippee! No more briquettes (what's that smell? Is that gas?).

School starts this week and with it comes a significant change of Perri’s daily rhythm. Her summer days have traditionally started each morning around 11.  Tomorrow, the alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m.. I think she'll struggle more with the early starts than she will with a new school in a new educational system

And speaking of the French school system: one curiosity I discovered, and there are plenty, is the absence of classes on Wednesday afternoons. Apparently, this is where your child finds some kind of activity to take the place of the total lack of extra-curricular activities provided by the school. It also makes it almost impossible for both parents to work as all of these directionless kids must be shepherded to their appointed ‘thing’. That being said, Perri and I accepted the challenge of finding something for her to do. It was here that I was re-acquainted with French bureaucracy. Using the reliable internet, we tracked down the local municipal building purported to deal with athletic clubs and general activities. Upon arrival, a very friendly woman at reception explained we were in the wrong place, as there was another office in another building responsible for sub-adult recreation. “Don’t worry, I have the address and phone number right here,” she may have said to us as she wrote out an address and number.  As we left, Google maps had the audacity to tell us there was no such address, but we would not be denied. After much driving and some arguing, Perri and I came to the shocking conclusion that our helpful municipal employee gave us an address which didn’t exist , at least not in this universe. Ok, so maybe it was a simple typo, and besides, we always had the phone number as a back-up.  The phone number was also wrong.

Fortunately, the next day we were able to go to the local sport and activity club open-house, which allows local teams and groups to recruit for the coming school year.  Ann monopolized the experience, exploring her potential membership in a number of clubs rather than finding something for Perri. The oddest part of the day wasn’t realizing our new home didn’t care much for girl’s soccer; we knew that already.  What rose (raised?) our collective eyebrows was realizing a place unable to support a competitive volleyball club could easily support three separate line dancing clubs (I’m in hell). Apparently, line dancing is synonymous with America, and yes, that is a confederate flag on the table:

Please excuse the quality of the photo: 14 year-old phone-wielding photographer at work.

As for me, neither the quilting club nor the ham radio club caught my fancy. I am waiting patiently for the approval of our membership at the local golf course, which I intend to utilize in the extreme until the rains come.

I was going to go into a lengthy discussion about the fellow working out down by the beach wearing a muscle shirt, a speedo, and running shoes with long brown socks, but I realized I live in what is arguably the most fashionable country in the world. Soon I will learn to appreciate these things rather than question them. Vive le difference!

Next stop: a weekend in Milan  (who loves discount airlines).