Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Liberte, Egalite, Yoga Pants

There are so many things I miss about Paris...the baguettes, the pastries, walking along the Seine at dusk (or any time, really), the organic markets, the cafes.

You know what I don't miss? Feeling like I can't leave the house without looking like I'm going to a black-tie gala.

You'll note I say "feeling like", as this is a rule I often flouted but not without a smidgen of shame (plus, anyone who ever joined our troupe for the Smithsonian Young Benefactors' Galas knows what I look like at the end of a black tie event). It's bloody true, French women don't get fat, and they always look fabulous. If I left the apartment without blowing out my hair, coordinating my jewelry or putting on mascara it was usually with huge, dark glasses and a baseball hat a la Star Magazine "look how grody Nicole Richie looks when she picks up the drycleaning!" If I looked particularly bedraggled I may have even pretended to be a tourist, squinting at my Paris Pratique and exclaiming "Where IS the Arch duh Triumph?"

Before moving to Paris I skimmed the compulsory expat read, Almost French. In the touching memoir of an Australian journalist who moves to Paris to live with her French lover, there's a scene – yup, you all know the one, girls–in which the lover chides our heroine for wearing "track pants" (Aussie for sweats) to the boulangerie. I touched on this in an earlier post, but truly, in the minds of these merchants (who, granted, studied and worked extremely hard to attain the necessary licenses to serve you these delectables) you, the customer, are in essence entering their homes, and thus should be dressed in a way that indicates respect (this applies more to women; somehow men are able to get away with all sorts of outlandish looks, like orange pants and Converse All-Stars).

Where does he think he's going?

People have said, "well, you lived in New York..." implying that my 10023 zip code required I leave the door looking fresh off the set of Gossip Girl. In New York, really, anything goes. You're as likely to see someone roller-skating in Central Park in an evening gown as you are shopping in Bergdorf's in hot pants and rainbow suspenders. Work at a PR or advertising firm and you'll get that first-day-of-summer-dress-code e-mail: No flip-flops. No shorts. No tube tops. Tube tops, really? Well, the bosses have to draw the line somewhere - this is the burgh that spawned both Jennifer Lopez and the Naked Cowboy.

I don't think I'm surprising anyone when I say that yoga pants, as I prefer to call them, are a staple of my wardrobe. As a new mother in Nyack I often stayed in them for most of the day – much to the chagrin of my always impeccably-groomed mother, who was raised in the Paris of the East, Grosse Pointe – mostly because between a freelance job and an infant I was never sure when I'd get a free forty minutes to run out and exercise. In fact, when said sainted mother fell whilst staying with us and helping with newborn Josie, breaking left ankle AND right wrist, I whisked her to Target for clothing we could pull over an air-boot and temporary cast without too much difficulty. Even in her intense pain, my mother was gesturing limply towards tailored separates, but I stealthily steered us into the pajama section, convincing her the very comfy and highly elasticized eXhilaration PJ bottoms were yoga pants. I might have even called them Pilates trousers for extra plausibility.

But I digress... when I joined the gym in Paris, I thought finally, this would be my get-out-of-jail-free card. Because surely the French women sweat, like everyone else, and thus sport the appropriate gear to Club Med Gym. Oh, but I was wrong. The locker room was filled with leggy blondes in eighty-euro La Perla camisoles, blow-drying, nail-filing, eye-lining, and lip-glossing. Few were showering, not too surprising since none of them appeared to actually sweat in the cardio room. When Parisiennes exercise they look like this:


And the gym isn't the only place you're supposed to look fabulous. As my friend MJ has wryly noted in one of her witty posts about mothering in Paris, school pick-up apparently necessitates a manicure, chemical peel, and a swing through Gerard Darel. And not only the Parisian women believed the hype; I'd been to many a play date at which American/British/Kiwi mothers were dressed in skirts and knee-high boots.

Well, here in the UK, I'm as schlumpy as I wanna be! After all, we have much better role models on this side of the channel.



















I drop off Josie at nursery in my gym clothes, I grocery shop with hat-head, I go to the dentist in my bathing suit, it's all very liberating.

