will WE play in Peoria?

I found out tonight that it really is better to stop at the bottom of the mountain to put your chains on your tires if it is snowing. And, naturally, I found that out the hard (code for: pigheaded) way. I had plenty of time to think about this while I was sitting in my car on the side of our road waiting for Bill, rather than decorating Kaitlyn’s birthday cake as I’d planned.

            When I left the house at about 4:20 to get Kaitlyn from school, the day’s snowfall had amounted to little more than a dusting just in some spots on the grass. Nothing was sticking to the roads. I drove her down off the mountain and dropped her off at Cubbies. I went to look for a new ski jacket (especially after discovering in the morning snow that the coat I brought with us is not water proof). When I went into the store it was raining. When I left the store at 7:15 it was snowing. Uh-oh. I’m not on the mountain. And it is snowing.

        It’s ok, I think. I have snow tires. Four of ’em! And chains in the trunk. I’m fine!

        The trip up the one road to Uriage, the town at the base of our mountain (although it isn’t really at the very base) was a slow one. No one was driving fast. It was hard as heck to see because the snow was coming right at the car in big huge flakes. Massive ones. The only thing lighting the road was headlights. I tried not to get too far behind the car I was following, because his tail lights helped. It also helped that some days I make that drive 4 times (two down, two up) and know the road pretty well.

        Then, around the circle in Uriage and up to our town. The snow had started to collect on the road. Traffic going the other direction had slowed or stopped as people tried to maneuver a corner that apparently was icy under the snow. I went the entire way up the hill in 2^nd gear. I don’t know if that’s good or bad for the car, and I really didn’t care. Besides, the car in front of me was so slow that I nearly had to down-shift.

        As I passed the town pool, I noticed a couple of people stopping there, probably to put chains on their tires.

            Then I noticed the main road from the pool to our side road was lined with cars parked for the night. I don’t know where the people who own those cars live; but clearly they’d decided that this was better than driving the rest of the way.

            Rounding the corner to make the drive up our road, there were more cars just stopped. A clump of them were at the base of our road, where it is only one lane. Are they stopping people from driving up there? No, two cars were coming down and the guy going up had to back out. Ok. Still, when that little tango cleared, the other cars in front of me didn’t all take off up the road like I thought they would. One guy seemed to be putting chains on his tires. Should I? I have no idea how. Bill showed me once and finished by saying something to the effect of “You’ll never be able to manage that. It’s hard.” If I get out here, maybe one of these nice French people will take pity on me and help….

            Then a little, dinky Twingo or Cleo went up our road. (Twingo and Cleo are car models. They are small, under powered and seemingly always driven by someone afraid to see if the gears above third are merely decorative notations on the stick shift.) Dang it, if a Twingo/Cleo can get up our hill then I can. I didn’t notice any chains on the tires, although it is admittedly hard to get a good look at the front tires of the car in front of you. Doesn’t matter… what does matter is that I followed him. And I immediately knew I’d made a mistake.

            If you’ve never driven up our road, imagine a windy, twisty, mostly single lane road with a 20% grade (Ok, I’m completely guessing on that grade part) In the dark. Covered with snow. And, even with my four snow tires, slippery.

            As you reach the top of the first intense part of the climb, there’s a pull off. I think it’s meant for drivers who are coming down to pull over and get out of the way of drivers coming up. One car was already parked there. Then my inspiration, Monsieur Twingo/Cleo pulled over there, too! An orange flashing light appeared in my rear-view window: the snow plow! Yea! They plow our incline! I scooted over just far enough for the plow to get by, which in France is quite acceptable. You only have to move just enough for the other driver to get by without scraping your car; being close enough to touch is ok. I thought, once that plow goes by, I have a far better leader than Mme Twingo/Cleo. I can be behind the guy getting the snow off the road!

            In first gear, with the anti-slip system doing its best to help me not crash my car (at least I was past the part with the steep drop off) and it’s bright yellow exclamation point lighting my dash all the way, I slipped and slid along behind the plow. I could see that his blade was moving snow, but that was not road directly underneath my tires. We reached another decision point. The plow turned off my road and headed up an even higher side street, leaving a little wall of snow between me and the darkness ahead.

