It has been raining steadily for more than two weeks, these treacherous and deceptive rains that manage to lure you out, because the rain is slowing a tiny bit, and the light increasing ever so slightly, and you've been stuck inside listening to your two boys fight like animals for the last three days so you know they need to get out of the house, and then, as soon as you're outside, sheets of water immediately dump on you with no warning whatsoever. On Saturday, my brother's family came from Poitiers and we all wanted to do something, so we bravely went into the wetness, with 5 inadequately equipped children, and walked 20 minutes to the museum of natural history, visited the museum in shoes that were like pools and jeans so stiff it was hard to bend them, and then walked another 20 minutes in another deluge. Simeon is now allergic to rain. We had to turn on all our radiators to dry the clothes of so many people (I must remind you that we have no drier here), and then the furnace was making noise all night like an aeroplane taking off, and my brother was sleeping in the room next to the furnace to try to avoid being woken up too early by hordes of wild children...

However, as you can see, just today the rain stopped, God put his bow in the heavens promising us no more deluge, and it has finally turned winter cold (cold enough to wear a hat, which is welcome to me because I got my hair cut ever so short, and I kind of feel like hiding my head).

We didn't celebrate Thanksgiving, anymore than we did Halloween. I was a little tempted to attempt it, they do have extremely expensive cranberries at the market (Ocean Spray!), and Mark Bittman had 101 ideas in the NYT about original stuff to cook for the meal. But, that day was Mimi's birthday, and we had a special birthday gouter (that sweets-only schoolchildren's after-school meal). She invited her friends Oonagh and Suzie (and their siblings and mothers) and we had a variety of treats and balloons, which once again, just like last year, provided Tipomme with an occasion for practicing her jumping aerobic skills. It's funny to watch Mimi interacting with her friends. Oonagh speaks english, but not Suzie, and Mimi just speaks English to her and she replies in French, and neither of them is in the least bit bothered that they don't understand anything the other one is saying. I guess that's how they'll learn (her friend Suzie is going to spend a year in Boston next year, and so the English is welcome to her mother). In any case, to get back to thanksgiving, they didn't have any turkeys.
Life is becoming a lot less unusual, I guess, and so I have less to say. Last week-end, I took the three little ones plus two friends of Simeon's to the pool on the tram. Everything went fine until the life guards saw the boys's swimming shorts. Well, wouldn't you know it, in all of France, only tight little speedo type bathing suits are acceptable for boys and men. At first I thought this was just too comical, the French aesthetic fascism brought to insane extremes. But it turns out it's some kind of 'hygiene' precaution (possibly because they don't want people swimming in the same clothes that they ride the tram in, just like my two boys). They lent the boys some very tight, very small speedos in which they looked very French, and thank goodness, they were allowed to swim (this was the second time I had taken them to that pool. The first time it was closed).

Oh, and speaking of aesthetic fascism, the Christmas spirit is just as tacky in Nantes as it is in your standard American mall. The main square in the city, the place Royale (I think there's a photo of it from early on, it has a huge fountain in the center), has been completely covered with decorated booths and an enormous merry-go-round (yes, I know, I hadn't mentioned those in a while, this one is really gigantic). There are American Christmas songs translated into French (and a few indigenous ones, like the one about St Nicolas bringing back to life three little children who had been murdered and sold for meat by a wicked butcher--it's a traditional song, but the mallish rendition is pretty horrible) blaring from loud speakers, and the booths sell the most hideous stuff, as well as the traditional mulled wine and pretzels (I didn't know about that tradition, I guess that's their eggnog and cookies). I was there with Tipomme, looking for candles and an advent wreath, and the two of us were traumatized by the experience: she by being stepped on by the pressing crowd, and me by the aesthetic pain it caused me to see that France had sunk so low. Anyway, since they had nothing remotely christmas related, we did not find our candles, and since it was Sunday, when everything is closed, I ended up at the little corner store which did have some candles and matches. We put the candles in espresso cups, and we will buy a wreath (and other decorations) at IKEA next weekend, when we rent a car.

One last vignette of life here: The other day, I saw a man get banged in the face by a woman opening her metal shutters at street level. In the States, this sort of thing happens only to bicyclists with car doors, but here, people walk so fast (well, young people in any case) they are in danger even on the sidewalk.