I'm off to see The Man from Stratford – with Simon Callow, better known as Mr. Beebe in Room with a View and the subject of the Funeral in Four Weddings and – a new play about William Shakespeare, at the Theater Royal this evening. As Jeff is still traveling home from Amsterdam, I am squiring my upstairs neighbor, T (of the Friendship Circle). Yes, I will wash my hair for T, and perhaps even put on some mascara. I always try to look my best for a first date.

Lots coming this weekend as well! The Food and Wine festival here in Bath, and of course, the Fourth of July which –worry not – will be celebrated with gusto by the Americans on Great Pulteney Street (along with some Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and even Argentines!). See you on the other side of sparklers, boxed chardonnay, and (urp) Ina Garten's flag cake!

Monday, June 21, 2010

London calling!

So we Rothvidsons are coming off a whirlwind week that included a splash in the Princess Diana memorial fountain, two hours and forty-five minutes of post-apocalyptic Queen songs, a rooftop swim at the Thermae Spa, and a morning dodging cowpies. Where do we start?

Well, Jeff had a meeting in London on Friday, so we decided to cash in some Starwood points (Meridien Piccadilly, will be even more fabulous once the renovations are complete!) for a night in the big city. Josie and I took the train (easy trip!) to Paddington Station, and after a quick walk across Hyde Park, reunited with our beloved Swedish babysitter Josefin at the Princess Diana Memorial Playground. Whilst defending our soggy (sigh, Paris...) baguette sandwiches from incredibly ballsy pigeons, we managed to catch up – Josefin, who was studying landscape architecture in Paris when she began sitting for Josie, is now writing her thesis and looking for internships in London. Lucky us! She led us across Kensington Gardens to see the Princess Diana Memorial Fountain as well – designed by Swedish-American architect Kathryn Gustafson, it was not at all what I expected. When you hear "princess" and "fountain" in the same phrase you expect something fantastical, ornate, plucked from Cinderella, but this fountain is anything but.

Oh, wait - sorry. You're scrunching your eyebrows and looking somewhat quizzically at the screen, thinking "what's with all this Princess Diana nonsense?" Well, you're only saying that if you haven't known me since I was ten years old; huddling in my basement with my best friend Anna, carefully cutting out and pasting articles about Diana, Charles, Wills and Harry, Princess Anne, Viscount Linley (whoever the heck he is, I don't remember, the name just came from somewhere), into multi-volumed scrapbooks; watching that ridiculous made-for-TV movie with Catherine Oxenberg and Stewart Granger about 273 times. I memorized the names of Diana's bridesmaids; I collected the paper dolls, regular dolls, and dozens of books; I stood in line, heartbroken, with E for about 3 hours to sign the condolence book in 1997; and of course, I named my daughter Josie Diana.

While my lifelong Diana obsession has become a joke among my family and friends, the truth is I'm still very sad about her untimely death; I believe from the bottom of my heart that Diana had the potential - like absolutely no one before or since - to make important contributions to children, to charity, to whatever she set her mind to. It's an incredible loss that I still feel - as, clearly, do many Britons. I had one of those classic parent moments when, upon leaving the Princess Diana playground Josie said, "Wait... I want to see Princess Diana!" Josefin and I looked at each other and I thought fast. Not wanting to lecture a two-year-old about rebellious dating, in-law tensions or drunk driving, nor indulge her in conspiracy theories, I settled on the idea that we can't see Princess Diana, just like we can't see Ariel, or Sleeping Beauty, or Belle. We can only think about what a lovely princess she was. While not completely satisfied, Josie seemed to buy it – for now.

Right. So, the fountain is, as you can see, a wide, flat, oval: something between stream and waterslide. One side is relatively smooth, and the other is filled with ridges and bumps, poignantly illustrating the ups and downs in the late princess' life. She was, as you might have heard, the people's princess, and thus the fountain was designed to reflect her openness, the idea that she wouldn't want the precious, curlicued, overdesigned fantasy fountain I described above, but a moving, living, splashing experience that everyone, from children to the elderly, could share. Indeed when we visited children skipped, shoeless, through the shallow pools, young couples sat on the monument's three bridges and dangled their toes, and older people stopped to cool their tired feet in the bubbling water. To see so many people enjoying this memorial on a warm, sunny day was actually quite moving.