            That point also provided the last place I knew I could pull over at all and be out of the road. So I did. Barely. I did what I could not to be too much in the way of a gated driveway. I stopped and I did the only thing I knew to do. I called Bill. He had just picked up Kaitlyn and was headed home. He was 30 minutes away on a night with no bad weather. Perfect. Did I mention I’d decided not to stop and get fuel on the way home? So there I am, a third of the way up our street, to the side of the road in a car with a quarter tank left in it. (Bill says two things about having a diesel car. First, a quarter tank will last far longer than a quarter tank in a gasoline car, so not to fret when it gets to that mark. And, second, if you do ever run out of gas… it’s a nightmare. You cannot just go put more in it, you have to take it to the dealer and have it primed or something like that and it sounds expensive and time consuming and lecture inducing) I warned Bill to put on his chains on his way to rescue me. I didn’t tell him about my fuel situation. I could have always turned off the car and tried to stay warm by putting my new ski jacket on over my old winter coat.

            Once I realized what a long wait I had in front of me, I figured that I’m a smart enough person to figure out how to put some silly chains on my tires. I’d watched Bill. And they came with instructions, that’s how he’d figured it out the first time! So I got out, opened the hatch, took out the yellow safety vest, gloves and chains. The vest is, I think, a lovely addition to any already unpleasant situation. I did put it on, since it seemed wise. Then I opened the box that holds the chains. HHHHHMMMM…. ok. The directions say to take out the chain and hold it up with two hands to make sure it isn’t tangled. Yup, yup, got that done. Next, place the yellow thingie behind the wheel. The yellow thingie. Nothing on my chain seemed to match the sketch in the directions. (Why do directions always have sketches? Why can’t any company spend the little bit extra to have actual pictures?) And there’s more than one yellow thingie. I thought I was fairly sure which was the right one when I remembered Bill telling me on the phone “Chains that are put on incorrectly can cause a lot of damage to your car.” So I closed the hatch and got back in the car. Then I noticed I hadn’t put on my blinkers. Done. Probably should have done that before getting out of the car. Note to self for next time.

            I watched my neighbors making their ways home. Some had chains on their cars. Even the Audi wagon had chains and don’t they have some fancy all wheel drive? What was I thinking trying to drive up our street? I saw one couple walking carrying a couple of grocery bags with them. One fellow ran down the street with a flashlight (note to self: get flashlight for car). Two men walked down carrying a set of chains to rescue a car left on the main road; the older guy had a flashlight on a band around his forehead. (note to self: not that kind of flashlight)

            After a while of marveling at how busy our never busy street seemed, a man walked up to my car. Honestly, I thought he was one of the Cat ISE’s. I don’t know why I thought that because we are the only ones on our street and it is not a street you would just wander up to see if someone was in trouble. I guess I thought maybe Bill relayed the story of my troubles while still at Cubbies and a wife called her husband and he came up to check on me. It all made sense in the moment. I got out of the car only to be greeted with a “Bonjour.” Great. Not anyone I know. Duh. “Vous voulez entrer ici?” My small ability to speak French iced over. “Oh, non. Je voulez…” didn’t matter what I said after that. I mis-conjugated the verb and he knew I was a lost cause. “You live up there?” I was mad at myself for saying something so stupid when I know how to say “I want blah blah blah,” but I was kind of glad he spoke English. I told him that I was waiting for my husband. He said he was just coming up to get his chains and go back down for his car. He opened the big fancy gate leading to his driveway and disappeared. Any time I’ve caught a glimpse of the houses behind that gate, I’ve been impressed. The one house I can sort of see from the road as I’m passing has a giant wall of windows… all glass… that has to have an incredible view. Dang! He should have invited me in! Drat, drat, drat. It took a while, then he came out, this time in jeans and this time carrying his chains instead of his briefcase. Should I jump out and ask him to help me? Nah, maybe if he gets back before Bill arrives and he cannot get his BMW around me.

            That created a new dilemma. Do I call Bill and warn him that the guy could be coming back and I could be blocking his way in? That question at least gave me something new to ponder rather than “why did I drive up here?”