I have to add two comments to my little diatribe about French judgmentalism from the other day. They're a little tendentious, really, but they fit too well. The first is a bit of news: the French president just gave a long-awaited speech on the state of France, which, instead of focusing on issues on everyone's minds, like the economy, the high level of unemployment, the discontent among the farmers (that's only on my mind because of the big demonstration I described about a month back) etc, focused on French identity. And what did he have to say about French identity? That the French could not tolerate and did not welcome the Burka. No one knows exactly what he means by that. Are they going to pass a law that outlaws the wearing of burkas on French streets (I have seen one woman in one since moving here), in French houses? Most likely they will do it the way they always do things, through their complete power over the schools: if you want to go to school in France, you'd better dress like the French, and not in a burka (ahem, and also not in old shorts and t-shirts and sandals, like the boys).

Here is the second tendentious item: Yesterday at church, my children were wearing their usual: Simeon and Matthias, shorts and t-shirts that have seen better days, Mimi some weird mishmash that she picks herself, and Magda was very stylish but her jeans do have a huge rip at the knee. So this very old lady comes up to me and says: "Excuse me, but do these children need clothes?" with this sad and pitying expression that made me blush to the roots of my hair. I assume she was going to direct me to some charity that could give my children proper coats and scarves (it's about 60 degrees out, right now, but everyone walks around with huge winter coats)... Or, she might have been thinking they needed blue knee-length shorts and white button down shirts for the boys, and pleated skirts and white blouses for the girls, as this is the uniform of catholic french children when they go to church. Anyway, I'm sure the old lady was well-intentioned, but it did make me think, once again, of how they cannot stand to see people dressed differently, it makes them think you must be either immoral, or else indigent.
Ok, I'm done with clothing observations for now. Now, for some school observations. Magdalene had a 'cross'(-country race) this week-end. It's a mandatory event, because it replaces some day in June when they will not have school. I was really excited about it when I first got the notice, because finally, here was something that sounded like America. A run with all the kids, and then it said that the parents and teachers and staff would run afterwards, and then have lunch together. I thought first of all that I'd get to meet all the parents and all the teachers in a kind of informal setting, and then that I would get to beat them at running. All pleasure for me. Well, first of all, this was the most disorganized thing I'd ever witnessed. No one knew where to go, where to run. The teachers were totally lost. The gym teachers who were in charge were rude to the kids. I was trying to take pictures but couldn't tell where the kids would be running, and then the boys, who ran separately from the girls, were making such rude comments I couldn't stand it... On top of which, there were no parents there. For the whole 700 student college, there were maybe 15 parents scattered about, none of them in running gear, all of them just standing around talking together and paying no attention to the running kids at all. The snack after running consisted of coke, cakes and chocolates (oh, and a banana, I shouldn't lie to prove my point). Anyway. I felt very foolish with my attempt at 'school spirit' and my enthusiasm. As none of the teachers were in running gear either, I ended up not running with the two fathers and the three gym teachers, it seemed just too shameful to be so enthusiastic when everybody else was completely not into it. I used the excuse that it was too cold, and that Magdalene and her friend who had come with us on the tram really wanted to go, and what on earth would have been the point of making them wait to see me and three other people run?
Other than that, my cousin Eve, who visited us in Bellingham last summer, came down from Paris for the week-end. Here, she's giving Matthias the sword lesson he'd been begging for all day. He bought himself a sword while we were in Segovia, and it has been his delight and his comfort ever since (whereas Simeon who indebted himself to us forever to buy himself a decorative axe has not taken it out of its box since). Eve does a lot of martial arts, in particular one that involves swords--a fact Matthias remembered from last summer. Anyway, we had a wonderful weekend with her. It's amazing how many people come to visit us here, compared to Bellingham where it seems like it's only ever just us.

This week, instead of going to school, Magdalene is doing her 'stage d'industrie'. Because there is a huge selection at the end of 3eme (the equivalent of 9th grade) where kids either get to go to Lycée (high school) or else get sent off to professional schools, the French goverment thought that the kids should get a taste of some industry they are interested in, I don't know whether to scare them into working hard and getting an education, or whether to encourage them to work hard to get to do something they love. So for a week they go stand in a corner of someone's office to observe what the person is doing. Of course, since this is France, there isn't anything organized by the college, you have to find the 'stage' through connections and friends of your parents, which was a bit hard for us. But Magdalene has often expressed an interest in law, and lots of people at Sean's institute are lawyers, so we got her a stage (an internship, really) at the Palais de Justice (the courthouse). We have no idea what she'll be doing, and she was very nervous going this morning. I hope it's a little bit fun for her. Possibly the lunches will be fun, since she's downtown and will be able to meet her friends at a café (they have 2 hours for lunch). I'll write more about this when I know anything.

