Still, three years is a long time! It's equivalent to 3/4 of my college experience. It's 3/4 of Josie's life. 3/4 of President Obama's term in office.
This "Euroversary" presented a nice chance to reflect on our experiences as a little traveling family band. But how many worth covering in detail? I settled on a Baker's Dozen. It was tough, but I think I've got our high (and low) points covered.
13. Westminster Abbey. For my 37th birthday we packed up and jumped on the Eurostar for my very first trip to London (can you believe it? A Royal-crazy like me? Until then my sole UK experience had been a 40-minute stopover in Stansted Airport). I was absolutely dazzled from the moment we landed in St. Pancras – it was Christmas season, after all, and the entire city was aglow, buzzing with shoppers, carolers, completely fulfilling every "Love Actually" fantasy. I did some solo shopping on Sloane Street, going all the way down to Chelsea; we braved Hamley's and Harrod's and had a fancy dinner at Mayfair classic Scott's. We saw Big Ben and Buckingham Palace and the Princess Diana playground. But the sight that really sticks with me, even today, is Westminster Abbey. From the Poets' corner – seeing the prim, little commemorative bricks to Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters – to the more obvious "biggies" (Mary, Queen of Scots, Sir Isaac Newton, Neville Chamberlain, Charles Darwin), it's an impressive sight.
While I wandered through, utilising the headset I usually pass up in favor of chasing Josie away from antiquities, pondering all the historic events that had taken place here (coronations of countless monarchs, the weddings of Queen Elizabeth II, Fergie and Andrew, and more recently of course Wills and Kate's nuptials) and admiring the beautiful paintings and sculptures, I came upon the side-chapel where the Protestant Elizabeth I and her Catholic sister Queen Mary are buried -- one on top of the other. It was a chills-and-goosebumps moment, absorbing the meaning behind that configuration and the national self-awareness that must have after years of bloodshed finally come, and then inspired that burial. The Latin inscription on their tomb, Regno consortes & urna, hic obdormimus Elizabetha et Maria sorores, in spe resurrectionis translates to "Consorts in realm and tomb, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of resurrection". Yeah – chills, right?
12. "Crazy Signs" at Club Med in Turkey. I won't spend too much time on "Zee Crazy Signs," especially as it's pretty comprehensively covered in the video below. Let me just say that as we ventured from our new home en Angleterre, flew five hours to the former Ottoman Empire and landed in 40-degree-Celsius temps for a stress-free vacation, we had no idea how everything re: our 20 months among Les Grenouilles would come together. And it did, only too perfectly, in Crazy Signs – in other words, it wasn't us. It was them.
11. Thanksgiving 2009 (and 2010!) Turkey, cranberries, football, the Macy's Parade. It's a big day on both the Rothman and Davidson sides. After a sad 2008 observance, during which Jeff and I tucked at 9 p.m. into a defrosted Picard turkey (it was good, actually) and mostly Picard sides –save my man's favorite sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping– with macarons for dessert, I was determined to turn things around in 2009. And boy, did we -- finding a family away from home for a bona fide Yankee celebration.
We huddled at 31 Boulevard Raspail with the G-Js (you may know MJ as the American Mom in Paris), the Virginia Family, and longtime D.C. friends of mine, S and K for the Biggest Turkey Ever Purchased (still struggling a bit with the metric system, I wound up with a 22-lb bird!). We shared traditions, like MJ's Midwestern Cheesy Potatoes and Virginia Mom's Pumpkin Chiffon Pie. We all had a chuckle when Francais-challenged Jeff returned from the Droguerie d'Aujourd Hui (Overpriced Kitchen Store) with "a sharp knife for a really big chicken." Everything was delicious! The wine flowed freely! Big Al G. arrived late so we could pretend we'd had the cheese course after dinner rather than before. Josie sat and quietly consumed solid food for about 20 consecutive minutes, stopping only to wonder why everyone else at the kids' table had bailed.