That's right, now I tell everyone, "I'm Josie Diana. I'm a Princess."

Equally moving was the joyous reunion between Josie and her beloved "Nonny" – at the moment they saw each other they ran and clung to each other while an imagined aria played, and were basically joined at the hip the entire trip. Josie quickly recalled the Swedish songs Josefin taught her, they read and played together and really made it possible for Jeff and me to have a fun, stress-free trip. We headed out on Friday night first to a Frommer's-recommended seafood-and-champagne joint called Randall & Aubin for a quick pre-theater dinner. The mixed grill we shared was fresh and delicious and the vibe - it was previously a butcher shop, and the designers kept many of the shop's decor, like meat hooks and lighting - was cool. We then attended the significantly less cool play "We Will Rock You," a musical featuring the (always excellent) tunes of Queen, set in a murky post-apocalyptic world, with a Matrix-meets-Xanadu plot and a script surely penned by the writers of those Saturday morning pre-teen shows quite popular in the 90s (aka "Cool Guys," "Breaker High"). The singing and dancing were both actually quite good, but sadly undermined by the painful script and tiresome overacting.

Spending time in London makes me long to read A Tale of Two Cities (in fact, I've already purchased a copy, and will dive in as soon as I finish Parenting Your Strong-willed Child) as, after our 20 months in Paris I still can't quite get my head 'round how very different the two cities are – and Saturday was so illustrative of that difference. On a typical Saturday night in Paris, we'd have a lovely 8pmish dinner and often, either because the desserts looked inadequate or we wanted to give the babysitter more time on the clock, we'd search fruitlessly for a restaurant or cafe to have coffee/after-dinner drink and dessert. Cafes all close by 8pm, so forget that. Most bars would be too crowded, most restaurants too popular to seat us just for dessert. So we'd usually end up trekking home through the dark, misty, Cormac McCarthyesque terrain between the Seine and Boulevard Raspail, sweet teeth still aching.

On the trek between the theater and Piccadilly Circus, by comparison, we saw it all – bachelorettes and their entourages, drunk teenagers inhaling pizza, and many, many men making good use of the public urinoirs. The energy is just palpably different here - louder, brighter, younger, more vibrant. In Paris the kids sit around smoking cigarettes, discussing Moliere and the fate of the banlieus and in London they're kids! They drink, they carouse, they boot in the alleys, they go dancing, and well, they seem to have a lot more fun, if they look considerably less glamorous doing it. At the end of the night even Josie looked like Keith Richards after playing Stadthalle:

I've never had a problem with bedtime. I've had problems with babysitters.


Not glamorous, vibrant or by any stretch young, we just headed home to get some shut-eye before again turning Josie over to the capable Josefin so we could explore Notting Hill. Though we devoted four hours to this escapade, by the time we got there, fought the crowds out of the subway and made it to Portobello Road, we really could only skim the shops, skipping most of the terrific-looking dealers and stalls (advice: devote no fewer than six hours if you really want to shop AND have a relaxing lunch). We capped the short but successful shopping jaunt with our first real gastropub meal at the delicious Bumpkin (another Frommer's rec, that guy never steers us wrong!), located, as it turns out, just a couple blocks from Hugh Grant's blue-doored flat.

God, fast forward – this post is interminable – Father's Day yesterday, we had a lovely day, starting with heart-shaped French Toast (Josie as capable sous-chef), followed by an impromptu visit to another National Trust estate, Dyrham Park. The park still houses herds of cattle - luckily Midwestern-bred mummy can spot a cowpie at fifty paces - as well as dozens of deer (those we didn't need to inspect too closely as we had our own pack in Nyack), gorgeous gardens and lovely grounds. We had a light lunch - I enjoyed my first scone with clotted cream and ginger jam - at the estate's lovely outdoor cafe, but I must ask my British comrades WHY as we were leaving we spotted so many families lounging, picnicking, sunning themselves... in the car park? Most, literally right next to their cars? If you're paying to enjoy the crisp air and bright foliage of a National Trust site why gobble sandwiches and sip cider in the midst of exhaust fumes, whingeing children and squabbling spouses? By this we were once again truly confuddled.

