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