            In the meantime, I also watched a second plow come up the road and keep on going toward our house. Now I had to decide: do I try to make it on a freshly cleared road? No. If I failed, I wouldn’t be able to get out of the way. That would frustrate a neighbor and likely infuriate the plow driver. It took him a long time to go all the way up and back down. Ten or fifteen minutes. When he got back to my perch, he carefully cleared away the little wall of snow created by the previous plow driver. He pushed the snow off the road and when he went to back up, his wheels spun on the road. Oh my god, the snow plow is stuck! And I considered driving up there! Ok, he wasn’t really stuck. But his wheels did spin. He went back and forth carefully removing the little snow wall then headed up the side road. Eventually, the flashing orange light disappeared in the distance.

            Bill got there before the guy who probably thinks I’m a total idiot (cannot drive or speak) returned, and before the snow plow got back. Bill walked over, looked at my car and said “you really can’t get out of that spot?” uh, hello. Yes! I really cannot. He told me he would drive my car and I would drive his. He wasn’t going to bother with the chains. Me first.

            Driving up the road in a car with chains on the tires was, well, easy. Like ordinary driving. Only I couldn’t see a darn thing. Why were the headlights from my car casting such a huge shadow on the road? Bill had turned his headlights off. I pulled and pushed and tried to turn every knob sticking out of his steering column. None affected the lights. My only choice was to stop so I could examine the dash. Only I stopped on a hill (well, the whole freakin’ road is a hill, so of COURSE I stopped on a hill) and Bill panicked behind me. But we both got started going again ok. Mr Smarty drove my car all the way up our road without chains on the tires. And when he got out he actually said I could have done that. No, if I could have done that I would have, rather than sitting in the car in the dark waiting!

            He pulled in the garage and put the chains on my tires in case I want to go out tomorrow. He thinks I might want to go up to Chamrousse. Not a chance. Not even with chains. Je ne veux pas conduire vers le haut de la montagne dans la neige.

We never eat out. I think the last time we ate out was in Colmar, because when you’re out of town in a hotel that is your only choice. This weekend, we may have pushed our luck.

            Last night, Bill and I went out for a grown-ups-only dinner for his birthday.

            Today, Bill, Kaitlyn and I went out for lunch with some other ISE’s who say they never hesitate to take their two year old to a restaurant. They say poo on people who want you to think you can’t take a child to a restaurant in France. Lunch with us may have changed their minds!

            Last night, Bill and I ate leisurely, even finishing after French groups at other tables. I asked the waiter for advise, enjoyed some wine, tried dishes we weren’t entirely sure of what they’d be.

            Today, Bill and I spent the two hour lunch telling Kaitlyn that chopsticks are not weapons, taking them from her, telling her to stop yelling about losing her chopsticks, telling her to sit down, taking her outside for time out, taking her to the bathroom (she’s taken to announcing she needs to pee pee as a way out of time out), telling her not to crawl under the table.

            Maybe it’s our fault. Maybe we have been too reluctant to take her out and now teaching her how to behave is going to be super, duper hard. Maybe 1pm is a bad time to take her out (she generally naps around 2). Maybe Bill shouldn’t have made her noodles an hour before.

            Will we try again? Maybe.

I didn’t manage to get Bill a present that comes wrapped in a box with a pretty bow. I’m yet to figure out what store to go to here to find it. (cannot list here, he reads the blog) Instead, we went out to dinner… just the two of us.

            Kaitlyn got to spend the evening with two of her favorite people. They are teens who are here as Cat ISE kids, so to speak. She knows them because they volunteer at “cubbies” which she goes to each Tuesday night. When we arrive at their house for Kaitlyn’s big night, they have crafts spread out on the table all ready for her .. and Bugs Bunny on the tv. It’s probably the perfect evening in her mind.

            I’d chosen a restaurant off a list of five recommended by one of our French teachers. Honestly, it wasn’t the first choice.. that one is supposed to have a spectacular view but it is closed for the winter. Another was just trop cher. (100 euros a person seemed excessive.. maybe next year for his 40^th) Another was Italian. We’re going to Italy in a few weeks, so I crossed that one off. The last one was out of town. I thoughtwe’d be heading to the trendy pedestrian part of Grenoble. No. It’s in Grenoble… but not downtown. We got there and weren’t even sure we were at the right place.  The name of the restaurant is Bistrot Lyonnais.  But try to find that on the sign! But when we went in, Radeline was on their reservation book.