A cultural lesson from the cheese shop

Last time I went to my favorite cheese shop in the market (the one where the salespeople all wear berets and where there is always a line around the corner and out the door), I asked for one of our standards comté--a kind of semi hard cheese from the Jura region where my grandparents had a house when I was growing up. The salesman, who happened to be the boss (I know this because my friend Ludivine went to high school with him and introduced me, which means I now get very special treatment, including a fidelity card that gives me all manner of little presents) said that this week, I should not get the comté, instead, I must get the Gruyere de Gruyere (a related cheese, but much stronger, so strong it sometimes makes your lips go numb when you eat it). Now, he had done this to me before, and I happened not to like the Gruyere, so I told him no, that I really wanted the comte. But, he said, really, the Gruyere is so much better this week, you must taste both of them again. Ok, I tasted both of them, and confirmed for myself that I liked Comte better. Oh, the disapproval in that cheese-monger's response! Ok, madame, I will give you the inferior cheese, since that is your uneducated and ignorant wish, but I strongly disapprove. (I don't think I'm exaggerating, though he did not quite say all these things).

The cultural lesson is this: in America, people tend to be relativists about tastes (this includes tastes for food, clothing, colors on your walls, some kinds of literature, home customs like when you eat and when you go to bed, whatever). Here, people may be relativists about morality... in fact, my impression is that most of them are, but they are fanatical absolutists about all matters aesthetic: food (what? You like the goat cheese from the supermarket better than the four times more expensive one from the market, how shameful), clothing (you are going to wear this shirt with those pants? And you are going to let your son wear pants that have an orange lining with a pink shirt? Oh, horror), souvenirs (what, Claudia and Magdalene, you are going to buy something from this tacky tourist shop? We don't want to be your friends anymore). And anything else you can think of... it's all a matter for judging your character. No wonder living in the States feels so freeing! There's so much less judgment of what you do.

I know, I know, the wicked ones among you are saying, but Claudia, that's just the way you are, you're always criticizing people for their uneducated tastes in food and whatever else. Well... now you know, it's not my fault, it's because I grew up here and everyone does it here.

We have just returned from our vacation in Spain, and the cold, rainy weather, combined with the hostile and unhappy looks of people here, compared with the sunny warmth of Spain (both literally and figuratively) have made us all a bit depressed. Our trip was pretty uneventful, after that awful Tuesday on which I last wrote. Mimi's wounds seem to have healed, as has Magdalene's eye, and neither of the boys have sustained major injuries. Sean got a bit of a shock when he went to pick up our usual car (a small hatchback with an extra row of seats in the back) and was presented with this monster. A breeze to drive in the streets of Nantes, and even easier in the tiny alleys of Madrid and Segovia. But, miraculously (or rather, thanks to Sean's amazing driving skills), the truck was unharmed when we returned it yesterday, despite a few very tight turns. Well, actually, I had already sworn never to drive in France, and certainly not anything of that size (where we had to fold in the sideview mirrors and I had to stand holding the gate of our courtyard so that Sean could drive in), but when we started the second leg of our trip there, Sean woke up with a migraine and it looked like we might be stuck in the Pyrenees for a few days unless I drove... I just fed Sean lots of ibuprofens and kept asking in a hypocritically concerned tone whether he was ok, and thanks be to God, he was ok enough to drive the monster.

We travelled in a very old fashioned way. The first day, we drove down the entire west coast of France and then through the Pyrenees, and stopped at the hotel Clementia in a town that is right on the border between France and Spain (Arneguy). The three older kids had one room, and Sean and I and Mimi the other, and since we were alone in the hotel, we could come out in the hall to see each other without any trouble. We had dinner there, whatever the innkeeper made us (only she did make a special dinner for Matthias, given his vegetarian propensities). The innkeeper was a Basque woman (that part of France and Spain is called the Basque country, and some people there would like it to be independent of both countries) whose grandfather had been Spanish, but she had never known him, because when she was growing up, the border was closed (during the war, and even after, under Franco). We also ate breakfast there, it felt like we were part of the family.

