Weather or not

I believe that during our first month in Bath we have witnessed an unprecedented event: six days of sunshine in a row!

Once we saw the weather report for last weekend we planned two fun-filled days outside. On Saturday we headed to the Avon Valley Wildlife Adventure Park. Let's just say... the Brits' standards for both "wildlife" and "adventure" are considerably lower than in the U.S. or even the Loire Valley. It didn't help that as one of the first families to arrive at 9:57 a.m., we began our stroll through the park before most of the animals had awakened for the day. And yes, the adventure was more of a two-mile nature hike past exotic mammals like... goats. And Hereford cows. Oh, yeah, and this guy:

Yeah. I'm a Parisian out of butter over here.

Actually, as we learned, there have been wallabies in England since 1850 - two distinct herds of them. And three of them - Charles, William and Harry, that's right - spend their days at the Avon Valley Wildlife Adventure park. The day picked up when the boat pond opened and Jeff rowed us around while Josie literally rocked the boat, sending my blood pressure through the roof multiple times. We got to pet a goat and a donkey (Josie: "Hi Donkey, I'm Josie. What's your name?" See previous post) and then headed back for lunch. Then, the piece de resistance of nearly every UK attraction - and a reason to love this country - the "soft play area." Aha - finally, the "adventure." Look at my little mountain climber!

After a nap and a quick trip out to the Apple Store, it was.... DATE NIGHT. That's right, the Saturday night out returns! We found a lovely girl who lives - conveniently - just two doors away, to sit for us, at least through the summer. And we chose to dine - safely - just 10 doors away at a lovely French/Mediterranean place about which I had read great things. And after all the terrible things we've heard - most recently and entertainingly from Ludo on Top Chef Master - about English cuisine, it was really good! I had a chicken terrine and turbot and Jeff had a shrimp appetizer and lasagne. So as not to return embarrassingly early, we took a stroll through town, running into a "hen party," whatever that is (the pre-party you hit before the Sadie Hawkins dance?) composed of about 167 Marilyn Monroes:


See what I mean? This is my kind of town!

Sunday was another gorgeous day, so I hit the market early to pack a picnic lunch, then we all headed to Parade Park - a beautiful spot right on the river. The sun was shining, a cool breeze was blowing off the Avon, and admission to the park (free for residents) gets you a comfy lawn chair to boot!
There are few things the Rothman-Davidsons love more than a picnic, and it was a perfect afternoon.

Tomorrow is the start of the International Music Festival here in Bath, so we have lots of concerts and fun outdoor events to hit in the next week. I'm also taking Josie to her first play at the Children's Theater here. Then we're going to get out and explore the countryside during what it turns out is a long weekend for us as well as you Yanks (gotta identify and then plan ahead for these "bank holidays").

Jeff says "cheerio" as we catch up on our enormous cache of DVRed shows. Please tell me Crystal Bowersox wins American Idol or I really will have wasted three months of my life.

The Friendship Circle

Life has progressed rapidly here on Great Pulteney Street since my last post. We have a phone line, an internet connection, a reclining lawn chair (see right), even satellite TV, with a badass sound system it took us three hours to figure out. I even have a brand-new iPhone (in yo FACE, Orange!) courtesy of Vodafone. We only need one more thing.

Friends.

I have been so lucky to have built terrific circles of friends in every place in which I've lived: Ann Arbor, Washington, Manhattan, Nyack, Cincinnati, Lansing. Paris was no exception. You can read about many of our antics on An American Mom in Paris, or just take my word for it. If it was raining, it was off to M's house for toffee cookies and Polly Pocket Princesses. On a sunny Wednesday morning, it was cafe cremes and sandboxes at the Rodin garden with C and her daughter. If I just wanted to whine about day care/unfriendly neighbors/French bureaucracy/general unfairness of life, there was always a sympathetic ear on the other end of the mobile (or sympathetic fingers frantically texting while steering buggy/changing diaper/shoving Picard into oven). Sigh.

Even Josie misses our friends. She asked if "M, M, L, M, or C could live in England." I told her sadly, but firmly, no, her friends still lived in Paris, and we needed to make some new friends in "the Bath," as she calls it. Always up to a challenge (and a party!) she tried out her mad conversational skillz at a farewell soiree for one of Jeff's colleagues, held at a nearby riverside pub last evening:

Josie: Hi, I'm Josie!
Colleague: Hi, I'm George.
Josie: Hi! What's my name?
George: I believe you said it's Josie.
Josie: Oh... (brow furrows) what's your name?
George: Well, it's George!
(George dares to pivot and respond to question from Jeff and another colleague)
Josie: Hey, George, I want to talk to you!
George: Oh, well I want to talk to you, too. What shall we talk about?
Josie: I got a present. It's a Princess coloring book. I love Ariel Mermaid.
George: Do you, now?
Josie: Yes, and I love Belle, too. And I love Sleeping Dootly, too. And I love Cindumbrella, too.
George: That's great.
Josie: I have a Princess necklace. I have Princess dolls, too. Belle, and Cindumbrella, and Ariel Mermaid!