And of course, the misty moment when our eyes drifted to the T.V. and our DVR'd Thanksgiving Day Parade. Hey, Fifth Avenue is looking a little dingy, aren't the decorations up yet? Where's the Empire State building? Who are these D-list balloons, like Captain Underpants and Chilly Willy? Where are Pokemon and Justin Bieber? Then, it hit us: Al Roker and the cast of Billy Elliott had been pre-empted by the Detroit parade. So, we refilled our glasses with Beaujolais and clinked to the circa-1957 Giant Papier-Mache Pilgrim Heads and Shriner-car races. It put a serious damper on our whining about missing our families and having to phone in Black Friday. After all, if Detroiters could find stuff to be thankful for, dammit so could we.
Don't know where everyone went, but more for meeeeeeeeeeee
Both a bird AND a bun in the oven! Happy Thanksgiving, y'all!10. My first French lesson. As the wife of an ex-pat, I was generously treated by Danone on our arrival in Paris to something like 80 hours of private French lessons at Berlitz. But will that really be enough, I pondered... after all, I want to be fluent enough to take real cooking classes at the Ritz and converse with Josie's teachers, not to mention perhaps one of our neighbors! Ten minutes in, I was in the sub-sub-sub-basement of Hell. You see, Berlitz subscribes to a "sink or swim" teaching philosophy, as in, once you enter the classroom and sit down, not one word of English is spoken. Like, ever. I thought it would be like high school French, you know, a little days-of-the-week, some colors, maybe sing "La Marseillaise." Instead I found myself in a cold sweat, trying to explain why we had moved to Paris, where we lived, whether I had a bébé or enfant, and what it was I did exactly as a "writer." Ecrivant, it was decided, was an overblown and slightly arrogant (excusez-moi!) way to describe myself as I was neither Victor Hugo nor even that crétin Dan Brown. After an excruciating 90 minutes, I stumbled back out onto the Champs-Elysees to find the holiday lights going up, a light early-winter chill and the Arc de Triomphe looming like a tender guardian behind me.
This was my walk to French class. Not bad. As I had procured the amazing Nonny (our lovely, lovable Swedish babysitter) and had really been looking forward to three whole hours to myself twice a week, I decided to soldier on. And soldier on I did, for about six months. When Danone awarded me another 80 hours, my Berlitz administrateur called excitedly to schedule my next round; I changed my mobile number, staged my own death and promptly signed up for the History of Paris at the American University of Paris -- and never returned to that dreadful Berlitz building again. C'est la vie. I managed to shop and eat for 20 months, just fine. Turns out our neighbors weren't wild conversationalists (though I knew enough French to understand their loud and cranky complaints about my stroller shoved under the staircase) and Josie's teachers were great at hand signals and doodled descriptions of "les poux" and the odd stray punch.
9. Joël Robuchon Dinner. When we found out we were leaving Paris for the significantly less culinarily inclined (by reputation, anyway) British Isles, we made a bucket list of eateries to hit before we departed. Like every other resident of the Seventh Arrondissement, we'd often gazed longingly at Joël Robuchon's no-reservations, sit-at-the-bar restaurant and wondered how the other half lived. Well, having finalized plans to move to Bath, we decided to celebrate with Joël - so we bit the bullet, booked the babysitter for 6pm and sprinted over in the frosty February...broad daylight. I of course ordered the crazy chef's nine-course tasting menu, while Jeff more cautiously chose several dishes from the a la carte menu. Sadly, the dish-by-dish photo-essay from my meal disappeared when I upgraded my iPhone software, but I did take a couple of snaps with our regular camera before we decided that made us look like dorky tourists; and while we were undeniably dorky we were no longer tourists.