When we left the hotel, we crossed over into Spain, and went for a hike in the Pyrenees. Simeon could not stop exclaiming about how happy he was in these wide green meadows, and in general, everyone's spirits were very much lifted after the long long drive the day before. Sean had wanted to drive this way to see the pass of Roncevaux, both because it is the site of a legendary battle (where the warrior Roland, who was in the rearguard of Charlemagne's army, singlehandedly stopped the moors from advancing into any more of Europe than they had already conquered, but was too proud to call the rest of the army back to him and so perished from his heroism), and because we spent 6 years in Toronto living on a street called Roncesvalles, and because he's thinking of staying in that monastery you can see down in the valley here when he and the older children walk the path of Santiago de Compostella this summer with the Smiths. Anyway, the pass surprised us at the turn of a hill. Sean and Magdalene stayed there (Sean was nursing his migraine, and I was eager to get him well) while I pressed further up the hills with the boys and Mimi (Mimi had been bribed with candy).

We got to Spain on a Friday. On Saturday, we visited the Prado museum, where Mimi lasted about an hour, just enough time to see the one room I wanted to see (Bosch and Breugel) and one painting by Goya. I took her and Matti home after that, and Sean and the older kids got to see the Velasquez, Fra Angelico, Titian, and many others. After that we played soccer in the park with my aunt and uncle (who are the kids' godparents and were acting very much like doting grandparents, spoiling the kids and taking very good care of all of us). I have to confess that the Spanish kids who joined in the game beat us all. They were good at soccer, but they were also much friendlier than any French kids we know in Nantes. The boys had no trouble finding play mates all over Spain, even though they speak a lot less Spanish than French.

The next day, we went up to a village to the north of Madrid where my aunt and uncle have a summer house. The program in the village (Torrelaguna)

included eating churros (deep fried dough, above), playing pelota with my uncle at the Fronton that is across from their house, going to church in the most beautiful church we'd seen thus far, a church dedicated to Mary Magdalene with a statue of a penitent but rather provocative Mary Magdalene in the middle of the huge gilt altar, surrounded by fat cherubs in the most amazing Spanish Baroque style. Those are stork nests on the bell tower, and the bells rotate completely, making the most amazing amount of noise. We also ate further incredible treats (it was All Saints day, so we ate little cookies called los huesos de los santos--the bones of the saints, which I undoubtedly misspelled because I can't speak a word of Spanish-- made of marzipan and filled with 'marrow' that is made of Yemas, a mixture of egg yolk and sugar that is a favorite filling in Northern Spain--I used not to like it, but I think it must grow on you, because I really liked it now. Also, on All Saints, you get to eat deep fried cream puffs in every flavor--chocolate, coffee, strawberry, cream, Catalan cream, etc.) After all that, we had a walk in the countryside among ripe

olive trees and bitter almond trees, in search of an ancient moorish signal tower that you can see from the village, but which we never reached (I had written a few chapters in my last novel about this village, and these included a scene in which the characters take a walk to this tower--atalaya--so I was really doing research). Matthias collected hundreds of almonds in the shell, and then spent the hour before dinner smashing them with a hammer (but I didn't let him eat too many, because bitter almonds are high in arsenic, and only to be eaten in small doses).

The next day we drove an hour north through the mountains to the town of Segovia. There are three great monuments in Segovia: the Roman aqueduct, the mozarab cathedral, and the Alcazar castle. Because Mimi had fallen asleep in her poussette when we got to the castle, I didn't get to go in, but walked down from the fortifications to the small Templar's church miles below. I had wanted to wave to Sean and the kids up in the highest tower of the castle, but the people looked like ants, so, though I waved, they never saw me (I wonder if that counts as waving to them, or just as waving all by myself like a fool).

The Roman aqueduct at the point where it meets the fortifications of the city: I ran the whole length of it, it's at least a half a mile long, with several turns. I found it really amazing, this high beautiful structure more than 2000 years old and holding together without any mortar. It made me think of the roman empire as being more contemporary in its conception of civic improvements than I'd ever thought in the past: here is this small city in Spain, and the great empire redistributes tax money in order to bring running water to its people. And in this beautiful, gracefully arched way.