And it degenerated from there. Fairly sure George was later seen swimming frantically in the Avon, headed upstream to his home in nearby Swindon. He can always come back for the car.

While Josie was busy charming the natives at Husband's Company, I had to rush off to an engagement of my own (double-booked in week 3, can you believe it?). My lovely upstairs neighbor, T, an older lady who lives in a flat right out of Rachel Ashwell's most delectable decorating book, invited me up to join her "Friendship Circle," for drinks at "half-seven." I never know if that's 7:30 or 6:30, I suspect it was the latter as when I knocked on her door at 7:20 to ask if it would be all right if I popped back around 8pm, the room was full. T was dressed to the nines, in long pearls and heels, a glass of wine for me already in hand, so I promised to return toute d'suite.

A Friendship Circle. Surely I must have eaten a magic curry last night, and awakened today in a Frances Hodgson Burnett book.

I returned to T's -- after my quick jaunt to the farewell party -- ready for tea cakes and fairy poems, but found a circle I could better navigate: chips, canapes, political gossip, and lots of rosé wine. Despite its quaint name, it was merely a gathering of people who had moved to Great Pulteney Street sometime in the past several years and wanted to meet me and talk and have a drink and a laugh. Despite several false starts involving George Bush, settlements in the West Bank, and the Bronte sisters (who apparently never really met Jane Austen as intimated in The Secret Diary of Charlotte Bronte, that's what I get for relying on historical novels for literary references), I believe I gave a believable portrayal of the fresh-faced American downstairs.

A bit of a headache this morning, but as Annie famously said (and sang), I think I'm gonna like it here.

Today Josie and I are off to Bradford-on-Avon (sounds romantic too, doesn't it?) to meet one of Jeff's colleagues' wife and two sons for a playdate. We're taking a train, but I will utilise any mode of transportation at my disposal provided there are energetic preschoolers on the other end. Girlfriend needs new homies.

OH - and in other huge news, Josie appears to be for the most part out of diapers! I will wax poetic on the whole potty-training experience at a later date, but after nearly a year of ups and downs, this is a major development. A veritable movement. Wicked Pissa. I can only assume she filled George in on these thrilling events ("Princess panties" would logically follow Princess coloring book) after I left her at the party. Poor George. I should probably also assume that was our last invitation to a Husband's Company event.

This weekend it's supposed to be lovely here - hope the sun is shining wherever you are!

A Fortnight (or, “Who Do You Have to Shag to Get a Phone Line Around Here?”)

Well, as of tomorrow we will have been safely ensconced in our new home in Bath for two weeks.

Some things haven’t changed. Josie still calls everyone “Monsieur” and “Madame.” Jeff still walks past the (now gnome-sized) dishwasher to put his coffee cup in the sink. And I am still terrible about blogging, but now I have an excuse. After two weeks we still have no internet service. I have still not proven sufficient allegiance to Queen and Empire to qualify for an iPhone. And SkyTV isn’t coming to bestow our satellite television service for another week.

My world, as you can imagine, is torn asunder. I only have the pay-as-you-go surf time to peruse the last fifteen minutes on Facebook. I don’t know if Tori and Dean have been able to work through whatever has created this painful distance between them. And don’t get me started on what is apparently Britain’s most important and exciting election in two generations. Since I can only watch cable news at the gym, I left Fitness First on Monday with the distinct impression that the Liberal Dems were trying to work out a coalition government deal with the Labour Party, only to return to the elliptical machine on Wednesday to have found Gordon Brown completely transmogrified and dapper, Eton-educated Doublemint spokesmodels dropped into the Rose Garden at 10 Downing. (“Why did the guinea fowl cross the roundabout?” “Kirk Cameron!” What???)

