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.

Love Song To Zurich

I want to love you, Zurich. I really do.

But the truth is I love the thought of you more than actually being there with you.

I am thrilled every time I cross the border into Switzerland. It's not just leaving Germany; it's arriving in Switzerland. The air feels different the minute the border guards decide you are cool enough to join the privileged elite.

And Zurich. You like me too. You are warm. You are friendly. You smile at my children and make room for them on the train or tram. You wait patiently behind them on the Bahnhof steps. You smile and show us where to find the closest McDonald's or Burger King.

You don't look down on us for not being able to afford anything else as a family of six.

And you just as cheerily take Euros and dollars when we run out of Swiss Francs.

I find it cute the way everyone here speaks English. And I mean REAL English, the way it was meant to be spoken. You turn it into a global language, accented with Italian and Spanish and German. You'll speak to us in German too, and not even look down on us for being German. But – if we're not going to speak your language properly, it seems you prefer your Swiss brand of English.

I love it. Swiss English is the language of the world.

Zurich, you show me that people CAN wait for the people to get off the train before gentiley boarding yourselves.

You are more beautiful, better dressed, wealthier and down right classier than your neighbors. You are the Bold and the Beautiful of German-speaking Europe.

It takes a minute to get used to your friendliness. Strangers greeting you as they pass by on the street. „Gruezi.“ And smiling. Always smiling. Conversations on the tram between people who don't know eachother. A camaraderie simply from being in the city together. And smiling. Always smiling. Offering seats to the children. It's like being in another world.

I love that you love me Zurich. I love that you accept me, welcome me, treat me as one of your own. It never seems to occur to you that I cannot afford your 20 SF (20USD/17 Euro) minipizza for each of my children. So that I feel like I shouldn't be here at all. You make me feel welcome. I am the one who knows I have no right to be here.

We've tried to make it work, dear Zurich.

But I have horrible memories of each time I have been here, dear Zurich. The worst of my Europe memories. The first summer we came, when Ryan was two and Andrew just born. We took the train and backpacked it. To a hotel with no fan, let alone airconditioning. And couldn't afford any of the restaurants, including Burger King. (15 SF for ONE person at BK, dear Zurich, your love comes dear.) Other times – without stroller and carrying two unhappy children, with twin stroller and two unhappy children plus two crying babies.

I can think of no happier sight in Zurich than those golden arches. (Imagine spending 60 dollars to eat at McDonald's!) Unless it's that orange Migros sign. Migros. Food for the hungry masses. Rolls and croissants. Taken straight out of the grocery bag, and passed around, eaten dry. Some fruit and cookies. Bottles of water and coca-cola shared on the street. Hunger assuaged. Thirst quenched. And still I feel vulnerable, defeated, like I am on the verge of not being able to provide sustenance for the children. Another few days here and we'll be begging in the streets.

My worst fights with my husband have taken place in Zurich.

You make me confront my worst nightmares.

My memories of you, dear Zurich, generally revolve around trudging through gray streets, in ungodly summer heat, looking for a restaurant we can go to with the kids. We never find it. Your cafes are quaint, but too delicate for us. We don't dare venture inside to anything more formal. And so we trudge on, surrounded by expensive boutiques and classy restaurants, but with nowhere to sit and grab a meal for a family with four small children.

You have a fantastic zoo. With the most formal restaurants I've ever seen near a zoo. They looked warm and friendly on the inside as the four children and I stared through the window from our place on the sidewalk. Damon was at a conference. He is always at a conference. He doesn't feel the lack here, the way I do.

It's not your fault, dear Zurich. You must be a fantastic place to live. Everyone here is so friendly and helpful. They must be happy here.

It's not my fault either. I just don't fit in. I'm not interested in the boutiques, even if I could afford them. You are too large, too worldy and important, for someone like me.

But, I want to love you Zurich. I really do. I think that maybe, someday, our time will come.

On that day, dear Zurich, I will sit at a cafe and order that 20 SF omelette. Maybe even spring 5 SF for some ham. And order an 8 SF coffee. I will smile, because the sun is warm, but the breeze is cool, because the day is young and I haven't a care in the world.

Until that day, dear Zurich, I must be content with the thought of you.

The reality is just too darn painful.

Danger: High Water

Going to the bathroom at our house isn't as easy at it looks.

The other day I was helping one of Aidan's and Matthew's friends. He's not yet four, so he was more than happy to stand still for assistance. He stood perfectly still while I undid his zipper for him. Stood still as I took down his pants. Undies next. I was kinda waiting for him to, well, take things into his own hands but...no..still standing there. Hmmm. Could be he wanted me to hold it for him too - been there, done that, - but I didn't want to offend.