            Bill has developed an amazing ability to just order. He isn’t too worried about exactly what he’s getting. His reasoning is, except for at the “American” restaurant here, he hasn’t had a bad meal. He went for the menu that started with a lobster and ravioli salad followed by beef that had some kind of stuffed cabbage with it.

            I decided to follow suit and go out on a limb. I even thought I’d try the route so many dealing with the French books suggest: I tried asking the waiter’s opinion of what I was considering. My entree was scallops, which I didn’t realize till I bit into it would be served cold (I’m not too nutty about cold food). My plat was veal, which I didn’t realize would be fried. It was a wee bit fatty. And super rich. I couldn’t eat it all… had to make sure I’d be able to have dessert. Again, I tried using the waiter’s advice. I told him I wanted something chocolate. I got chocolate cake. It was good. It wasn’t exceptional. Maybe I’m starting to expect too much just because I’m in France.

            Kaitlyn’s babysitters could find themselves with plenty of spending cash by sumer… because I could get used to this!

        Ever since I typed in my secret code for my Carte Bleu (bankcard) to buy our skis, every time I’ve used it, I’ve secretly feared that instead of the card reader telling me “code bon” it will say whatever it says when your purchase is rejected. What would I do if after spending an hour filling my cart at Carrefour then unloading it all, having it scanned, then putting it all in my bags I couldn’t pay for it? (I have started carrying a back-up American credit card, just in case) All I need to do to end my suffering is to check our balance. I can do it online even. But the website is in FRENCH. And try as I might, I simply cannot decipher it. I could call the phone service, but that wouldn’t get me any farther.

        This stinks.

        It’s not like I think that the skis drained the account. But the skis, the ski lessons, the weekly trips to Carrefour… they all add up. And we aren’t keeping track of our spending in a checkbook or Quicken. We just look every once in a while at the online statement. Well, Bill looks because he remembers how.

        I used to balance my checkbook religiously. I used the form on the back of your statement, and always with a pencil to correct my math mistakes. If I was just a penny off, I would spend hours going back over everything to find the error.

        Now, I go to Decathlon and say to myself “hhmm… these t-shirts are only 9 euros each… I’ll buy three” (those were actually shirts for Bill)

        So far, we’ve been ok. But this is going to catch up with us sooner or later. Neither sounds pleasant.

            Today, Kaitlyn had her 4^th birthday party. She isn’t quite four… her birthday is on Tuesday (try explaining that to her). But a little boy in her class has his 4^th birthday this week, so we mommies decided to share a birthday party.

            Rather than fill someone’s house with 10 mess-making children, we elected to have the fete at a remote location. There’s a place here that’s sort of a mix between Chuck-e-Cheese and Frankie’s Fun House. But with bad food. It’s called elfi’s. As in elves. (I discovered that when I got there and saw elves painted all over the place. Then I was like “oh, like elves!”) There’s a giant climbing/sliding thingie and a little toddler area. Both have ball pits. Kaitlyn gave both a test run. She seemed to prefer the smaller one. I think because it was set up in such a way that you could stand on the sides, cling to the netting behind you, then plunge into the balls like a pool. The bigger area has a giant slide. It looked like a lot of fun. Kaitlyn really enjoyed it. There are also computers set up with games. We tried to avoid those. Computer games we can play at home (and in English to boot) There is a snack bar, but all we got from it was ice cream. We did that instead of cake. We didn’t want to pay the extra for their cake and figured they would frown upon an imported one.

            All the parents followed our request for no presents. The idea was just to share some fun with friends. I know, it’s idealistic of me to think that Kaitlyn will go through her childhood not expecting gifts at every turn, especially on a birthday. But I want her to learn that time spent with friends and family laughing and playing and having a good time is more valuable than anything someone can give you wrapped up in a box.

            We’ll have cake (and, yes, presents) next Tuesday on Kaitlyn’s actual birthday.

            It’s funny, this morning I was telling Kaitlyn how hard it is to believe that she’s almost four.

            A year ago, she was just starting to talk our ears off.

            Two years ago, she was running around our brand new house, oblivious to the fact that it would be the last birthday she’d share with her grandma.