I could perhaps, as in days of old, learn of the latest haps by strolling the town square, perhaps peeking into the tearooms and boarding houses for travelers with news from London. Unfortunately, I can barely leave the house and brave the Somerset weather patterns due to my dearth in waterproof, ankle-length, triple-lined outerwear. Thankfully – through the use of five minutes of my daily BT Notyournet allotment – this is a situation I could quite quickly rectify at LandsEndUK.com (that’s right, a company I would never dream of patronizing in either New York or Paris, even before their acquisition by the Sears, Roebuck Co., will now get the lion’s share of my clothing business). Three clicks took me to a sturdy-looking “squall jacket,” only available in Petite, Small in a spicy pumpkin orange. Hmm – think again.

That’s right – please park over there in Aisle 3-G. Take your ticket with you, and have it validated for a free hour.

Jeff took his first overnight trip on Tuesday to attend a leadership training, leaving me to re-learn how to sleep in a house left vulnerable to elements both natural and supernatural via three separate openings. Creeeak! Wraaawwwk! Rattle rattle. At one point I was awakened by a distinct and persistent rapping. Was it Jane Austen herself, knocking at the French doors leading through the mist to to my already overgrown Secret Garden, or just Nicolas Cage looking for a few quid to make the mortgage payment on his Brock Street abode? Ay, Bathian Beth, snap out of it! It was merely the heat kicking on.

In other news, Josie started “school” this week, at a lovely nursery about fifty paces from our back door. She’ll be going two mornings a week (all they had available) with her lovely teachers, Sally, Jo, and the Twelfth Helen We’ve Met Since Moving to England. They’re all nice, encouraging, and repeatedly call Josie “brilliant,” which we all know she is, yet each time I pick her up she is wearing the same Snow White costume, varying only the headgear (Bobbie helmet, cowboy hat, bowler). Josie declares that this educational institution is far superior to both of her Parisian alma maters, and if she can put on a princess dress and make play-dough cupcakes she’d rather go to school every day, merci beaucoup and thank you very much. Boy, is she in for a rude awakening in September when she arrives at the all-girls’ school on the hill in her uniform and blue jumper to begin French (and ballet!).

Well I think I hear Princess, er- Officer Snow White waking up now, and as the sun is beginning to peek from behind the drizzle we’ll suit up and hit the playground or guide aircraft or some such nonsense.

Charles de Gaulle is that way. THAT WAY!

Bon week-end, everyone!

Happy Mum's Day, Ch-ch-ch-Chicas!

My first Mother's Day looked like this (hi, Jen and Bella!):


That day Josie cut her first tooth, which I discovered after it was burrowed deep into my finger (hi, Josie!)

This year, Mother's Day looked like this:


Wow, May in Bath. It's... well, it's about 13 degrees Celsius. If you're as good at temperature conversion as I've become in the last 19 months, that's... somewhere between nipply and Icee fingers. Undeterred, we were determined to celebrate - despite the fact that it's American Mother's Day and the only celebration here seemed to involve clutching a pint and painting one's face blue in fervor over some rugby team - dressed in our springy best, covered by fleeces (about as fun as when Mom made you wear a snowsuit over your Halloween costume, which happened often pre-global warming). After an hour in bed with hot coffee, reading my new Jamie Oliver cookbook, Jeff and Josie presented me with lovely presents.

Jeff got me something he thought I would love:


While Josie, knowing I've been searching for a new bag, got me something she knew I would love:


Don't even try to steal that, Marc H.

And then - yes, dressed in the aforementioned springy best (forgive me, we found Ravenswood Zinfandel in our local grocery store and I'm a glass or two in), aforementioned adoring famille took me to a lovely cafe right on the river for a fantastic brunch. The menu elicited sighs all around - pancakes, Eggs Benedict*, bacon, granola with yogurt. Lattes so big you could swim in them...ahhh, perfection. England, me likey.

Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a cruise boat parked on the Pulteney Weir! Those of you who know me know I loves a boat ride! I've ridden the Circle Line 5 times, the Hudson Line twice, and the Bateau-Mouches 1,274 times. So on we hopped, heading directly into the North Sea wind for the first half of our hour-long tour. No Statue of Liberty, no Grand Palais, but we saw a kingfisher, and lots of cows... the perhaps rugby fan boat driver snagged a long tree branch which almost took our Maclaren stroller into the icy waters. Josie watched Dora the Explorer on my iPhone. I had a delicious Pimms. That made me feel like the best Mom ever.


So, all youse moms with your sunny Luxembourg picnics, your lazy brunches at Geoffrey's in Malibu, your highfalutin' spa afternoons at Bliss, I bet you wish you spent an hour hearing about the building of the Victorian sewer system whilst your lips turned bleu as Beau Nash's bollocks. I betcha.

