the booty

Many of the doorbell rings were followed by a shuffling sound, then the uniquely loud silence made by a human trying not to breathe at a door, one eye of the pretending-statue-face straining to see through the peephole if the costumed children have given up and left.  In this way, trick or treating in Lyon* resembled Halloween back home.  But that's about the only similarity.  We were a ragtag crew tonight - two moms (one French, one me), one blonde Frankenstein, one cat in a stripey dress, one sweaty dog with a smeared nose and a sticky face, and one doe eyed baby, perched on a hip, holding a really terrible monster-clown mask.  

For a few weeks now, I've been trying to politely stop the dwellers of our high rise to prepare them for an imminent round of Halloween trick or treating for my poor, American-culture starved children.  I will spare you the details of how these conversations went, for although my French is getting much smoother, a description of trick or treating stretches it in very ugly directions.  Ugly.  Like when you stare at a word for too long, rushed, unrehearsed explanations of trick or treating in a foreign language without context in an entryway begin to feel pretty darn abstract and in each case, I merely trailed off into pause - one of my main transitional strategies in French conversation.  

With disappointment prevention in mind, in the end, we decided to conduct our little tour of this very quiet building BYOC style.  That is, bring your own candy.  To further confuse those fortunate few who had been enlightened by my lectures on Halloween, we offered candy.  

And doors opened; they did.  Not so many, but the brave souls who ventured to turn the knob gave us something quite unexpected.  We were clearly breaking protocol (and believe you me, the French wrote the book on protocol), but then, we were bringing our own little expectation of protocol with us, now, weren't we?   

The effect was always the same - a swirl of awkward human contact and good intentions.  There was the interrupted bridge game - four women seated around an elegant table; they asked the kids to enter, introduce themselves, and parade around to show off their costumes.  There were those who scrounged for something to offer, insisting upon giving a few coins.  Our concierge had prepared a special, tiny bag for each child.  Another woman, clearly one of my more enthusiastic listeners in the foyer, baked us - and I kid you not - a cake, presented in slices on a glass plate that we carried with us.  Our favorite was a little, bespectacled boy, who ran away, then came back with his own personal stash of candy.  We tried to refuse, but he simply wouldn't take no for an answer. 

Of course, we banked on the fact that no child present had an idea of just how far this trick or treating gig can be taken.  Dawn, Kim, Deena, and Bobby, I didn't recount how we, our hair wild and cheeks flushed from the exciting, Halloween night air, would dump those heavy bags in heaps on the floor upstairs on Sunset Avenue, organizing first by type, then by eating priority, the wingspan of sugar reaching a few feet, at least.  I can't recreate that here, but I guess that's not the point.  The booty** was different, but the booty was good.  

*Did she say Lyon?  We moved to Lyon!

**Get your mind out of the gutter. I meant booty as in pirates' treasure.

april showers,

a broken bulldozer, and a Kinder egg toy.

(an edge of summer dance)

(mom)

(From here on out, if a title is contained in parentheses, you'll know that you're about to read about a something that happened a while ago, a dusty something that we are a little embarrassed to share late, a something that is calling for a spot in this here scrapbook.)

Since May 18th, 2007 (birth of a girl), time spent with my mom has consisted mainly of rushes to hither, hurry ups to thither, and could you please do x's.  My mom and I have perfected the art of socializing whilst completing errands, our conversation punctuated only by double parked car pauses wherein one minds the vehicle and children, and the other bolts to knock one off the to-do list.

So it was mighty nice and downright strange to have her here.  I can't say that we relaxed, but we did sightsee, stroll, and dine in public at a place that wasn't child-friendly!  

No children present.

Any other kind of photo of her just doesn't make sense.  
Here she is in her natural state - if not her natural habitat - camera poised, 
eavesdropping ears at the ready.

happy halloween

peaches

jude and the fountain

Hello again.  There is so much, too much, to catch you up on, so let's just ease back in, shall we?

He would do this from sunup to sundown if we allowed it.

a school morning

from the living room window.

we're back

and so are they, apparently.

um

This seems to be happening.

signs

The streets of Geneva change on a Wednesday.  Public schools are closed, so the arms of the city's children are pulled by the city's moms, dads, and babysitters as they are hastened to dance lessons, sports practice, and doctor's appointments.  Wednesday is a day for family enrichment and life maintenance, for lessons, for play dates, for cavity fillings.  Wednesdays, as Genevans with school-aged children know it, could soon be a thing of the past - we'll soon find out after the next vote.  

NO to school on Wednesdays. (Quality over Quantity)

YES to school on Wednesday morning.

Switzerland is a direct democracy, which makes voting here a regular hobby, and it makes sign reading for outsiders like me pretty darn interesting.  If you're in the mood, take a peek at this short clip, which explains how the Swiss direct democracy works.  

While I can certainly understand both sides of this argument, the state of Wednesday suits our current, little chapter quite nicely.  Somehow, when we weren't paying attention, our pattern snuck up on us and turned into a comfortable routine, one that we have come to look forward to.  

Here are some bits from a typical Wednesday.   

Aoife's arm gets pulled to go to the Montreurs d'Images.  

(She's the one on the left who does not curtsy.)  

Jude presses buttons at the ol' Ludotheque.

I steal a quiet, pre-ludo moment with a grand café noir.  

This one you see here was brought to me 

without even ordering, indicating that we have, 

indeed, been here for not a small while.

mini milestones

in the kitchen.

antibes

A word of advice - never offer something to us if you don't really mean it for - licketysplit - we will take you up on whatever it is, and you'll find yourself trapped in your own kindness.  During our little stint in France (ok, it's been a while now, as some of you have made more than clear), Pat and Christine offered to harbor the kids for a night and, in the very same conversation, Tim's aunt, Dominique, offered the keys to her home in Antibes while she was to be away.  Rest assured, we swiftly accepted both offers before they could retract.  Faster than you can say it's-been-five-months-since-you've-been-away-from-your-kids-and-that-was-for-an-international-move-so-it-doesn't-count, we were on the road.  Don't get me wrong, our kids are the peachiest, but stepping away allows for perspective on said peachy-ness.

Man, we were happy to see this Citroen Deux Chevaux (2 horse power)
try to overtake the Camaro.  There were cheers; there were upped thumbs.

When Americans move to Europe, they start doing really annoying things like putting piles of photos online of their travel adventures.  Here's why!  Here's why!  Trips like this one here are the equivalent (in distance) of spending a night in, say, Milwaukee if you live in Chicago.  Remember how close all of these neat things and places are to us, and I'll try not to sound defensive.

Antibes used to be a rustic fishing town, but now it pulls in flocks of yachts and tourists.  

Look at the yachts.  More importantly, look at the Alps in the background. 

This being off-season, we were free to enjoy the turns of muted, pastel walkways and the crisp sunshine in peace.  I liked the walls.

And the water, of course.

That's a 6 person canoe.  

Upon entering the door of Dominique's narrowly stacked and memory-steeped apartment (once owned by Tim's great aunt Renée), we found a pair of eyes observing us. The lovely portrait of Valentine Audoy graced the wall and kept calling our attention.  She was Tim's great-great-grandmother, who died of TB at the age of 36.  

We saw a lot of Christine in that portrait, and the top third of her face reminded us of someone else.

Well, sort of.