Mac is back!

When papa said that the hard disk had crashed I had visions of visitors from space with broken arms or people at the Olympics with big bumps on their heads. Cool. But apparently, it was something else. Certainly nothing very interesting.

Now yet another year is getting ready to retire. I mean, is any one of these going to stick around? Last thing I knew I was in kindergarden with my feet up and a margarita in my hand (the flower). Then it's just a blurr of summer, rentrée, fall, Catalans, homework, fourth birthdays, sixth birthdays, unmentionable birthdays, birthday parties, rain, cousins, Mayan pessimists, Japanese food, vineyards, orange shoes, red shoes, tennis shoes, sun tans, lost teeth, lost time, swimming pools, cagouls, visiting Ata, Thanksgiving turkeys, mama's growing belly, friends coming to town, friends leaving town, friends being run out of town, learning to read, learning to swim, learning to skate, Carambars, puzzles, pirates, knights in shining armor, knights in pyjamas, Princess Knight, sleepless nights, nights at Cyriac's house, knights at Cyriac's house, more knights, even more pirates, being late to everything, Eloi et le Chamoi, guitars, picking up pianos, dropping off pianos, traffic, English classes, Advent calendars, Mauris doing Haka, 6 year-olds doing Haka, boys' names mama likes, boys names papa likes, boys' names no one likes, boys' names papa will have to learn to like, ballet, little devils, goggles, ice cream, chocolate balls, whipped cream,  poems, picnics, dragons, lost school supplies, sugar highs, bunk beds, musical beds, leaning Christmas trees, climbing walnut trees, homemade pizzas, clutter, and painters in the hall.

That about sums up this fall.

Hair the sunshine

Why wait 'til summer's over? It may be nice to start the school year with a new coupe, but an early visit to Bruno guaranteed the best hair on the Costa Brava. Those Catalans didn't know what hit them.

Check out our July trip to Bruno's here: I'll swap you some hair for one of those cotton candies.

The lost pearl

Papa and I don't always see eye to eye. I've been waiting for signs of loose teeth for months. But for some reason, papa wasn't quite as keen. Most of my school friends have lost at least one tooth, and mine seemed to be stubbornly in place.

Not long ago, when mama and papa told me that my teeth would fall out if I didn't brush, I had a great idea to speed up the process. Since then, mama and papa decided that they wouldn't really fall out, they'd just turn black from neglect, so I dropped that plan.

But not long ago, walking back from the boulangerie, I noticed something exciting. A little less reticence in my lower front tooth, a central incisor to be precise. Indeed, some noticeable movement. Was it true? I asked papa. But instead of shouting for joy, like I did, he seemed to let out a sad little wimper and blubber something about "my little baby".

A few days later, maybe a week, mama and I were back at the boulangerie. As usual, I pester for some of the hot bread until mama finally gives in. But no dirty hands on the clean bread, I have to take a direct bite.

And that's how I lost my first tooth in the fresh baguette.

Papa and mama combed the floor. But they never found the little deciduous creature. My big worry was how the tooth fairy (la petite souris) would know to leave the cash. A drawing of my tooth ensured proper delivery.

But I still don't understand why papa looks so devastated. The tooth fairy would have taken the tooth anyway.

Check out a couple more: out with the old

Rememberance of things to come

Tuesday, May 1st, a strange thing happened. It didn't rain. But that's not all. the sun came out. And it was even pretty warm. Of course, the first day of May is a pretty big holiday in most of the world. When a day like this falls on a Tuesday, and you're in France, then there's no question about it. You build a bridge - between Sunday and Tuesday that is. No self-respecting Gaulois would work on Monday.

But I was on about Tuesday. This is the day that it didn't rain, the sun came out, the temperature went up, mama and papa didn't go to work, and that Clara came with us on a boat ride to the Jardin des Plantes. It seems like only yesterday. But it was really the day before yesterday. Ah the memories.

Inès and I like to think about how one day, we'll remember all the things we get up to today. "Wow, that's the parc St. Lambert? I remember it so much bigger!" or "When we took the path to the Chetif Moulin d'en Bas, I thought we were crossing the enchanted forest and that dragons would eat us if we didn't make it back to Ata's house by dark."