But really, it's about who you spend Mother's Day with, even if it's boating with Brits, shopping for drill bits and playing "Mommy Dinosaur" in the park while your child shrieks with fake Jurassic terror and the locals stare, aghast. Love to all the Mums today.


*Eggs Benedict. Hollandaise: check. Eggs: not runny to my liking, but check. Spinach: check. Bacon: asked for sans. English muffin: ummmm.... Just not the same on toast. Moi: "Oh, you don't serve Eggs Benedict on an English muffin here?" Waiter: (blink, blink) Moi: "Yes, I guess that would just be a muffin." Waiter: (blink, blink, blink) Moi: "Yum, toast! Benedict, is that for Benedict Arnold, I wonder? Do the English consider that an insult...err...yum, toast!"

Good Morning, England!

Mon Dieu!

I mean...bloody he**!

Where are we, anyway?

Well, after a string of tearful goodbyes and frantic last visits to all our favorite sights and restaurants, we said goodbye to Paris last Friday. I'm still not even sure how to process leaving the City of Lights. When we set out on this adventure I knew we'd have culture shock, I knew we'd spend months, even years battling the stereotype of the Dumb Americans in Tennis Shoes, I knew we'd struggle with the language. I didn't know we'd make wonderful, lifelong friends. I didn't know that eighteen months later, the sight of the sun hitting the Seine beyond the Pont des Arts would still take my breath away. I didn't know that my trek across the 7th on Rue de Grenelle would become as familiar as a walk down Broadway in Nyack. I didn't know I would fall so deeply in love with Paris.

I spent my last three weeks (largely without Jeff, who had already started his new job in the UK) frantically hitting exhibits - a terrific photography show by Willy Ronis, the amazing Yves St. Laurent retrospective at the Petit Palais, the Catacombs (I would not recommend going solo, very creepy!), the "Crime and Punishment" show at the D'Orsay... and saying goodbye to friends. Here we are at Bistrot Peres et Filles, my crazy Parisian posse. There were dinners, picnics, awards ceremonies... it was all too much. THEN the mad scramble to please difficult Parisian landlady who sounded very much like Cinderella stepmother. "Before you go to the Ball - er, Baff (they don't say "th"s here) you must clean the sofas, wash the windows, replace the lightbulbs, scrub the walls," etc. I really became a nut job as I watched our security deposit tick downwards to zero. But it was also like the city was telling me it was time to leave.

Then, finally, it was over. The taxi came and in we went. The second we turned onto Boulevard St. Germain for the eastward drive out of the city the tears started rolling down my cheeks. Josie, little brow furrowed mightily, declared "I'm sad, too!" We said goodbye to all our favorite things (see list on left), Tower, Dome (Les Invalides), Castle (what she calls the Palais de Justice), Louvre (where Peter Pan sleeps on a couch, did you know that?), river. Lots of new photos that will trickle up slowly.

And now, here we are! And talk about culture shock! Everyone speaks English (sort of - still looking up wodges, scrummy, bangers, minger). People smile at you and say hello! Less than an hour after we moved in our neighbors next door arrived with flowers and a warm welcome (as opposed to the French "ehhh merde," and flicked cigarette butt). Now that we have two floors, it's taking us about six times as long to unpack. We've also moved from a furnished to an unfurnished flat, so we have quite a bit of furniture shopping and organizing to do. But Josie loves her long-promised Peppa Pig Bed and her "own room for toys" complete with new dollhouse assembled by moi. Will get pics up when flat doesn't look quite so shambolic (I think that's British for "messy").

True, we are already missing baguettes, Pompotes, and sunny park days. But I am also appreciating the new, small things... like being able to take a hot shower whenever the heck I want! Like shopping without a dictionary. Like being told I'm "brilliant" all the time. Like ordering pizza and cheesy garlic bread and having it brought to my door, with a smile and a "Cheers"! Like the blooming cherry tree next door that reminds me of home. Like finding ground turkey and non-sugar-drenched Cheerios in the supermarket! Like being able to walk outside in my (ok, only about 8' by 8', but still!) garden. Like not freezing in a dark, remote, unheated kitchen. Like an exciting election, in which I can follow about 80% of what's going on (there's that "minger" word again).

Oh, but speaking of freezing, we are completely inappropriately attired and outfitted. I'm sure there will be many posts about England's mercurial weather, but suffice to say one should leave the house dressed to accommodate rain, wind, sun, and about a 30-degree F swing in temperature depending on, well, wind, rain and sun. Why oh why didn't I place that large L.L. Bean order when I was in the States? Bollocks.

See? I'm getting the lingo already. More soon, mes amis. Cheers, then! Brilliant.