McDonald's, France

No really, you gotta see the sheepish looks on their faces when the French realize an American has caught them in a Mcdonald's. ALL of them. They're generally packed.

The one in Annemasse had lines out the door, standing room only. Seems like noone else could afford to eat in Geneva either.

Ordering in a foreign McDonald's isn't as easy as it seems. You remember the conversation between John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson about "Le Big Mac"? Classic. And true. But the problem actually isn't so much the DIFFERENCES as it is the similarities. Are we calling them Kids Meals or Kindermenu? Is it a chicken nugget or not? Mostly it's in English. Which - when you are trying desperately to think and converse in a foreign language - is sometimes harder than you think.

The counter person of course thinks you're a total idiot for not knowing how to order in your own language, but what the hey.

We were in Lyon - which I LOVE so much and where the people were SO friendly and engaging that I am really thinking I have GOT to give Paris a try after all - when I realized with a start that we were, once again, reduced to a hunt for the Golden Arches. No way. But it was late, the kids were hungry, the walk was long and all of the "restaurants" along the river were only serving alcohol.

I saw them too, the Golden Arches, tucked on one corner of a large intersection that fortunately also boasted a choice of two kabob shops. Middle Eastern food. A fair, cheap and easy way out. Kabobs it was.

Note to English group. We were not given utensils. In fact the owner looked fairly disgusted when my Mom asked for a fork and almost apoplectic as he watched her use it to tear apart the kabob. And the SERVIETTES were a paper towel roll placed in the center of the table.

I'm telling you. Feel right at home in France, I do!

Still do have an issue with the meat though. Except for the burgers at McDonald's. I mean, really, THIS is the culture reknowned for its cuisine? Maybe the sauces. Because the meat is so.....so....I don't know.....NOT like American beef. I guess it's obvious, but for those who don't know. DO NOT. I repeat. DO NOT order a hamburger in France. Just don't go there. Although I can't really offer you much of an alternative either. Those Chipolatas the butcher kept trying to push on me. Really? Those weren't just things you HAD to eat during the war?!

The bread is good though. And the French fries. Which come with everything. Appears the French haven't heard of any other sort of vegetable yet. How do they stay so thin? Oh yeah. The meat. Matthew was in heaven though. Plate of fries with some bread on the side, merci beaucoup. Today he ordered a burger at Andrew's baseball game, minus the meat. Two Euros for a white roll. Thanks buddy.

And now that I've completely mocked their menu, I have to tell you how much I love the French again. We did end up at a McDonald's in Mulhouse. Long car ride, hungry kids, not a kebab house in sight.

The little old French lady who stopped to admire the kids was so excited to practice her German on us, that I had a hard time convincing her to let ME practice my French on her. Seems she had been a nanny for two little girls in Freiburg, once upon a time. French woman speaking GERMAN willingly - and happily. One more myth shot down.

Then, as I walked down the stairs with Aidan and Matthew, another Frenchman, first generation probably via West Africa, saw us and wished us a "Good Afternoon" in English. So here's the French - supposed language snobs of the world - speaking TWO foreign languages with my family in the course of one small McD's meal.

Lori tells me its an NYC/Paris thing. And I know New York. They're not rude so much as they're, well...they're NEW YORKERS. It's just their way.

My first minute out and about in Lyon - walking the dog while the rest of the gang checked into our hotel - I get stopped and asked for directions. Really. And got to - fairly fluently- say "Je ne sais pas. Je suis tres desole. Je suis une touriste." as the guy laughed with me at his mistake. Do I LOOK French?!

No. I just look approachable.

And I'm still going to go with that.

I think I can do Paris. If all else fails, I'll just look for the Golden Arches!

Belfort, France

Funny how little things can make you happy all day long.

Or at least amuse you a bit during a long car ride.

This was taken about halfway between Lyon and Strasbourg.

Imagine me hanging out of the car at 120 KPH to take the first few.

I then realized I could get a better shot through the front window.

Thinking of you, Belfort family!

Forget Paris

I have to confess. I've never been to Paris. When we first arrived in France, with a newborn and a two year old, it just wasn't worth the bother and expense. We railed and backpacked to other major European cities, including Zurich. Enough said. Then the twins came along and....well, honestly, I prefer a vacation on the beach to time in the city. No matter the city.

How can I profess to love France when I haven't even spent a day in the city that considers itself her heart?

Dare I suggest that I know the real France, the countryside and everyday, rather than the face of the French to the world?

We are different than the made-up, spruced up, face we show in public.