Jeff's "cautious" meal included barely-cooked bone marrow The experience is not quite what you'd expect. On the one hand, the service was disarmingly casual; dishes were sort of plunked in front of us (still seated at the bar) without the pomp and circumstance of a typical Parisian fine dining establishment. On the other hand, in order to avoid a spike in blood pressure you must at every opportunity laugh and toss your hair and pretend everything is free. If you ask the sommelier to recommend a glass of Bordeaux to go with your steak, you don't then ask, "err.... how much does that cost?" You just say "perfect, pour away." (the answer: more than my average pair of shoes, less than an iPad) You sign the credit card slip without looking and silently pledge to tear up your next Amex statement without opening it. All that said, the meal -- which was really our only major splurge in Paris, never having hit Plaza Athenee or the Ritz or Four Seasons or any of those joints -- was absolutely worth it. All the hype about Robuchon (and as a Top Chef devotee I've heard the hype) is justified. The food was artistic, precise, delicious. As it should be, for slightly more than a Singaporean custom-made suit and less than a Lamborghini Countach.
8. Visiting the Alhambra. Those of you who know me know I'm a closet historical fiction junkie and a Tudors supertaster. So sometime in 2009 while reading Philippa Gordon's The Red Queen I became intrigued by Catherine of Aragon's backstory. After all, by the time we meet her in Showtime's The Tudors she's a half-dried-up shrew who alternates between plotting with Spain to keep Catholicism dominant and fretting over Anne Boleyn's sumptuous bosoms bouncing all over the Hampton Court dance floor. So the history of her Spanish girlhood (embellished, I'm sure, by Gregory) was new to me: brilliant, smooth-talking Moorish doctors, decadent feasts, family drama -- all set in the magnificent Alhambra in Granada. So as our last pre-Hugo trip, I dragged the fam on a pilgrimage, described in too much detail in my blogpost on Andalucia. The "Red Fortress" was one of the most impressive places I imagine I'll ever visit; an inspiring reminder of what we can learn from other cultures -- and lose when we dismiss, discount or degrade those cultures. Suffice to say, the Moors built the main palace, complete with hot and cold running water, irrigation, and mosaics and sculptures, many of which were knocked down or painted over when the Christians invaded and set up shop in 1492. But prior to the Inquisition, the palace was a model for scientific innovation, social engagement, and religious tolerance. Spanish history during that period and in that region is fascinating -- and the Alhambra is one of those places that will always stay with me.
One of the Alhambra's bathing pools 7. Christmas Day 2008 in Paris. Though I'm now a completely committed Jew (see moment #3 below), I can't deny the importance to my background, my childhood, and my family of Christmas. I've managed to reconcile the celebration of that holiday with my family with my current faith; since our celebration on December 25 is largely secular, focused on eating delicious food, exchanging thoughtful gifts with clever tags, and now watching Josie go berserk as she dives into her stocking, it was an easier reconciliation than I might have thought, not just for me but for Jeff as well. But in 2008, we had been in Paris just a little more than a month, so dragging Josie back across the pond for Christmas (and our always wonderful Chanukah celebration with the Rothmans as well) didn't seem to make much sense. It would be my very first Christmas away from my family, and I was pretty sad about it. But that strange Christmas was all part of those early days, as strangers in a strange land, striking out on our own and finding our own traditions and community -- so it remains a very special and poignant memory for our little family.
Paris does dress up pretty for the season We woke up Christmas morning and had a great breakfast, then, as it was a beautiful, sunny day, decided to go for a walk across Paris. The Seventh was absolutely silent; clearly its residents were either at church or home eating a big Christmas lunch. Every shop and cafe was closed. As we drew closer to the Seine things livened up. Even tourists must eat and drink somewhere on Christmas Day, so a number of popular cafes were peppered with customers. We decided it might be a good day to finally visit Notre Dame; indeed, aside from those actually attending services it was surprisingly un-crowded. There was virtually no line, so we swept right in and through without our rambunctious toddler disturbing anyone. Notre Dame is a gorgeous place anyway, and it was particularly serene and lovely on Christmas Day.