Finished the day with a soak, steam and light dinner at the Thermae Bath Spa right here in Bath – their "Twilight Package" includes three hours in the spa and baths and a "spa meal" (read: we dashed off for ice cream sundaes as soon as we broke free from the spa). The rooftop pool was lovely and we can imagine in the fall or winter the view quite dramatic (in June it is still fairly bright and sunny at 8:00 pm, but if it were dark the glow from the abbey and Gothic buildings would be lovely, I imagine!). It was nice to relax and float.

I like to float, mes copains. Just float.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Thrills, chills, and the ongoing spill

The Gusher in the Gulf is truly horrifying. It's getting harder to watch the news every day, more difficult to comprehend the statistics, even as they keep getting worse (an Exxon-Valdez every 8 days?). In our little flat in our provincial countryside village, we've gone from cluelessness at the beginning (we were in the midst of our move, and saw something about an explosion, but didn't have internet, cable, or a newspaper subscription), to abject horror, to frustration with our own slightly-too-unflappable president, to now a sickening acceptance that this disaster will permanently change both our already fragile environment and the livelihoods of so many who live in or near the affected areas.

I've gotten lots of messages from American friends, ranging from the merely curious to the (justifiably, certainly) outraged. The answer is yes, British friends here feel horrible, and surprisingly, the British press coverage of the spill itself has been pretty balanced. It's hard to know on which side the tone first went so personal and hostile (it feels from here like perhaps Obama first lowered the boom, under pressure from media and Republican heavies) but for these strangers in a strange land (whose daughter is debuting new words in a British accent), it's painful and confusing to watch.

As red-blooded Yanks (and longtime opponents of domestic drilling), our loyalties of course lie with the Gulf Coast. At the same time, we feel how tenuous the new government here is, how anxious Brits already were about an economy on the brink, how deeply they fear losing huge chunks of their pensions to BP's horrible, irreversible, possibly criminal blunder. And when we see headlines like "YOU BRITS ARE GONNA PAAAYYY" underneath a yelling Obama face, we're also anxious to, well, cheer for the U.S. at a bar while watching the World Cup.

"Oh, for f@*k's sake!"

Which brings me to one of the more surreal moments in recent memory. Why, just that morning I had innocently asked if "Allez les bleus" was the battle cry of a French-speaking fellow Michigan fan. Hours later, I stood elbow-to-elbow in a wine bar (my choice, having called and asked "are you showing the soc – er, football match?") with probably two hundred spectators ranging from the bored (the famed "football widows" huddled together, trading lipglosses and gossip mags, no doubt discussing the recent and mysterious "Eurovision" beauty pageant/singing competition as well as the fate of footballer wife Cheryl Cole) to the maniacal, faces painted and dressed in full regalia.

Thankfully I was in the bathroom when the U.S. "scored" our goal – Jeff reported the rage in the room was a bit terrifying. For the remainder of the game I half-attempted to follow the action while posting and skimming on Facebook; I believe only the bartender learned our true identities, and we were thus able to escape the bar unscathed.

Sunday we spent the morning at HomeBase, the British version of Home Depot, which I keep slipping and calling "Home Plus" à la Big Love, buying flowers and supplies for our garden, and in the afternoon hit a street fair/block party called "Widcombe Rising." For a town everyone warned us would be "quiet," even "bucolic," particularly in comparison to Paris, Bath manages to support giant, well-attended events nearly every weekend. In the past 6 weeks we've attended a flower show, a coffee festival, the International Music Festival, the Fringe Festival (ending with Saturday's fabulously wacky moving – I mean traveling, not emotional – production of Treasure Island in our neighborhood park), and this hipster street party in the funky nearby nabe of Widcombe.