From what I hear, the France most everyone else knows is rude and arrogant. Really? I can't even imagine. But then again, I've never been to Paris.

Americans complain that the French refuse to speak English with them. Well...honestly...we are in FRANCE, right?! Maybe try a little ''Bonjour''? It's not THAT hard to pick up some basic questions. But then again, I've never been to Paris.

I'd suggest asking for help after a German customer. You think the French don't like speaking ENGLISH?! My friends from aerobics class tell me you have never met an angrier person than a Frenchman confronted by a German who doesn't speak French. They didn't mention how they feel to the Germans who DO speak French though! (And I've got to admit here, I've never seen a country so willing to speak other languages than their own than the Germans. In fact, Americans often complain it is hard to learn German here, because there are always so many people willing to help out and speak English with them. And I know a large majority of them speak French too. So that I don't QUITE understand the problem with travel but....)

I've seen a woman at the Christmas market in Strasbourg give an American friend the cold shoulder as he was trying out his French on her. I was surprised. Maybe she thought he was German? I don't know. She responded to my French, which is far from good by now. And she was a she, so it wasn't the blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to make most Frenchman forgive any errors in pronounciation. (They don't seem to mind how Germans LOOK, just how we talk and act!)

In any case, I've never been to Paris. The France I know is local butchers and bakers and bankers and mothers....all smiling at the children, greeting me warmly, and happily helping me with my bumbling French.

I’ve never been to Paris. But I love the France I know without her make-up.

You're Not In Germany Anymore

Damon had an interesting experience while in line at the bakery the other morning. He was multitasking, walking the dog at the same time, but that generally doesn't seem to be a problem in Europe. Damon looked for a ''no dogs'' sign and, not finding one, simply brought the dog in with him. I know. I know. But this is France. ''Le petit chien joli'' can under no circumstances be forced to wait alone, outside. It just isn't civilized.

It's like that all over Europe, Germany included. ( I don't know about Great Britain but, going by the old adage that the British love their dogs and horses as well as, or more than, their own children well.....) I'm still mildly appalled at seeing dogs at the mall, in the shops, and at restaurants. Somehow, it doesn't seem right. But...since it generally HELPS my situation, I'm not going to complain about it. We don't take Wolfy to the mall or to any fancy restaurants, but he's allowed at the beer gardens and ….in an emergency will come into the bank or post office.

A lot of smaller neighborhood groceries, bakeries and butchers, don't allow dogs. But they always provide a hitching post out front.

Europe is very dog friendly.

Wolfy was sucking up all of the attention while in line at the bakery. He gets very still, and puts on a demure, love me, love me, can't help but love me, look that dog-lovers can't resist. He had four little German girls swooning all over him the day before. He really knows how to milk it.

Damon was practicing his French and flirting with the French lady at the cash register. (He didn't tell me this last part but, I know. I've seen him in action!) ''Le petite chien est tres joli. Et quel genti aussi. Awwwww!'' Does this really need to be translated? The French were swooning over him. ''Quel age?'' (How old? And forgiveness from anyone who speaks French, I can only think of the question in Creole right now?! ''Ki laj li genyen?'' for anyone interested.)

It continued for quite a while. The line was long. The mood – and pace – were French. It seemed like every French family camping here also needed their baguettes and croissants and pain-au-chocolate. Fresh out of the oven. Warm and flakey like only the French can bake ém. (And the northern African immigrant who won the award for best French bakery this year. Globilization – you go girl! Seems even the French agree that anyone who can make French pastries counts as a real Frenchman, regardless of race or ethnicity.)

Appears that most of the German families were home eating Muesli. Either too cheap or too health conscious to spring for white bread, no matter how light and buttery.

I know. It's not fair to pick on ém. More than anything, I've noticed that countries define themselves by their breakfast pastries. The French have theirs, light and flakyt. The Germans eat brotchen. (Also delicious, hearty and crisp.) Americans have donuts, sugary and fattening, but like nothing else in the world. Maybe the first meal of the day helps define who we are as a people.

But they make it too easy sometimes.

As Wolfy, and Damon, basked in the adulation of the French, the woman in front of Damon obviously couldn't take it anymore. She turned to Damon and, in heavily-accented English, loudly told him that the dog didn't belong in there. The line got quiet. Because the accent was quite obviously NOT French and because the sentiments, and the abruptness, were even less so. Damon told her to mind her own business and leave him alone. Not very polite either but....how annoying to be told what to do by a GERMAN in a French shop.

Of course she was German. If she'd been Italian I wouldn't be writing this story. (What do the Italians eat for breakfast anyway?)