Surprisingly, not la Dame's busiest day! We then switched gears completely and headed for the Marais. Now this was the place to be! Latkepalooza! Jewtopia! The streets were packed with our people, shopping in the city's only open boutiques and clamoring for falafel. The world-famous (and deservedly so) L'As du Falafel boasted an hour-long line for a table, so we happily settled for "the other falafel place across the street" (whose name no one knows) which was completely delicious as well. Josie had her first Israeli salad, her first pita bread, her first hummus, all of which she loves to this day. We stuffed ourselves, washed it down with some Maccabee brews, and shopped around a bit. It felt really great to be among Paris' Jewish community that day -- and took the a bit of the sting from the absence of our families. It also reinforced for me what a tight and self-sustaining family unit we three had become.
Fa-la-fel-la-la, la-la-la-la! 6. Catching my first glimpse of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. This one I can keep pretty brief. You grow up seeing the Tower in cartoons, in history books, in the forms of little desk statues and grappa bottles, reading that it's falling over, seeing it lampooned as the Leaning Tower of Pizza, etc. I was completely unprepared for how white, how perfect, how clean and lovely the whole package (Tower, Baptistery, Cathedral) in Pisa would be. You push through these crowds of smelly tourists fighting each other for gelato and the aforementioned grappa bottles, shove through this gate and there you are. And there it is - this true architectural wonder. It's really beautiful.
I'd never fill you with grappa, beautiful tower5. Q is for Quiet by the manger's bed. There are many important moments in your child's early life. There's the birth. The bris/baby naming/christening. The first step. The first food. First tooth. And in England, there's the first Christmas pageant. We were nervous; how would our Jewish girl handle being part of the nativity? As it turns out, the show was cute, incredibly irreverent and educational (it was an "ABC Nativity," no less). And there was our little monkey, in her "Q" costume (did you know there was a "Q" present at the birth of Christ, or "Jesus Price," as she called him?) sitting on a bench with her fellow actors, waiting for her debut: rocking back and forth, swinging her legs, and then --ooh-- pulling a cheeky daredevil move, seeing how far she could lean back. I was already on my feet when CLONK! Back she went and smack went her head on the floor. One, two, six and I was at the front of the auditorium, scooping her up, hugging her and assessing the scene. The letter N was already making her wobbly descent down the stairs and O was rising to approach the stage. I could feel Josie shaking, trying desperately not to cry, so I whispered in her ear that the show must go on and everyone was waiting to see her be the star she was. Did she remember her line? Yes. Well then, on you go and the rest is theater history. Boy, was it a proud moment. Now I know how Larry Olivier's mama felt after his first turn as the Great Dane.
"Q" is for Quick Recovery!4. Touring Veuve-Clicquot. Sliding across the immaculate marble floors of the grand Cliquot residence. Descending down into the caves, each stone step engraved with a harvest year. It was cold, damp, spidery, but somewhere within bottles were turned, sediment was clustering, yeast was fermenting, and little bubbles were being born. We were then guided into the tasting room/boutique, where I was surrounded by satsuma-colored labels and clinking flutes. Salut!
Veuve-Clicquot was just the first stop on our Peerless-Rothman whirlwind tour of Champagne country, and while it started off a bit rocky (when prompted to describe Madame Cliquot from a somber late 19th-century photograph, Miami Spice declared she looked "mean," much to the tour guide's chagrin) it produced lots of great French memories. Like going to a small vineyard and being told "it's lunchtime, so come back later, if you want, but if it's never that's really fine with us too." Being the méchants we were, we loitered in their yard and let our toddlers ride on all their kids' toys while they finished their pot-au-feu. Not to worry, Miami Spice bought six bouteilles in preparation for her upcoming move to Miami. Then taking turns running into little garage-tasting rooms while the remaining parent stayed in the car with Josie and Nathalie watching Dora DVDs. I got to go for every turn, of course, so you do the math! We stayed in a completely freezing, hard-as-rock-mattress B and B but I had the best trout I've ever tasted (breaded in champagne, bien sûr!). It also capped off a string of fun road trips with Miami Spice and family -- including Strasbourg and the Alsace Wine Trail, Giverny, etc.