The Cathedral. Highlight for Mimi: a painting with a tree on which people are having a party, "like in Go Dogs Go, a dog party" while a skeleton is hacking down the tree. Highlight for Matthias, a cloister on the inside with a well where he could run and play. Simeon liked the cathedral treasure (all that gold and coral), and I liked a twelfth century carving of the mother and child, as well as a fourteenth century carving of Christ Pantocrator (which Mimi immitated, with her two fingers in the air). All the ceilings are painted with arabic motifs, and the whole cathedral glows yellow from outside and in, from the color of the local stone.

The Alcazar with the tower where I was hoping to catch a glimpse of the kids as I walked down to the Templar's church below, as well as the tomb of that great Spanish saint John of the Cross.

On the last morning (we left on Tuesday mid-day), my wonderful aunt babysat the three little ones while Magda and Sean and I went into the center of Madrid to buy a few things and see this: the Plaza Mayor, a beautiful plaza surrounded by arched galleries and gateways through which the city appears sharp and full of light, but in such different tones of color that it seems to be in a different world. Having a coffee there is really the done thing, at least for tourists, so we did.

After that, we drove up to the northern coast of Spain, regretfully passing little villages with castle ruins and little villages with gorgeous churches, little villages in green meadows among rolling hills, little villages shadowed by enormous black bull statues (almost all the villages in Spain have, aside from a fronton for playing pelota--a form of squash, I gather--a bull ring or a round plaza for bull play)... We were really sad to leave Spain. Aside from the Basque country, where the villages were still beautiful, full of high fortified churches with three or four levels of inner balconies, and where we spent the night (in the town of Ascain), the French villages that we passed on our way first to Poitiers to pick up Tipomme, whom we had left with my brother there, and then home to Nantes, were not nearly as beautiful or inviting of exploration.

I guess the culture of Spain, from what I could tell in my very short visit, seems much more permeable to American culture, much more compatible, and so I like everything better about Spain than France. For instance, here in Nantes, there have been no intimations of Halloween at all (wait, I lie, Simeon did make a tiny jack-o-lantern at school, but that has been it), but in Spain, the stores were decorated with orange and witches, and for a few days before Halloween, you'd see kids dressed up in costumes, or signs for Halloween parties, and posters for horrible American horror movies coming out on the day of. None of it amounting to much at all, compared to the US, no candy, no trick or treating, although the kids in my aunt and uncle's apartment complex were having a party in the central yard, and the doorbell rang a few times, though we didn't answer it--but no tricks were perpetrated against us... although, the water was cut for a day... maybe it was the kids. Anyway, people in Madrid smile at you, and they interact with the kids in a way that seems normal at home, the kids are on the whole rather nice, they smile too, and are welcoming to our boys. Here in Nantes, no one smiles, and if they do not know your kid, she could be a bug for all they care about her and interact with her. They look at me funny when I try to interact with their kid, and the kids are so ----(whatever the antonym of inclusive is, exclusive doesn't really fit, cliquish? closed off? excluding, yeah, I guess that's right). Anyway, we prefer Spain, that's the new logo for our family.

I think today counts as one of the worst since we've been here. The children are now on vacation for the next week and a half (the toussaint, or All Saints vacation), and, like a good city parent who lives with 4 loud children in an apartment, I had planned each day very carefully to give my children entertainment, physical activity, education, nutrition, etc. So Monday went well: the two boys were in a Judo camp from dawn till dusk where they are not able to fight (except in controlled Judo moves), since they are each other's only comfort in a foreign land. I took the two girls to the art museum where the little one lasted about an hour (a little less) so we had to stop at the 18th century, with unbelievable pictures of Adam and Eve that looked like they were taken straight out of The Watchtower or something like that. Anyway, Magdalene's eye had been red and now it became swollen almost shut, so I had to make my first hesitating foray into French medicine and got an appointment for this morning. We went, and met a very nice young doctor who prescribed her some antibiotics (and of course, the necessary painrelievers and cleaners and whatnot that French doctors are forced to prescribe to you, lest you feel that your taxes are too high and are not paying for enough medical care). That was already a breach in my neurotically careful plan, which had been to take all four kids to the swimming pool.
Well, as soon as Magda and I got home, I told the others to get ready, and not 5 minutes later, Mimi fell on a metal tube and opened her neck (I can't tell you all the things she could have hit instead of just skin, and that have been running wildly in my imagination since). So off we went, back across the tram tracks to the nice doctor's again. Mimi was crying on the way there, and in the waiting room, and when we first met the doctor (he has a beard, she hates men with beards, especially doctors). But apparently, she really has grown up and become socialized (thank you French public schools) because after a little while, seeing that the doctor was not pulling out any huge needles, she squeezed her Matthias's hand very tight (she had brought her Matthias with her for comfort) and seemed to decide that she was done crying (the crying was also making her wound bleed more profusely on her pretty white shirt). After that, she was completely quiet, and has been telling everyone since how bave (brave, but she doesn't say 'r' in French or English) she was, and how big. Anyway, he didn't sew her, he said he couldn't do it without giving her gas, and that gas was only available at the emergency room. He just taped her together and we're all hoping it sticks. Each consultation costs 22 euros (we only have emergency coverage, though I'm not sure that would have covered the emergency room), and the doctor, though embarrassed that we weren't being reimbursed, was very proud that it was so much less than in the states. And he wasn't embarrassed at all about taking the money.