What will we take with us of spring 2012?

The visit of Saute Mouille la grenouille who showed up with Lorin, Edith, and my friends Tess and Scarlet?

Bubbles?

Going to the Jardin du Luxembourg with all my friends from the petit section? 

Dancing? 

Mardi Gras?

The day papa saw the Easter Bunny running away from the Chetif Moulin after leaving his booty of melting chocolate eggs?

Hanging with my cousins before they moved back to Greece?

Retro fashion with my best friend?

I wonder...

Second summit attempt

The conditions were good. Dry. Temperate. A few clouds, but not enough to block out a generous sun. We could see the summit from down below. This was going to be a good day for a second attempt to summit the Eiffel Tower after our first try in December 2010.

The second attempt would be made with the Greek team. They are based in Luxembourg, a country known for its challenging peaks. They had summited several of them, without oxygen.

At base camp everything looked good. Mama had planned ahead. We had tickets right to the top. We were on time (No, really, we were on time. Yes, mama too). We prepared for our first ascent.

"Désolé, l'ascenseur jusqu'au sommet est en panne, vous pouvez monter jusqu'au deuxième."
Translation: "Sorry folks, the elevator to the top of this mass of iron you probably traveled across the word to see is out of order. Hope the second floor is good enough for you...again."

This is not unusual. We climbers are used to disappointments. If conditions are not right, an attempt can be foolish. Only stairs or ropes to the top of the Eiffel Tower 324 meters up? Conditions NOT RIGHT.

Dude has another chance. There will be a third attempt.

Want to see the whole expedition? Check it out here: Elevator to Everest

Our Lady on Monday

Paris on a Sunny February afternoon? Corina off and papa on duty? Walk up to the rue de Vaugirard and take the number 70 bus. Find a couple of seats. Gongo can fall asleep on papa's lap; I can slumber the fur coat the lady next to me is wearing. Wake up on the Quai de la Megiserrie and cross the Pont au Change.

At night, once we've complained about going to bed, brushed our teeth, complained about going to bed, taken deep breaths, said our prayers, complained about going to bed, and pulled to covers, mama and papa read us stories. One of my favorites is Paris Parade, about the best city in the world. I know just about all the places there. And one of my favorites is not a minutes walk from the Pont au Change.

It appears on the first page of the book. It houses the Crown of Thorns since 1239, Quasimodo had a gig here as a bell-ringer a while back, and it's home to Gabriel's much beloved gargouilles.

Notre Dame de Paris!

Yeap Notre Dame, the very one.

It's big, it's beautiful, and it's in my town baby, my town. It's also on an island called Île de la Cité which is next to another island called Île Saint Louis. To me and the Gongo this smaller island means ice cream. Not just any ice cream but Berthillon, the best ice cream this side of the Orion Belt.

Strawberry and mango please.

Papa had honey nougat.

We hassled the swans and the ducks, checked out the bouquinistes and the painting of the naked lady, watched papa get yelled at because he let two kids handle a delicate painting of a naked lady, wandered along the Quai des Grands Augustins and onto the Quai Voltaire, wandered up the rue des Saints Pères, the grabbed a cab as fast as we could because I had to go to the bathroom fast!

Yeap, in Paris it's always a holiday.


Would you like to see way too many pictures of the Gongo and me eating Berthillon ice cream? Check'em out here: not your average Cité

Fête de l'école!

Sometimes, Inès and I talk about what we're going to do when we grow up. She says that we could wait until papa grows up and see what he does. Somehow, I dont want to wait that long.

It's never too early to start thinking about how you'll eventually sell our life away, and what better testing ground than the fête de l'école?

First try was show business. We both gave this a shot. And although our respective talents placed us up there with Fred Astaire and Eleanor Powell (who sadly only worked together once), papa says this is a vulgar profession (not Fred mind you, the milieu). And papa is a man of supreme taste and education.



Next we thought we would do a Walt Whitman sort of thing and try fishing. One with nature. Respect for the fish. That sort of thing. But papa says that fishing hats look kinda stoopid and we don't want to make any fashion faux pas. We live in Paris you know.

Inès then entered the garçon race. Run an obstacle course while carrying a full(ish) tray. I won't get into the details but I don't think we come from a long line of waiters.