Hipster Josie Rising

Clutching a Pimm's and watching about three dozen Brits of wildly varying ages cheer for a band dressed - like many of Widcombe Rising's attendees – in pirate costumes and chant in unison a song I'd never heard (something about a girl named Molly and a bar she kept for her father), I remarked quietly to Jeff that at times this entire country seems to be in on some huge private joke. Don't get me wrong, the street party rocked: giant slide, bars everywhere you turn, three bands, Ferris wheel, face painting, but why was everyone dressed like pirates? Why were a keyboardist, two half-naked women and a grandfatherly type engaged in street theater that involved asking for kindergarten-aged volunteers to swallow raw eggs? How does a smallish neighborhood pull together to close streets and raise enough money for a party of this scale?

As we left, the soiree seemed to continue down the canal; on our waterside route home men, women and children mulled about on houseboats, drinking cider, grilling, juggling, playing banjos, with no sign of stopping though the temperature had steadily dropped and a Sunday twilight (accompanied by menacing storm clouds) descended.

Pirates, Pimms and pleasure cruisers (not to mention pride. And prejudice). This is Bath.

Please plug the hole, guys. Toute de suite.

Treasure Island in the Park

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Greetings and Vandellas

Hi there, are you all right?

Right, so I'm beginning today's post with some witty observations about various forms of greeting practised around the world – or at least around the Western world as I have yet to go further east than Amsterdam. In the U.S., we have "hi," or "good morning," but that is usually reserved for people you know. There's that whole confusing "Aloha," thing, which like "Shalom" or "Ciao," seems to be hello, goodbye, give me a pack of Marlborough Lights, and everything in between. But generally, in the Midwest and East Coast at least, friendly greetings tend to be reserved for just that – friends. When we first moved from Manhattan to our small riverside village, I did make an effort to greet neighbors I passed on the street – one too-bright, super-syrupy "Good morning, how are you?" backfired when I realized the recipient was neighbor and, yes, Exorcist mom Ellen Burstyn, who appeared to be in no mood – but even those overtures were generally met with the obligatory fake smile and I was always left with the distinct impression that any further outreach would result in blatant scoffing at best and restraining orders at worst.

Moving to Paris, therefore, required a real sea change in our whole approach to social interactions. Fortunately, I had read the late Polly Platt's fabulous French or Foe?, and was thus prepared for all the niceties expected of one visiting a boulanger, patisserie, or fishmonger. Entering these shops, Platt wrote, is like entering their homes (which is also why wearing sweatpants to any of the aforementioned spots is frowned upon, but more on that later), and thus mumbling, "Um, I'll take a taquito and a Super Slurpee Strata," without any courteous prelude – such as an inquiry into the owner's health or an exchange about the weather – is considered not only gross and unhealthy but rude beyond compare. But you know what, I quickly got used to "Bonjour, ca va? Ca va bien, merci. Avez-vous passé les bonnes vacances?" and found it really nice, particularly as it lulled me into the (false, surely) impression that I was making lifelong friends of the drycleaner, the Bretagnan-pastry vendor at the market, and of course the salesclerk at the corner wine store (well, I really did consider him a friend, for obvious reasons). Unfortunately, all this "Ca va, ca va? Ca va, ca va?" ad infinitum business makes one's errands three times longer than they ought otherwise to be, but that's probably why the French never appear to be in a hurry, and there's something charming, if sometimes maddening, about that too.