Now Mimi is asleep, but otherwise, I'm treating her like a china doll, and everytime she smiles a little too wide, or cries a little too loud, I hover anxiously and tell her her booboo will come open and they'll have to sew her up. Magdalene was remarking that French people don't seem to have a very developed sense of a professional relationship. You always deal with people as if you're meeting them socially, even the doctor, or salespeople in stores, or waiters in restaurants. This is good and bad. It does make those relationships more human, and it reminds both sides of the genuine humanity of the other (people don't tend to be condescending to their waiters, for instance). On the other hand, if your doctor is in a bad mood, or if your butcher thinks you should not cook your pork with tomatoes, they will let you know very brusquely, which is a bit surprising for us.

We had a quiet weekend, no visitors, no trips, no fancy or not fancy dinners. I acquired a bike and took the two boys and the dog on a nerve racking (because so so crowded) long ride along the Erdre (speaking of which, do you remember a very early post about the three rivers of Nantes, the Erdre, the Chezine and the Sevre? Well, I've discovered two more: the Sens, and the Gesvre, both of which have paths running alongside that I've explored running. When I was a kid, I used to study the rivers of France in Geography class, which one threw itself into the sea and where, which one was an affluent of which, etc. Well, now I do it as a hobby, after complaining about it so much as a kid). We went for a very civilized walk in the Jardin des Plantes, bringing with us the inevitable gouter to eat on a parc bench. We shopped for food, both at the market and at the mega super store (a kind of costco of France, only the portions are not quite as big)... Boring. Next week, however, we are going to visit my aunt and uncle in Spain, so I promise many exciting entries then. And I promise to do a better job caring for my children so they stop getting hurt quite so much.

Fall has really arrived here this week. People had been warning us that we were having an exceptionally long summer, and not to get used to the sun, because she was going to disappear for the next 6 months. So, the sun has disappeared, and in its place we have clouds, with a kind of permanent drizzle and three or four times a day the most incredible downpours I've ever seen (yes, worse than Bellingham). Mimi and I got caught in one of the first downpours. We were fooled by the drizzle into thinking we could take a walk with our Bellingham Gortex to protect us, but we clearly did not know what we were dealing with. We were so drenched in about 2 seconds that we didn't even bother trying to jump into our raincoats (we had gotten hot racing back from the park to be in time to pick the boys up from school). The only inconvenience, once I was completely soaked and didn't care about getting wetter, was that I was wearing a black bra under a yellow shirt which is opaque when dry, but, unbeknownst to me, not when wet. So the wine salesguy from up the street who gives good wine advice saw me, and a lot of other people I don't know... Well... French women do go topless.

Fall also has meant discovering one more technologically retarded aspect of French life. When it started getting cold and damp, we started looking for some kind of thermostat or centralized heating turn-on button. At first we looked sort of leisurely, just walking through the apartment, and then, at least for me who spends all my days here, it started to get more urgent and I started actively looking for it, and then finally we launched a full fledged campaign to find the darned thing, with no luck. we pushed various buttons and turned various switches and valves, with the result that one of our hot water heaters (we have three) leaks and we have no hot water in the kitchen (boy, when the house is freezing, it's really unpleasant doing the dishes with cold water). A chauffagiste (a heating person) is supposed to be coming today, only this is France, you know, so he might go have a verre (a glass of something alcoholic) or a café arrosé (coffee with a little smt thrown in) instead.