            Three years ago, she was trying to walk on her own and determined to never switch from a bottle to a sippy cup.

            Four years ago, she was determined to never be born. At least, that’s how it felt to me! But when she did come into the world, she was the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. And, instantly (once I got to see her), we shared the most amazing bond. Granted, it’s a bond she now abuses, refusing to go to bed (which she’s doing right now), arguing about everything and trying like crazy to assert her independence (mostly when it suits her. Get herself dressed? No way. Unless you’re going to the beach!)

            It’s hard to even begin to imagine the ways in which Kaitlyn has changed our lives over the last four… nearly five… years. We may not be living in France were it not for her. I was being courted by a news director for an executive producer job which had our general manager trying to figure out how to keep me in the company when I found out I was pregnant. That meant we were staying put. Which meant Bill stayed with Caterpillar… which meant he got this job in Grenoble. So it’s Kaitlyn’s fault. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nearly 4 weeks after Patrick (my brother) sent me two boxes for Christmas, they arrived.  I then wrote this letter to DHL which I share with anyone who wants to know what company to avoid:

Given the way my most recent shipping experience went with your company, I don’t expect this letter to be given any attention or care. Because that is, in my experience, the way in which your customers are handled.

It takes a great deal of marketing nerve to make the following claim on your website:

We transport shipments rapidly, safely and on time all over the world. The basis for this is our comprehensive network, combining air and ground transport for optimal delivery performance.

The shipment sent to me was neither rapid nor on time.

The two boxes left California on December 18. One arrived in Lyon on December 20. The other was a day behind. As of December 22, both packages were classified as “address information needed.” It was then apparently left in the hands of the customer to contact DHL to verify an address that was correct. But as the customer, it is not my job to keep track of your business. That is what we pay you far too much money to do for us. ($150 for two small boxes) A simple check of a map or virtually any map program on the internet would have shown the location of my home. Delivery companies of all kinds (UPS, movers, appliance companies, fuel companies) have all found my home using the exact same address you had with no problem, likely because the address was complete and correct. Had I been given a tracking number, perhaps I’d have found the problem weeks ago. But, again, it is not my job to handle your deliveries.

January 9, the shipper was finally contacted. He was then told that no attempt was made to reach me because the number he’d listed for me was a United States number. It is my correct number. When he shipped the boxes originally, he was not told that he had to have a French phone number for me. Your website then claims delivery attempts were made on January 11, 12, and 15. I was not notified of any delivery attempt. I was phoned on the 11^th at which time I arranged for delivery today because if I’d wanted delivery sooner I was told I would have to rearrange my schedule.

My husband and I plan to live in France for the next several years; we are part of a sizable ex-pat community here. We tell everyone we know in the United States and here in the Grenoble area not to use DHL… EVER… whether they are shipping across the globe or across the street.

I had difficulty shipping across the United States with DHL in the past, so much so that it became a running joke with the person attempting to send me items. It has now gone from ludicrous to abominable. Given what you charge (again, $150 for two boxes) your company should be embarrassed.

If it absolutely, positively has to get there…. try the post office.

            Since moving here, Bill and I have become a wee bit obsessed with the temperature. Both our cars tell us the temperature outside, and we announce as it moves up or down every half a degree. Bill’s car even beeps at you when it reaches 4 degrees. Why four? No clue. Part of the degree fixation is the desire for snow and fear of ice. But in or out of the car, we’re always speculating about the temperature. “Gee, it’s warm. Must be 12 degrees today. I’m cold. It’s got to be nearly zero!” Part of it I think is just trying to sort out the whole Celsius thing.

        Next to the cabin at Chamrousse where the ski instructors sit and wait for students to show up, there’s a sign with a thermometer on top. It’s kinda like a bank thermometer. Last Sunday, it said 9 degrees. Yesterday, it said 9 degrees. Today, it said (you guessed it) 9 degrees. So, apparently no matter the weather, it’s always 9 degrees at Chamrousse.

        Whatever the actual temperature is (no way it was 9 degrees today, it was cold) Chamrousse is a lot more fun when you can ski there.