So now that we Francophilian Yanks have landed in the charming English countryside, we've yet another set of social graces to interpret and replicate. There's definitely a similar social pressure to do the whole greeting and exit banter, with different phrases, obviously. "Right," is the standard opening to any conversation or presentation. "Cheers," I'm learning, like "Shalom," means hello, how are you, goodbye, thank you, carry on, go Manchester United, sorry about all this rain, enjoy your room-temperature, cloudy glass of ambiguous ale, etc. One I haven't quite gotten used to is "are you all right?" As in, I'm walking into the gym, hand my membership card to the cute desk clerk and he says "Are you all right?" The first time I was hit with that one I was a bit taken aback. The hapless gym employee could, of course, be asking after my health/general disposition for any number of reasons – Birkin bags under eyes (we're talking giant, bloated Kelly, not petite and trim Lindy), hair matted with pillow-poaching daughter's early-morning sleep dribble, shriveled Cheerios stuck to bum – but the French would generally ignore these foibles and merely raise a famously imperious eyebrow. Caught off guard by this actual acknowledgment of the USWeekly-captured-Wynonna-Judd-taking-out-the-trash look I was rocking, I staggered a bit, muttering something about traffic and the hot water heater having blown out (see how quickly those late-for-work excuses come flooding back?), only then to be met with... the raised eyebrow. After getting the same question at the supermarket, the local department store, and Josie's nursery, it finally dawned on me that these myriad compatriots couldn't all possibly know what a complete mess I am, and that "Are you all right?" is simply the British (or at least west country) Ca va?

After that unconscionably long rant, are you all right? (I mean it, are you? Are you even awake?) I'll try to think of some exciting haps since my last post. Right – Martha. No, not that Martha. The other Martha. You see, in my excitement over having a babysitter again I've been booking shows and dinners all over the place, most recently for the closing show of the Bath International Music Festival. That's right, what began for us with the Royal High Pop Collective (see below, gangly girls, many outmatched by their oversized wind instruments) ended with a welcome infusion of the Motown Sound: Martha Reeves and the Vandellas! I had to work a bit to convince Jeff that this would be a fun concert – but I think the initial reluctance on both our parts was our shared experience of seeing concerts in New York City and elsewhere. Let's face it, it's a pain. Getting the tickets (how about the time I got to work at 6am to be online when Madonna's Drowned World 2001 tickets went onsale, only spending $1,842 to look at Madge's back? Sorry about that, M and E), not losing the tickets (sorry about that again M, also A and L, also Madonna, Girlie Show 1993), getting to the concert itself (horrible traffic en route to the now-defunct Pine Knob or mobs of drag Madonnas blocking entrance to Madison Square Garden), either parking or taking public transportation, fighting the crowds, endless bathroom lines, $11 drinks, etc.

If every concert could be like the Bath Music Festival I would go to one every weekend. There were about 500 of us, under a tent, no seating, two bars with multiple bartenders (and thus short lines), where one could procure a Super Big Gulp of delicious pear cider for about $5, and unprecedented ease in visiting the ladies' room before, during and after the show itself. And those ladies rocked the house! They played all their hits, some b-sides that were only popular here in the UK (but every Lady of a Certain Age seemed to know by heart: "third finger, left hand, that's where he put that wed-ding band"), and finished with a Motown medley that included a little MJ, a little Smokey, and some Marvin wrapped up in "Dancing in the Streets." Lots of weird references to Detroit (Martha was a one-term City Councilmember, defeated in her re-election primary because, well, she was always off touring in places like Bath and not around to vote on various ethics investigations and debt-recovery plans), and the probably-surreal-only-to-me- suggestion by the emcee/festival chair that the Mayor meet with Martha to draw on her municipal expertise and brainstorm about cultural events and other development ideas for Bath (huh? wha?). But it was jolly good fun and not just a bit heartwarming (I might have wiped away a tear or two) to see the original WASPs boogie down to the same music my own parents danced to in their basements. Good stuff.

Other highlights: Josie started swimming lessons (so cute, I'll take pictures next week), I was invited out to see "Sex and the City II" with a gaggle of girls (really fun, even though the movie was ridiculous), we saw some gorgeous gardens at a nearby National Trust site, I made a tres haute cuisine Jamie Oliver meal (see left), we discovered a potential "our place," with good grub, good cheer, and al fresco tables, right around the corner. Send some sunshine our way, mes amis.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Mole People

Yup, that's the breaking news here on Great Pulteney Street.

The Legion of Mole People has a chapter in Bath. And they may be based in our cave.