He just stood there patiently waiting.

Turns out he sits to pee and was waiting for me to arrange the toilet seat and step-stool.

No sweat.

At least he was able to make it out of the bathroom on his own. Only because noone had told him about the high water.

Matthew has to be lifted off the seat and onto the bathmat because he doesn't want to fall in and get his feet wet. OH you don't know? The water. The water that is the bathroom floor and requires an intricate maze of bathmat and stepstool to cross.

Aidan just has an issue with stepping on "the lines" but is usually able to tiptoe out on his own.

They tell me I'll miss the simplicity of these days, but right now the simplest things are looking mighty complicated!

At Our Expense

Germany - or Schwabenland anyway - mobilized on Sunday.

The sun came out. And with it the motorcycles and bicycles and old-timer automobiles (American of course, in the region that discovered the automobile!)that have been standing idly in garages since last summer.

A German man explained it to Damon a few months ago. "There are two sides to Germans. In the winter we all retreat into ourselves and get gray and grumpy and pissy and angry. Like the weather. Just wait until spring. Then we smile again."

It's true.

Nothing like a little sunshine to make everything better.

Heard another joke - kind of - via another German friend. He had been talking about organizing a Stammtisch while he was getting his PhD at Tufts, in Boston. Just a dozen or so Germans, drinking beer and getting wasted. "Well," he said. "You should have seen what the Dutch students got together in response." Hundreds of them. And a serious political party. "We just wanted to have fun." continued Martin. "But it appears that when Germans mobilize, the Dutch just want to be sure."

Let's face it. You gotta have a sense of humor if you're German.

Jay Leno had one too. "It appears that walking and exercise is good against depression. It also appears that more than half of Germans are depressed." (Only in the winter Jay! Only in the winter!) Jay wrapped up as expected. "Poland and France have reacted rather strongly to these studies. Ain't nobody want to see Germany mobilized and on the move again.!"

Again, you had to laugh.

But I don't think there's anything to worry about this Pentecost Sunday. Unless you are Italy or Mallorca. Half of Germany has headed south for the Pentecost two week school holiday. (Just as Jesus would have wanted - spreading the word, or just the Euro, around a bit.)

But, honestly folks, we're just looking for the sun.

Labelling the Kids

Having twins in the house has made us rather label conscious.

First of all there is the label "twins." Don't really like it. But haven't figured out a way around it. They used to be "the babies," but that can only last so long. If we didn't have an older brother, they could be "the boys," but yeah....we got more than a couple of those. We've tried "the little ones" but that always irked me when my friend did that with HER four-year old twins. For crying out loud, they can only be "little" for so long.

My shrink - who also has twins - suggested calling them "Aidan and Matthew," but that's rather a mouthful on a chaotic weekday afternoon. I've generally got that "Ryan...Andrew...Aidan...Matthew....oh to hell with it, you know who you are".....thing going on.

Add to that the fact that I have always talked to the OTHER twin while I was physically comforting his brother. Since I can't be everything to everyone all at once, I tried to split myself in half by reassuring one with my arms and the other with my voice.

This has led to interesting results.

Imagine having your mother cradling you in her arms, all the while calling out reassurances to your brother.

"Mommy," Aidan has taken to complaining recently, "I am NOT Matthew. I am Aidan."

My goodness, is he expecting both my physical presence AND attention?!!

Well, I guess at least I'm lucky he knows which one he is. (Thank goodness for kindergarten!)

Aidan has retaliated though. He calls ME "Mommy Connor." Or, when he's really angry "Mommy Mommy Connor." Appears I spend a lot of time calling them by their full names.

The strange thing is that Mommy Connor doesn't really exist. I am officially still a Steinmann. Dr. Steinmann if the kids are going to get snooty about it. Damon's mother is remarried to a Crossen, and has been for over twenty-five years. And Damon's father's mother - the REAL Mommy Connor - died in childbirth over sixty years ago. I consider Aunt Linda, Damon's father's sister, and a Sanicola by marriage, as the matriarchal head of that whole clan.

Mommy Connor. It is so weird to be known - and loved - by a name that really isn't mine. It's as if the kids have taken me, erased my past, and invented a brand new person for their own private, little world. Which is part of what being a mother is all about.

Ah well. I take it all in stride. Yesterday Matthew was pretending to be his sister, Ryan, and refusing to answer by any other name. If that continues, things are going to get mighty confusing around here.

Although, come to think of it, at that point his NAME is going to be the least of our issues!