The moral of this story is...there isn't one really. Just some Sunday night blabbering about the fête de l'école and an excuse to torture you with this great video, and this one.

Want to see what it's like to go to school on a cold rainy Saturday. Check out these pictures: entertainment only a parent could survive 

Flour power

Sometimes, when I'm out walking with papa, I notice a sudden boost in our pace. Since papa is never late, this usually means one of two things: we are passing in front of a nice terrace café, or we are passing in front of a boulangerie. Papa knows that if he slows down, I'm likely to drive him crazy.

"Papa dear, wouldn't it be civilized to stop at this nice terrace café, order an expresso, and watch the aimless wonderings of lives unexamined?

Or...

"Papa, I want a piece of baguette now and if I don't get it then every French person within three kilometers who has never seen or heard a spoiled child since French kids are so perfectly behaved will stare at you and silently accuse you of being the hapless failure of a parent that you are."

I don't always get coffee but it's really quite amazing how much bread I eat. And I'm lucky because, while the coffee in France is actually quite bad (nowhere near Italian standards), the bread is the best in the world. I know because Mr. Pichard told me so only yesterday.

That's right, Mr. Pichard himself, Frédéric Pichard. The Roger Federer of bread, the Michelangelo Buonarroti of the galette des rois, of Carlos Kleiber of the baguette. I met him. You may not believe this, but I not only net him, he actually taught  me how to make the best bread in the world.

It all started early one morning when Mme Frankart led the Grand Section 1 out for a special field trip. Downstairs waited our parent slaves. I had both of mine on this occasion. We walked about 250 meters up the rue Blomet to the corner of the rue Cambronne, crossed the street, took a right, walked about 20 meters and stopped at the bakery where were welcomed into the shrine of the croissant, the temple of the pain au chocolat, the Boulangerie Pichard on 88 rue Cambronne. The very one.

Many times I have stood in front of the Boulangerie Pichard, in rain, in sunshine, in rain, in snow, in hot weather, in cold (it's about a gazillion degrees below zero Kelvin at the moment) waiting for my baguette Pichard. Were we really going behind the scenes in this cathedral of crust? Yes, we were.

Soon, we were dressed like bakers and kneading the dough. All under the guiding eyes of Mr. Pichard and his apprentice. Mine was perfect. Not long after, we returned to school while the bread rose with the flours natural yeast (yeap, Mr. Pichard doesn't add yeast).

Lunchtime seemed to drag on forever as we waited to return to the Boulangerie Pichard. But after walking up the rue Blomet and turning right on the rue Cambronne again, we were back. And our baguettes were ready for the oven.

Now this is no ordinary oven, it a wood-burning oven. Only four left in Paris, and in a few short years, there will be only one, this one. The other three ovens are near the end of their lives and like most misguided people nowadays, their owners will not replace them with wood ovens; it's more cost effective to use modern shiny things that have no soul. This is the world I was born into.

Back to bread: we made a small incision along the baguette with a sharp knife (good idea to put a scalpel-like instrument in a 5-year-old's hands) and watched as our baguettes were placed in the large forged-iron oven. Then we went downstairs to learn all about how good bread was made.

I won't go into the story here but suffice to say that you have to study about 9 years after high school to become a top bread baker ( and that doesn't qualify you for the sweet stuff my dear, nine years for that - medecine is much quicker). This means that mama and papa only half understood what he was going on about. "The fifty-five of the wheat thingy is all the the king's bakers would use, and is what goes into the baguette Pichard...the 120 is used for the whole wheat...natural flour has 30 or 40 yeasts...added yeast has 10 billion..." And the five-year-olds? Well, we stuck our hands in the dough and erased the recipes from the walls.

My baguette was cooked to perfection. I ate it à la française: with a piece of 70% dark chocolate stuck inside. And Mr. and Mrs. Pichard are so nice that they gave us each our own personalized bun. Apparently you could let it dry and keep it forever, which is what papa wanted to do. In my book, forever is about 11 minutes. It was delicious.

Why not check out some snaps of our baking bonanza here: If you want to live in style you gotta have bread.

Or check out a couple from our galette des roi (which came from Pichard, of course): the King and I