The last thing I want to write about fall is more poetic, and I promise not to complain about this part. Fall at the market is really lovely. There are dozens of apple varieties with names like reine des reinettes, reinette grises, drap d'or, rubinettes, pilotes, all better one than the next. There are dozens of wild mushroom varieties (mmmm, the girolles are so good, cooked with rabbit), and then there are the chataignes, the chestnuts (the eatable ones, not the horse chestnuts that fall all over Cornwall park, those came about a month ago). The chataignes are everywhere, as decorations in the windows of shops, for sale in the fruit stalls, for sale glazed in the bakeries (boulangeries), pastry-shops (patisseries) and candy-shops (confiseries), and on my running paths, where they trip me with their spiky green shells (not a good idea to fall on them) and their slick brown selves. Old men and women crowd my running paths to gather them. It really feels French. My brother brought us some a couple of weeks ago when they visited, and I duly scored each one and roasted them, and then, when I put the first one in my mouth, it was like going back straight to my childhood, when my mother would take us , every fall to the woods behind my grandparents' apartment outside Paris to gather them. However, my children and husband, who did not grow up with the wonderful tradition of chestnuts in the fall, did not like them. So, I cleaned them and cooked them into a sweet paste according to a recipe Anna sent me from bellingham... and no one liked them still (except for me, but there was no way even I could eat that many chestnuts). So I tried to lighten my chestnut paste with egg whites and whipped cream, which made them quite delicious, but still only to myself. So, well, if I come home really fat, it will be because I like the food too much, what with its reminding me of my childhood and all, and my family likes it too little, its being a bit too sophisticated for them (!).

Oh, yes, and one more thing about fall: the vacherins are out! It's a cheese made in the swiss alps with milk gathered from cows who have just been released into the high mountain pastures for the very first spring grass after a winter eating hay in the lowlands. Somehow, this special grass gives the milk, and hence the cheese, a special taste. Then it takes this long for the cheese to mature, and it's only available from November to March. Sean agrees that it's the best cheese he's ever had. It seeps out of its crust and you eat the soft creamy stuff with a spoon.

One more thing of note, and sorry I have no photo of it, because it really was unbelievable. The farmers of the Pays de la Loire (the area for which Nantes is the capital, something like a tiny state, a county, really, but with much more of a national character) came to Nantes to demonstrate. They had a procession of tractors, a booming canon that roared every five minutes, and they covered the city with straw, chicken feathers, rotting apple mush, and fires lit on the major boulevards. And I'm not exaggerating when I say they covered the street with that stuff, it was really knee deep. I tried to listen to their speeches (they were having their rally right by our house) but it was too boring, all these little details about the price of porc and the usages of chicken in the EU. Also, Tipomme was terrified by the canons. So I can't really tell you what it was this demonstration was supposed to accomplish. I guess in the States, the farmers would get together and pay a lobyist. Here, they stage this complicated production that sets people like Sean against them, because it makes them seem hostile and angry not at the government, but at the city people. But at least the city people know that they're mad, even if we don't know why, so it's perhaps more democratic this way, in a 'knowledge' and not 'power' meaning of democratic.

I went to my first seminar in psychoanalysis yesterday. We discussed several chapters of Freud's Introductory lectures in Psych., but since all the other participants are Lacanians, I was a little lost (I gather Lacan is mostly interested in language and the clues it can give to the contents of the unconscious. But that's about all I gathered. I'm supposed to read more Lacan for next time, but I think for general readability, I prefer Freud greatly.) Still, the members of the seminar are quite nice, not at all pretentious as I'd feared, no one pontificated or gave lessons, and guess who couldn't shut up, despite her rusty french and her complete lack of any expertise? Yes, that's right, the rude American among them.

That's all for now, pictures for next time.

I think this entry should be called: when in Nantes... do as the Nantais. Here's why. On Friday (which is the day this photo was taken, after a baker came into Simeon's class and helped all the kids bake that delicious treat you see him with there, as part of the 'semaine du gout' (the week of taste)--here in France, they think you have to teach kids how to like bread, or else the entirety of French culture will collapse, God forbid, what if French kids start to eat pita instead?), I went to a new pool to swim (all on my own, without any of my friends from the boys's school). Well, in this pool, it isn't just that there's no organisation for the lanes, there are no lanes at all! So everyone swims wherever and there are constant collisions. Now, at first, I was letting my anglo-saxon orderliness rule where I swam: I was trying to swim up one side of the black line at the bottom of the pool, and down the other. But I soon realized that when you are in a messy country, being orderly actually creates more chaos, so I started swimming wherever there was room, and I didn't do too badly. I didn't increase my overall speed, but I did realize that there are skills required for water polo (swerving and turning really fast, for instance) which I could definitely acquire. Hence the conclusion, when in Nantes, in a pool, do not behave as you would in a Bellingham pool!

