Into thin air: first attempt

Why? Because it's there.

Don't try to use ordinary logic. It's a calling. And there is something about the challenge. The struggle with the elements. The view. The conquest.

And it's been there all my life. Constantly looking over my shoulder. I've grown up in its shadow. It calls me. And for a little less that a year I have been asking papa over and over again, relentlessly, when we would make our first attempt. Now papa is an extremely wise man, good looking and intelligent too, but above all wise. Ane he would simply tell me that we had to wait for the right moment. That patience is your biggest ally when you want to make the climb.

I suppose I'm a little young and restless, and I just wanted to go up. Papa said that we needed the right team. We would have to wait for Dood. And for the weather to be just right. Then, of course, there's the season. In the summer months people come from around the world to make the climb. Crowds. Best avoided. Climbing is a solitary venture. Alone with the elements. Zen.

Finally, the day arrived. Sadly, mama couldn't make it. She had to work. But the stars were aligned. We had to go now or risk losing the window. Dood called. We would try an ascent.

We met by the southeast pillar. Dood was already there. There was not turning back. We marched forward. Then we got to the window? "Summit?". The wind blew. Papa turned around to Dood who looked around, thought for a short while. The wrinkles around his blue washed eyes betrayed years of experience, a oneness with the elements, an intimacy with solitude. He's been there a thousand times. He knew.

"Second base camp."

It was a hard decision to make, but that's experience. The ability to recognize the moment to pull back. To say no. To leave the summit for another day.

Papa's wisdom knew that there was no point in arguing. We would leave the summit for another day and stop at second base camp.

But the views were great anyway and the coffee up there isn't as bad as you'd expect.

Sucker for punishment? Here's some more snaps: on a clear day...

Four sure!

It only rolls around once a year, so you better milk it for all it's worth! Yes, this weekend marks the end of my birthday week and after days of festivities, France is returning to a normal life. People can 
now concentrate on Christmas - if they're not too tired.



It all started last Sunday. A soirée intime, even though it wasn't during the soirée and it wasn't intime. Some of my closest friends came to break cake. Dude, my Godfather, provided ample entertainment. Mama organized the games: fishing, some funny unwrapping game, " 1,2,3, soleil!", and other crazy things. Nickil and Gayatrie's mom, Solène brought jasmin for our hair and Nico built the train.




My closest school friend, Clara, came with her mom, and my good friends and ski buddies Clara and Robin came too.

Then, on Wednesday the 8th, mama and papa gave me my Hello Kitty trotinnette. Then I received this from my soul mate on the other side of the world!

And, because there's no school Wednesdays (Papa's work should see and learn) Matheiu, my maître from school, threw me a party in class! Corina baked a couple fo cakes and the whole class sang joyeuse anniversaire.



Yeap, getting older is never easy. And birthdays only come by once a year. Mine anyway. So you gotta make it last as long as you can. One week is okay for now, but soon it'll be a month. Look out Christmas, you've got competition!

Unsupervised at work? Check out more birthday snaps here: I wasn't born yesterday

Between summer’s end and Christmas

The world starts to change after Gongo's birthday.

Days get shorter, I mean seriously shorter. If you blink it’s night time again (“papa le sun n’est pas ooouuuut!”). Clouds roll in. Sidewalks get wet. Leaves fall. We use the umbrella that papa bought us in the height of summer, when it seemed like it would never rain again. Shoes change to boots and mama doesn’t smear us with sun cream anymore. Here comes the sweater, then the jacket, then the coat. Then the sweater, jacket, and coat ‘till we can’t move our arms anymore and we look like scarecrows.

But, tu sais, this time of year doesn’t bother us at all. Nope, we’re multicultural creatures and that’s one of the positive points of having a connection to the northern portions of the New World. Rock groups dressed in black like to write melancholy songs about October, but for us October means Halloween!

Then, in November, comes one of Papa’s favorite holidays, Thanksgiving. Turkey, stuffing cranberry sauce, yams, pumpkin pie, and a 1990 Phélan Ségur that Jacques brought over, yeah baby! France and the United States blend in a transatlantic culinary alliance that makes papa’s eyes, and taste buds, water!

There’s also early snow, theater, a 1946 Rivesaltes with flan and good company, Francisco. Then there is the event of the season. No, not Christmas! My birthday! Yeap, and everyone knows that it’s far too big a holiday to squeezed into only one day! It’s actually my “birthweek”, or “birthmonth”. But it’s not over yet so why ruin the surprise?

Time not worth money? Check out a few pictures of Fall 2010 here: Why fly south?


Inès learns the meaning of life - and work...

Life is a cakewalk

From Two much!

Some things in life are serious - not many, but some are. Take making cake. This is something that you'd better practice if you want to get it right. And mama knows that she had better get it right when the cake you are making is for my second birthday.