        There were two things keeping us off the slopes today. Our new skis are still at the store to have the bindings attached and/or adjusted. And, maybe even more importantly, the lifts were not running again today. Yesterday, the lift operators (we think) were out on strike. Today, the sign on the road to Chamrousse said the “pisteurs” had a grievance. Knowing that skiing “en piste” means to ski on the groomed run, we presumed that the sign means that the people who upkeep the runs weren’t working today. A check of an actual French-English dictionary online corrects us: a pisteur is a member of the ski patrol. The people who keep you on the runs. Kinda important.

        No lifts don’t mean no ski school, though. The Piou Piou club was up and running as usual. Kaitlyn had another great time, but she’s getting a little tired of being kept on the little kid side. More than once, an instructor caught her assuming a spot among the bigger, more experienced skiers. Without lifts running, grown up beginners also took to the Piou Piou club. They did not have to ski under the little hoops, but they did share the conveyor belt and rope tow and butt lift with the smaller set. The instructors seemed happy just to have something to do.

        And no lift running didn’t mean no one was on the mountain. Word must have spread because the bottom of the main run was packed with sledders. Some dragged their plastic sleds way way up the mountain. Some got going so fast they could only stop by plowing into the people enjoying cafes at the cafe outside. There was a fair number of snowboarders weaving in and out of the sleds. We even saw a kid on a bicycle riding down the lower part of the hill. And there’s always the die-hard skier… the one who actually walks up the mountain in his skis then turns around and goes down. Bill says it’s called rando. I say it’s called insane. Although, it does eliminate the matter of having to get off the chairlift without falling.

I was a little bummed this morning as we drove up to Chamrousse for Kaitlyn’s ski lesson. Yesterday I called and canceled mine. Well, postponed it. And, yes, I did so in French. Or at least I did until the woman on the other end of the line begged me to speak English. I decided to because this whole week has been beautiful. In a spring kind of way. That’s not beautiful to a ski resort. A report from another mom yesterday at school after her morning lesson was that it was icy and you had to be careful to watch for the rocks sticking up, since half the snow that was there a week ago has melted. We figured the Piou Piou club (little kids ski school) could be taken care of with a couple shovels full of snow.

            As we drove up, noting that the thermometer in the car told us it was around 8 degrees Celsius, we noticed the lift at the lower area wasn’t running. Then as we walked up to the ski school, we noticed none of the lifts were moving. A check of my watch… maybe they don’t open till 10. (that didn’t really sound right) Then Bill saw the signs hung above the closed lift-ticket windows. The lift operators were on strike! They were there, all wearing their Chamrousse-issued blue ski jackets. But instead of getting people up to the top of the mountain, they were drinking instant coffee and passing out information about their beef to interested would-be skiers. I didn’t bother to get one; I wouldn’t have been able to read it. I have read about the tendency groups have to strike here… although it’s usually bus drivers or train operators. And if what I’ve read holds true, they will be shuttling skiers up the icy slopes again tomorrow morning. (I’ll know, because Kaitlyn will be back at the Piou Piou club!)

            While Kaitlyn mastered the art of skiing under big plastic hoops, Bill and I cruised the lodge, to check out the shops. I bought a book in English. It almost didn’t matter what the subject was. It’s a Michelin guide to the French Alps, including Grenoble. It says we have a fantastic art museum. (I’m supposed to go to that on Friday, so I’ll be the judge!) I stopped in one shop for a hot chocolate and was surprised when the woman gave it to me in a china cup. I forget, there’s no paper cups with those horrible heat shields wrapped around them here. Nothing is “to go” except from the pizza truck. So I sat outside with my chocolate chaud at the base of the main ski run, watching the happy sledders enjoying having the place to themselves. I also tried on some hats; I want one with ear flaps. Bill wouldn’t stay to give his opinion and I was too afraid I’d pick one that would make me look like a dork. I may take the plunge and make that purchase tomorrow.

            Ski school was a hit with Kaitlyn again today. The group did well; they progressed to learning to use the rope tow. Kaitlyn didn’t exactly master it, but she squealed so loudly while trying we could hear her.

            Kaitlyn didn’t make it all the way back to our house before falling asleep. Two hours of skiing under hoops, riding the conveyor belt and being dragged by the rope tow really exhausted her.