Oh, I think you are nice, Madame Clicquot. So niiiiiiiice..... 3. The Wailing Wall (and Jerusalem in general). I've only been Jewish for about nearly a quarter of my life. Still, in that time I've worn my Judaism on my sleeve -- celebrating holidays with gusto, embracing new traditions, helping to teach my daughter's non-Jewish schoolmates about our special celebrations, etc. After several missed opportunities to visit Israel over the years, we were thrilled when a work trip for Jeff took us to both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. We arrived mid-afternoon in the Old City for our first look around; yet because of the latitude it was already dark. I can't really describe the experience of walking through the Jaffa Gate...Orthodox Jews hurrying to yeshiva. Narrow, labyrinthine streets full of Judaica vendors, each one promising you a better deal on their menorahs and mezuzahs than one next door. Catholic priests brushing by young Muslim men on the way to evening prayers. And I wasn't fully prepared for the rush of emotion I would feel when visiting the Wailing Wall. While I was a bit perturbed by the idea that Jeff and I couldn't approach the Wall together -- men and women visit the Wall in segregated sections -- it was incredibly powerful to see the wall and leave my prayer, one of tens of thousands stuffed into its cracks.
Waiting for Jeff while he visited the wall with the other mans The next day Josie and I had the Old City to ourselves as Jeff attended meetings. This, too, was a day to remember, as I strapped Josie into our blessed old maroon MacLaren and bump-bump-ba-dumped up and down zillions of steps, thousands of years old, as I was determined to visit St. Ann, the "Singing Church," where pilgrims of any faith are welcome to come and sing inside. It was down at the bottom of the Muslim quarter, and quite charming, old, and lovely. I sang the Shema to Josie, and we exited the Lions' Gate to find the walk back to our hotel rocky and impassable. Luckily I was able to flag a taxi, but I learned a valuable lesson about planning walkabouts in ancient cities with toddlers via Google Maps.
I still remember my prayer, by the way, and it was answered.
2. Hugo's birth. What list of amazing moments would be complete without the birth of our beloved Meatball? The pregnancy - from horrible sickness to worse H & M maternity wardrobe to unbearable natural childbirth class - certainly had its ups and downs. Then one minute I was eating a super-spicy chicken jalfreizi and the next, there he was, all some kinda crazy metric weight and wild black hair! Well, in the middle there was some foggy mother-in-law interaction, illegal driving, swearing, inappropriate blackberrying, epidural fake-outs, more swearing, chipper midwives and fuzzy teacups, but it was a crazy ride we'll love telling him, play by play, until he's seventy or so. Because I pushed a human out of me without any pharmacological support, thank you very much. Don't ever do that if you can avoid it.
Right, well done you, shoving out that baby and a pound of afterbirth. Cup of tea? 1. Seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle for the first time as Parisians. It seems like in terms of sheer emotional value Hugo's birth should be number one, but if I have to choose one moment that encapsulates the whole European Vocation, it's always going to be that first night in Paris. We'd landed at 6am that morning, groggy as all get-out, to find a Paris that was... completely shut down, because it's Sunday. Between the outdoor organic market and our corner bodega we were able to cobble together a small lunch before crashing for that classic jet-lag nap. Because it was November, when we all woke up at 5pm it was dark. So we decided to stroll the Seine. We strapped Josie into the stroller, bundled up, and headed west down the quai. In front of the Tower we spotted a crepe vendor; we secured banana-nutella crepes (my favorite) and hot chocolates, and then -- at 9pm -- there it was. Sure, it was only 60 seconds of sparkling, but as we huddled together, holding Josie tight, when we really listened, we could hear the city murmur, "Welcome home."
Happy Euroversary, ma famille. Here's to another three! (or whatever we've got left!)
This is a loooong lag between posts, even for me. But the truth is, now that I have a child in a bona fide school program, not a year-round day care, August is one long, dry, kiddo-infested month.