Here is another example of something I wouldn't be doing in Bellingham: having my 2 year old daughter shell the beans. But really, before you call child protective services (they can't get me here anyway, that's why people like Polanski hide here) she pitches a fit if I don't let her do it. These are called Coco de Paimpol, and they are so good (and only here until November, the vegetable person told me at the market) so I buy them every week despite the embarassment of saying their name. They are amazing cooked for a long time with onions and tomatoes, with a splash of vinegar at the end. A friend here told me to cook them like that.


Let's see, not much else is new. We went back to the Sevre river where we had walked once without reaching the 1000 year old dam we were aiming for. This time, we had the boys on bikes, Mimi in the backpack and a picnic, so we did make it. When we got there, we found the dam (well, it's a thousand years old, built by monks from a monastery established by St Martin, the one who cut his cloak in two when a beggar asked him for alms, he's the subject of many french paintings) not all that exciting. But there was a quite lovely playground near it, and then this old water mill here, and the castle tower you can just make out in the background. Of course, Sean and I were sort of disappointed that, given that it had taken us 3 and a half hours to get there, we had better head back . We both really wanted to go see the tower. I guess everything feels like that when you start to explore. You see some lovely things, but there's always others that you can just make out, or that you know are there from the map, and you always want to go further.

As usual, though, children and parents hold you back: the kids were completely exhausted, and Sean's father, who has been visiting on and off this week, also was pretty worn out. We'll just have to go back and leave the house earlier in the day. Here is Matthias with a water sample he took from the Sevre river below the dam. I don't know what he intended to do with it, but my only thought was, yikes, wash your hands...

There doesn't seem to be much else to report. I was shocked, last week, when Magdalene brought home a bit of homework we had done together, and several of my interpretations of a short story
by Zola were summarily called WRONG and corrected. The pile of manure did NOT represent human affairs, but power (how could I have missed that?) and the woman's fear in the cemetary did not indicate that she was afraid of where her relation with a young man, not her husband, was leading (I guess I was reading too much into it, though a few pages later the adulterous relationship is consumated). Anyway, this led Magdalene to complain once more about the central problem she sees with French education: they don't want you to do any critical thinking, they just want you to copy down what the teacher says and repeat it verbatim on tests. In this case, I'm not sure how you could get the desired intepretations without doing some critical thinking, but beware if your critical thinking leads you in the wrong direction, you can have tone of evidence for your interpretation, but it's not the process that's important (as I assume it would be in the states), it's the end result. Evidence for the wrong interpretation is not something you take into consideration, it's just something you dismiss: it supports the wrong interpretation, therefore, it is not evidence. No wonder the french are no good at science (well, yes, I know that's not right, but if there is evidence to the contrary, I think I will just have to consider it not to be evidence). (We still got an 8 out of 10 and a comment that it was very good work, so don't start worrying about how well we're doing, with our wrong-headed readings of manure piles and little cries of fright in graveyards at night).

Sean's father took us out to dinner on Sunday night to a beautiful 19th century Brasserie across from the opera called La Cigale (you can go to their website and see it, if you like, just look up La Cigale Nantes). The entire inside of the restaurant is painted with very 19th century figurative paintings of Breton scenes (girls fishing for shellfish on the beach, young fishermen in wooden clogs) and whatever is not painted is tiled and carved and mirrored. The food was good, but the service was like a parody of itself, with the supercilious waiter almost offended because only Sean's father ordered an appetizer, and then genuinely offended because though he addressed himself to Sean's father, I was the one who kept answering. Of course, I'm especially sensitive (Sean thinks paraoid) to that sort of thing, but it's really annoying to pay for a meal and then be made to feel like you are somehow trespassing because you don't quite know the important rules of how to order, what to order, who should talk, and whether you should put your elbows on the table or not. Really, after living in America where the customer is a king, it's hard to come back to France were the customer is often a supplicant instead.