From Let them eat cake

So a week ago mama asked Inès and I to roll up our sleeves and help her prefect her cake-making skills - not that they need improving. We were extremely useful, especially on the quality control front. This meant that mama was much less nervous when the big day finally arrived.

From Two much!

The setting was perfect. Abuelita's house on a beautiful Indian summer day. Cool, sunny, September day. The kind of day that calls for... cake!

From Two much!

We had a boiled shrimp fest and about as rich a cake as is legally allowed in these parts of the world.

From Two much!

I must admit that getting older doesn't really bother me like it does some people. I'm over that. You know, life is short. Can't take it too seriously. Unless, of course, you're talking cake.

 

Anchors Aweigh!

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

It always been there, ever since I was born - nearly two years ago. It's a voice, like some distant siren, calling me, an incessant appeal to take to the water. On long summer days, I would stare across the pond at Ata's house, wondering what was on the other side. Of course, I could see the other side but that's beside the point. The waves called me : " Gongo, Gongo, Gongo..." I had to answer the call.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

Papa already knows that Inès is going to be an ophthalmologist. But my career is still up in the air. Or at least, it was up in the air until Saturday when everything changed. I knew it the moment we stepped on the boat. Aye, I did!

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

I was sailing with the best. Patrick and Rory, half Scottish, half English. They ruled the seas for eons. They had the right accents. They talked to me of distant ports in distant lands. Rum and accordion music. I felt the boat dance with the waves, the storms bash the boat. The thrill of the open seas, well, river. Ahoy maytee, It's a sailors life for me.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

After a soggy stop at Port Paris Plages we were ready to brave the gales once again. We did the usual sailing stuff like batten down the hatches and put all hands on deck, blah, blah, blah. That's beginner stuff to and old sea (river) dog like me. I might look into a second-hand pirate ship...

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

By the way, it was also the first time Inès took to the seas. She liked it too, but she's still going to be an ophthalmologist.

From Inès and Gabriel go sailing

When it sizzles

From Everyday August

Cole Porter loved Paris in every season, which I can understand because of its location. Look on any map of the known universe and Paris is right at the center.

But despite loving paris in the winter (when it drizzles), I have a special place in my heart for the warmer months - few as they might be.  Each warm month has its own flavor. One with a very particular flavor, an acquired taste you might say, is August.

From Everyday August

In Paris, August is a good month for "socializing" 

Yeap, August is a special month. Stores close for the entire month - they leave little hand-written signs on the shutters wishing you a good summer. In France, the best ice cream actually shuts down production and takes vacation. Yeap, that must be pretty good for business. In August, the streets are empty. And because they're empty, the City of Paris digs them all up. The ones that don't get dug up become a beach, or are closed anyway. Why? The only people who really know are on vacation.



In August, people don't do much work, especially papa. This is an especially good point because we get to see even more of him - which is every child's dream (right up there with riding in Santa's sleigh).

From Everyday August

This August we actually came back to Paris. We have taken advantage of the hot lazy days to speed down the empty sidewalks in our tricycles. Of course, we visit Ata every chance we get. And if you think August is special in Paris, just wait 'till you see what it's like at the Chetif Moulin. This weekend, Clara and Robin came down, parents in tow.

We did the usual August stuff: not much. It's pretty much the same all over France. The roof is still unfinished. There are tools where the firewood should be. The grass is getting high. The garden needs weeding, and so on, and so on, and so on. August is not even a good month for complaining. In August, people forget scandals. They read. They forget what they just read. They drop diets. They drop names. They don't call home. In August, people ask themselves why they work in an office and decide that they are going to sail around the world, someday. Then they decide that they are going to lean to sail (which means that they will just have to buy that nice yellow "ciré jaune"). Oh yawn. It's August. Even the Loire River is lazy...

From Everyday August

Island mentality

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

Forget the light houses. Forget the sun. Forget the sand and the sandcastles. Forget the waves and the crabs and the shells and the rocks. Forget the church bells. Forget the bicycles and the bicycle trails. Forget Céline's tomatoes and her zucchini and her strawberries and her potatoes. Forget le sel d'Isabelle. Forget le Trousse Chemise and les Anneries. Forget the big sky and the white clouds. Forget the groseille jelly and the back cherry jelly. Forget the Crocks. Forget the suncream and the antibiotic cream and the bo bos. Forget the green shutters. Forget the salad and the seaweed phobia. Forget Superga and the long sleeves. Forget the manège. Forget the floods and the broken levees. Forget jumping. Forget the hats and sunglasses. Forget the ipples and bininis. Forget Vauban. Forget the sailboats. Forget the weird oven. Forget the headwinds. Forget the markets.

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

It's all about the ice cream and how much you can sucker papa into buying for you.

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer

"Papa, y où la big city?"

From Lovin' la Couarde-sur-Mer