Why do I believe this? Well, I placed a full and intact bag of garbage in the cave this morning. When I returned at 11am and opened the cave door to grab the watering can, the bag was neatly opened at the top - not chewed from the corners or ripped from the sides as anyone with mice or seagulls has experienced - with several items (ice cream container, banana peel) removed and lying next to the bag.

Since we moved in we've joked about this cave. It seems to go on forever. We actually don't know how far it goes (definitely all the way to the street in one direction) because we're afraid to go more than a foot or two inside. We had already decided that as far as we knew (or could see) Jean Valjean could have not only set up house somewhere inside but also sublet space to Gollum.

A query to British Landlord fetched a predictably snarky response (Hairy Monster, homeless man named James, something about mice and tying strings to the legs of my jeans??) but after learning from American Mum at 21 GPS that a badger had squatted in their cave for a few days, I called Animal Control. They're coming in the morning. It may take a couple Pimms to sleep tonight, but such is the price of subterranean living.

In other news, it was a mostly lovely and completely fun "bank holiday" weekend - kicked off on Friday night with the "Party in the City," the all-free opening of the International Music Festival here in Bath. Josie and I took picnic food and a blanket to the lovely Parade Gardens park to watch The Royal High School Pop Collective (the school Jo will likely be attending in the fall), which consisted of a couple dozen gangly thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls playing some surprisingly good jazz grooves, followed by Head Case, a rock band comprised of Head Teachers at various Bath schools. By the time Jeff joined us it was time for Guitar School (read: School of Rock) to take the stage, and, let me tell you, Jack Black would have been proud. Check it out:



Almost as entertaining were Josie's ongoing efforts to make friends, as evidenced by her insistence that nine-year-old boys include her in their footballing fun:



I can't take credit for the hilarious "soundtrack," which is actually the Royal High Pop Collective playing live behind these future Manchester United stars. Good stuff.

Saturday was a washout, but on Sunday we headed, at long last, to the Bristol Zoo. Bristol is actually pretty close, but the trip is rife with windy roads and "roundabouts," the combination of which rendered poor Josie completely carsick. She ralphed like a frat boy on his 21st birthday - all over Jeff's rental car - but insisted we soldier on, as she really wanted to "go...see... aminals." Wearing my sweatshirt and a kicky pair of leggings, she reveled at the penguins, lions, seals, and gorilla (see left). It was a great day, one that could only be topped by Monday's visit to Bowood, a stately family home turned "Adventure Playground," complete with trampolines, a pirate ship, giant slides, and fabulous grounds for picnicking.


One of the things I love best about this country is the inclusion of a children's play area in every museum/farm/castle/ruin. "Family-friendly" is a concept that's really practiced here - the French were pretty good with the family (bumps up to the front of museum lines, doctors who visit you at home, and we've discussed the cheap day care), but not so much with the friendly.

Speaking of friendly Josie continues to win over the locals, most recently at the Library's weekly story hour. Already famous in Parisian library circles for her outbursts and bogarting of other dad's laps, she tried valiantly to convince the storyteller that the day's tome was not about popular children's literary hero "Baby Brains," but about my friend E's son, baby James. Here, a play in one distressing act.

Setting: The Bath Library, Walcot St.

Storyteller: Today, we have a very funny story, called The Cleverest
Baby in the World: Baby Brains.
Josie (from back row): Baby James.

Storyteller: Who was that? Sorry? Well, this is a story about Baby Brains.

Josie (brow knit): Baby James!

Storyteller: Oh, there you are, little girl! Do you have a friend named Baby James?
Josie (scowling now): Yes.
Storyteller: Well, isn't that lovely? But this is a story about Baby Brains. So, one day Mr. and Mrs. Brains brought their baby home from the hospital. Baby Brains was the cleverest baby in the world.

Josie: Ba. By. JAAAAMES!

(mother whisks child off to stacks to explain difference between stories and our friends)


Some time later, the children are handed xeroxes of the cleverest Bebe Brains to colour-in.


Storyteller: What a good job you've done colouring-in. Well done, that's a terrific Baby Brains.
Josie: It's Baby James.


(THE END)