            Bill and I figured if we couldn’t ski, we could prepare for when it finally does snow. And, it’s sale time in France. It’s the law. Stores are only allowed to have sales two times a year: in January and again some time in the summer. The French people at Bill’s office were surprised when he told them that skis and boots were on sale at a store we’ve come to like. So he figured now’s as good a time as any to drop a thousand euro… but now we both own skis and boots. I avoided the skis with pink butterflies and instead have some with a swirly taupe pattern. I could do without the inscription “first luv.” I don’t know why they make skis for women beginners look so silly. Maybe it is to draw attention away from our flailing arms.

            Now, all we have to do is get some snow. I’m not in the business of praying for snow. See, when I was in the second grade, my friends and I prayed for snow and Indianapolis was slammed with a big-time blizzard. My Mom and Grandparents told me that I’d caused it. I vowed then, never to use my powers to produce piles of the white stuff. So now all I can do is hope… and hope that it doesn’t snow on my street while it’s at it.

            Friday afternoon French lessons are the hardest. It’s the end of the week, it’s hard to concentrate. There’s a list of things that didn’t get finished, and a list of things you’d just plain rather be doing. Especially when it’s 16 degrees (Celsius) outside in the middle of January. (Even I like nice weather)

            But my French lesson is exactly where I found myself this afternoon. After dropping Kaitlyn back at school from lunch I drove to what Kaitlyn calls my French school. I wonder if she pictures me sitting on the floor with other adults, listening to someone read a story, or sitting around a table making blobs with play doh.

            Anyway, I went in and today’s teacher was in the “lounge” with another student (CAT employee) and his teacher for the day. They were carrying on a conversation in French and the only polite thing to do was try to join in. My teacher was recounting his holiday in London. The other two were commenting on their opinion of the city and of British versus French beer (everyone agrees, it’s no contest. If you have to ask who’s the winner, you’ve never tried French beer). Then Friday took over and my mind sort of wandered. I was snapped back to reality when the other teacher addressed me. I thought he asked if I’ve ever been to London. Now, I thought this because I knew the topic was London and I just guessed at the question. I generally follow a conversation by recognizing the subject then sort of filling in the blanks as best I can. So I answered. Unfortunately, he didn’t want to know anything about England He was just telling me that he will be my teacher on Monday. So to that statement, I said “About 20 years ago.” No wonder he looked so confused as I searched for the phrase. Lundi. Londres. He politely said he supposed the two words sound alike. I wanted to crawl under the table. (please, please, PLEASE, don’t let him bring this up on Monday)

            Finally, the chit-chat disaster ended and the regular lesson got started. The teacher has decided that I’m to explain words and concepts in French. That takes some concentration, but I muddled through it. If a sign says a store is open every day but Wednesday what does that mean? It’s open Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, etc. Ah, the cafe was kicking in and the brain was working again. Then he asked me to demonstrate my understanding of how to say “I like x more than y.” So I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I like chocolate more than potatoes.” Suddenly, I was a character in a David Sedaris story… being laughed at for my lack of mastery of the French language. “Big news headline!” he said. Gads, potatoes was the word that popped into my head. I have no idea why. And it is a true statement, albeit a stupid one. I recovered a little by next announcing that I like tea less than coffee.

            It’s hard knowing pretty much every time you open your mouth, you’re speaking something half a notch above nonsense. The other day at Kaitlyn’s school, a little boy tried to tell me something about Kaitlyn. All I could do was stare. Here I was, left dumbfounded by a 9 year old. A woman told me “pas important.” Ok, maybe what he had to say isn’t important. But being able to understand is… and I don’t.  And it’s getting increasingly frustrating.  I think I could take French lessons every day and it wouldn’t make it any easier.

            Pretty soon, Kaitlyn will be able to speak more French than I can. Maybe she can help me out.

When Bill came home from work today, he told me about a conversation he had with his boss. His French boss. He told me that I should expect that we won’t stay here more than three years. Maybe four. Maybe. I’m kinda surprised at myself… I’m sort of saddened by that. It seems like in three years I’ll just be getting the hang of speaking French and shopping in French stores. It sounds like such a long time, but it isn’t. (No wonder he’s in such a hurry to buy himself new skis and ski boots)

        Visitors… don’t delay. And I’m stepping up my European travel plans.

        I guess the thing of it is… there’s no telling where we’ll go from here.