After the lady left, the French slapped Damon on the back and congratulated him. ''Don't worry about it man'' they said. (Or something close to it!) ''We're damn sick and tired of the Germans coming down here and acting like they own the place.'' (Insert line about when the Germans really DID think they owned the place!) And, rather patiently from the women, ''it's not their fault. The Germans are just odd that way.''

I've always said it. The French have a lot in common with the Americans. (Although neither side wants to admit it.) We are both scared to speak a second language. (It's not only arrogance, folks, it's fear.) We both value individual liberty over common law. Both of us fought revolutionary wars, against kings, for 'liberte, fraternite,egalite.'' It's something the Germans wouldn't understand. French liberty emphasizes the individual even more than the American does. If a Frenchman isn't following the rules, noone corrects him, the way they do in Germany. Its almost as if the laws and signs are a suggestion, rather than a command. And there is nothing to compare it to in the German psyche. Germans need their rules.

In the same way, the German old-world structural heirarchy makes ''egalite'' an impossibility. But, playing by American rules here, that everyone is created equal, I don't really notice. I do know, however, that it pisses my German cousin, and a lot of other German businessmen, off that we Americans come over here so darn friendly and smiling and shaking hands and being nice to everyone. Who do we think we are?

I've seen German ''fraternite'' only once. June/July 2006 when the German soccer team rose to the finals in the World Cup held in Germany. Germany charmed the world that summer. We need more of that. The jokes say that the only two times the Germans ever felt national unity, they started two world wars. But I'll be the first to agree that that has got to change. When Americans see eachother we practically fall all over eachother like long lost relatives, irregardless of the fact that we've never met. The French are a little more dignified, but smile warmly, secure in the knowledge that they are countrymen, The Germans, I swear it, are sizing eachother up to detemine if they are going to have competition for the choice spot at the pool.

And now it hits me. The French hate a bully. They fight for the underdog. In this case, our Wolfy. In others, our kids. Six years ago, when I was flying from France to the USA alone with Ryan and two year old Andrew, I had a heated exchange with an older (French) man sitting in the row ahead of us on the airplane. Let's face it. His seat sucked. Andrew was on his best behavior, but he was two. This meant playing with cars, listening to stories and singing nursery rhymes. Apparently my singing was not impressive. When the guy turned around and asked me to keep my kid under control I apologized that I was doing my best. I empathized with him and told him I was very sorry. He told me that wasn't good enough. I suggested that if he could do better, he was welcome to try. I also, in a show of support, suggested he take advantage of the free red wine the airline was offering. I sure as hell was. He told me I was a ''typical American'' , unwilling to accept responsibility. I told him he was a typical man, one who had obviously never spent any time with the three kids he claimed to have raised.

The stewardess came by and told me not to worry about it. Later, as we were exiting the plane, more than five other passengers (women, to be sure) made it a point to come up to me and show their support. ''You did just fine,'' they said. Loudly. So that my antagonist would be sure to hear. ''We didn't even know you had two kids sitting with you. That man had no right to treat you that way. Good for you for sticking up for yourself.'' My French was better then, but I remember the message. On a plane full of French people, against a French antagonist, people took my side. It had nothing to do with nationality. Probably more to do with the solidarity of motherhood. But even more to do with right and wrong.,

Damon's incident at the bakery has less to do with nationality than it at first appears. (Although,let's face it, sixty years isn't going to erase centuries of rivalry over land and domination.) The fact that the woman was German, was unfortunate, for her and for the reputation of her countrymen. But she might just as well have been a well-intentioned, bumbling American. The point is that we don't own the countries that we come to visit. The campers are German and English and Dutch as well as French. Even a Lithuanian license plate and some Americans. You hear as much, or more, German and English, than French. (It was worse when we vacationed in Italy, or in Mallorca. It makes you realize why the Germans always look so shocked when you remind them that German isn't a world language.)

But this is THEIR country. And you play by THEIR rules.

What fun is a holiday in France, if you've never even bothered to leave Germany? You can go to France, and to Italy, and to Mallorca without ever leaving the comfort of your home. Book through a German travel company and you'll never have to hear a foreign language or try a foreign meal.

Try leaving your (German or American) self behind the next time you travel. You'll be amazed at how much fun you have. My goodness, at least try learning a LITTLE of the local language. (Don't look so shocked when I tell you that French really IS a world language!)

And, word to the wise, if everyone else is admiring the little dog in the bakery – in THEIR OWN COUNTRY – try joining in instead of antagonizing everyone.

Personally, I agree wholeheartedly that pets don't belong in a bakery. But....in general I think, not only in France, being friendly gets you a lot farther than being right.

Faux Pas

I love France. We all do. I love the French. They seem to like me back. They let me practice my French instead of jumping straight into English or German. Mostly because they don't speak English or, god forbid, German. And the camping is fun too. Everyone is friendly; even the Germans. The sun is strong. The pool is heated. The beach surprisingly NOT crowded. And Sue was right, the public showers are really quite good.

I still have some issues with the French meat though. This is the culture reknowned for its cuisine – REALLY?!!! Or we can get the British stuff. Enough said. We're doing just fine with bar-b-que, rice and some cucumbers and tomatos. Breakfasts make up for it too – CROISSANTS and PAIN-AU-CHOCOLATE. It doesn't get any better than this. Tonight we are trying shrimp on the barbie.

I've been spending some amount of time getting acquainted with the public toilets here. (Mostly Matthew.) Although I WOULD prefer to be spending the time on the beach, or at the pool, I've gotten to feel quite at home in them. So much so that yesterday's incident was a little like having a stranger come into your home and....well....use your bathroom.

First off, I'm kinda assuming it's a unisex bathroom. Something I have a hard time getting used to, although it really doesn't bother me in theory. I'm in there with Matthew after all, and I'm used to sharing my ''privacy'' with at LEAST two little men at home. Still, I can only compare it to what a Muslim woman must feel like when she's in the wrong side of the mosque. Every time a man walks out of a stall, while I'm standing waiting outside of Matthew's, I feel like I shouldn't be there, like I've just encroached on some forbidden space.

Don't get me wrong, the men don't seem to mind at all. They generally flash a warm smile in my direction (Did I mention I LOVE France?!) and leave with a happy ''Bonjour.'' ''Bonjour'' I mumble back, shyly, gaze at the floor. Where is my burka when I need it?!

I'm also getting an inside look at the private workings of a male bathroom. ''Wash your hands,'' I want to scream. ''Lavez votre mains.'' For crying out loud. There are some things you KNOW – like that most men aren't going to bother to wash their hands if they aren't being directly observed by their mother – but that you just don't want to SEE. Let the women of the world dream that you've retained a modicum of what we're been trying to teach you since childhood.

Back to yesterday. Matthew and I were at the -one, tiny- sink washing his hands. Only because he had so much dark, Mediterranean sand on them that it was going to be hard to....uh...take ''things'', or ''thing'' rather....''in hand'' unless he washed some of it off. (I don't have one but, from what I've heard, you don't want to be handling it with sand paper.)

We headed back to what I had assumed were the kiddy potties only to see men standing in front of them using them as urinals.

Faux pas. Faux pas. Had I been seating my child on the men's URINALS all this time?!

''Bonjour.'' ''Bonjour.'' Both men turned around at about the same time and left. Without washing their hands. I had to close the doors a bit to look at the front. (Do I even need to mention that neither of the men had bothered to close the doors?!) Both doors had a giraffe on them. Both doors only came up about two-thirds of the way of the ''normal'', what I had been assuming were adult doors. Was I supposed to know that the giraffe is some sort of universal sign for men's urinal? Or was it just the French sign for it? Does two-thirds of a door signify ''urinal'' in a public mixed-sex bathroom?

I'm a beginner here. Any camping I've done before this was in the USA, mostly in Alaska. Let me just clue you in, ''camping'' in Alaska does NOT include public toilet facilities and a pizza shop and grocery store! (More like melting the snow for water, checking for bears and bringing your rifle just in case. And oh, either backpacking up a mountain or rowing over in a kayak, to get there.) But I'm not complaining. Honestly, I like the ease of ''camping'' in Europe. Remember, I've got four kids. I need a convenience store in the vicinity more than I need my own private island and shotgun practice with our ''empties'' on the beach. (Ah, those were t

So I asked Damon what he thought. Had he been putting the kids on the giraffe potty? Or had he been using the giraffe potty himself?

I think I've gotten to the bottom of it. (So to speak.)

The giraffe potties here are the first ones on either side as you walk in the door. The only way you are going to get men to stop using the children's toilets as urinals is to put the children's urinals at the END of the line. (Or in a separate room.) It's nothing personal. It's just a guy thing.

I've also learned that, if I ever have to use a men's bathroom in an emergency, that I should use the LAST stall in the room.

I'm not complaining. I love it here. The men have other, better, qualities – like eye contact, and a smile, and this look that hints that they don't mind so much that you've got four sea urchins in tow behind you – that I'm going to forgive them for peeing on the kiddy potty. Cést la vie! And it's a good one.